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|IT was broad daylight when Anne awoke and sat up in bed, staring
confusedly at the window through which a flood of cheery sunshine was
pouring and outside of which something white and feathery waved across
glimpses of blue sky.
For a moment she could not remember where she was. First came a
delightful thrill, as something very pleasant; then a horrible
remembrance. This was Green Gables and they didn't want her because she
wasn't a boy!
But it was morning and, yes, it was a cherry-tree in full bloom outside
of her window. With a bound she was out of bed and across the floor.
She pushed up the sash--it went up stiffly and creakily, as if it hadn't
been opened for a long time, which was the case; and it stuck so tight
that nothing was needed to hold it up.
Anne dropped on her knees and gazed out into the June morning, her eyes
glistening with delight. Oh, wasn't it beautiful? Wasn't it a lovely
place? Suppose she wasn't really going to stay here! She would imagine
she was. There was scope for imagination here.
A huge cherry-tree grew outside, so close that its boughs tapped against
the house, and it was so thick-set with blossoms that hardly a leaf
was to be seen. On both sides of the house was a big orchard, one of
apple-trees and one of cherry-trees, also showered over with blossoms;
and their grass was all sprinkled with dandelions. In the garden below
were lilac-trees purple with flowers, and their dizzily sweet fragrance
drifted up to the window on the morning wind.
Below the garden a green field lush with clover sloped down to the
hollow where the brook ran and where scores of white birches grew,
upspringing airily out of an undergrowth suggestive of delightful
possibilities in ferns and mosses and woodsy things generally. Beyond it
was a hill, green and feathery with spruce and fir; there was a gap in
it where the gray gable end of the little house she had seen from the
other side of the Lake of Shining Waters was visible.
Off to the left were the big barns and beyond them, away down over
green, low-sloping fields, was a sparkling blue glimpse of sea.
Anne's beauty-loving eyes lingered on it all, taking everything greedily
in. She had looked on so many unlovely places in her life, poor child;
but this was as lovely as anything she had ever dreamed.
She knelt there, lost to everything but the loveliness around her, until
she was startled by a hand on her shoulder. Marilla had come in unheard
by the small dreamer.
"It's time you were dressed," she said curtly.
Marilla really did not know how to talk to the child, and her
uncomfortable ignorance made her crisp and curt when she did not mean to
be.
Anne stood up and drew a long breath.
"Oh, isn't it wonderful?" she said, waving her hand comprehensively at
the good world outside.
"It's a big tree," said Marilla, "and it blooms great, but the fruit
don't amount to much never--small and wormy."
"Oh, I don't mean just the tree; of course it's lovely--yes, it's
_radiantly_ lovely--it blooms as if it meant it--but I meant everything,
the garden and the orchard and the brook and the woods, the whole big
dear world. Don't you feel as if you just loved the world on a morning
like this? And I can hear the brook laughing all the way up here.
Have you ever noticed what cheerful things brooks are? They're always
laughing. Even in winter-time I've heard them under the ice. I'm so glad
there's a brook near Green Gables. Perhaps you think it doesn't make any
difference to me when you're not going to keep me, but it does. I shall
always like to remember that there is a brook at Green Gables even if
I never see it again. If there wasn't a brook I'd be _haunted_ by the
uncomfortable feeling that there ought to be one. I'm not in the depths
of despair this morning. I never can be in the morning. Isn't it a
splendid thing that there are mornings? But I feel very sad. I've just
been imagining that it was really me you wanted after all and that I was
to stay here for ever and ever. It was a great comfort while it lasted.
But the worst of imagining things is that the time comes when you have
to stop and that hurts."
"You'd better get dressed and come down-stairs and never mind your
imaginings," said Marilla as soon as she could get a word in edgewise.
"Breakfast is waiting. Wash your face and comb your hair. Leave the
window up and turn your bedclothes back over the foot of the bed. Be as
smart as you can."
Anne could evidently be smart to some purpose for she was down-stairs
in ten minutes' time, with her clothes neatly on, her hair brushed and
braided, her face washed, and a comfortable consciousness pervading her
soul that she had fulfilled all Marilla's requirements. As a matter of
fact, however, she had forgotten to turn back the bedclothes.
"I'm pretty hungry this morning," she announced as she slipped into the
chair Marilla placed for her. "The world doesn't seem such a howling
wilderness as it did last night. I'm so glad it's a sunshiny morning.
But I like rainy mornings real well, too. All sorts of mornings are
interesting, don't you think? You don't know what's going to happen
through the day, and there's so much scope for imagination. But I'm
glad it's not rainy today because it's easier to be cheerful and bear
up under affliction on a sunshiny day. I feel that I have a good deal
to bear up under. It's all very well to read about sorrows and imagine
yourself living through them heroically, but it's not so nice when you
really come to have them, is it?"
"For pity's sake hold your tongue," said Marilla. "You talk entirely too
much for a little girl."
Thereupon Anne held her tongue so obediently and thoroughly that her
continued silence made Marilla rather nervous, as if in the presence of
something not exactly natural. Matthew also held his tongue,--but this
was natural,--so that the meal was a very silent one.
As it progressed Anne became more and more abstracted, eating
mechanically, with her big eyes fixed unswervingly and unseeingly on the
sky outside the window. This made Marilla more nervous than ever; she
had an uncomfortable feeling that while this odd child's body might
be there at the table her spirit was far away in some remote airy
cloudland, borne aloft on the wings of imagination. Who would want such
a child about the place?
Yet Matthew wished to keep her, of all unaccountable things! Marilla
felt that he wanted it just as much this morning as he had the night
before, and that he would go on wanting it. That was Matthew's way--take
a whim into his head and cling to it with the most amazing silent
persistency--a persistency ten times more potent and effectual in its
very silence than if he had talked it out.
When the meal was ended Anne came out of her reverie and offered to wash
the dishes.
"Can you wash dishes right?" asked Marilla distrustfully.
"Pretty well. I'm better at looking after children, though. I've had so
much experience at that. It's such a pity you haven't any here for me to
look after."
"I don't feel as if I wanted any more children to look after than I've
got at present. _You're_ problem enough in all conscience. What's to be
done with you I don't know. Matthew is a most ridiculous man."
"I think he's lovely," said Anne reproachfully. "He is so very
sympathetic. He didn't mind how much I talked--he seemed to like it. I
felt that he was a kindred spirit as soon as ever I saw him."
"You're both queer enough, if that's what you mean by kindred spirits,"
said Marilla with a sniff. "Yes, you may wash the dishes. Take plenty of
hot water, and be sure you dry them well. I've got enough to attend to
this morning for I'll have to drive over to White Sands in the afternoon
and see Mrs. Spencer. You'll come with me and we'll settle what's to be
done with you. After you've finished the dishes go up-stairs and make
your bed."
Anne washed the dishes deftly enough, as Marilla who kept a sharp eye on
the process, discerned. Later on she made her bed less successfully, for
she had never learned the art of wrestling with a feather tick. But is
was done somehow and smoothed down; and then Marilla, to get rid of her,
told her she might go out-of-doors and amuse herself until dinner time.
Anne flew to the door, face alight, eyes glowing. On the very threshold
she stopped short, wheeled about, came back and sat down by the table,
light and glow as effectually blotted out as if some one had clapped an
extinguisher on her.
"What's the matter now?" demanded Marilla.
"I don't dare go out," said Anne, in the tone of a martyr relinquishing
all earthly joys. "If I can't stay here there is no use in my loving
Green Gables. And if I go out there and get acquainted with all those
trees and flowers and the orchard and the brook I'll not be able to help
loving it. It's hard enough now, so I won't make it any harder. I want
to go out so much--everything seems to be calling to me, 'Anne, Anne,
come out to us. Anne, Anne, we want a playmate'--but it's better not.
There is no use in loving things if you have to be torn from them, is
there? And it's so hard to keep from loving things, isn't it? That was
why I was so glad when I thought I was going to live here. I thought
I'd have so many things to love and nothing to hinder me. But that brief
dream is over. I am resigned to my fate now, so I don't think I'll
go out for fear I'll get unresigned again. What is the name of that
geranium on the window-sill, please?"
"That's the apple-scented geranium."
"Oh, I don't mean that sort of a name. I mean just a name you gave it
yourself. Didn't you give it a name? May I give it one then? May I call
it--let me see--Bonny would do--may I call it Bonny while I'm here? Oh,
do let me!"
"Goodness, I don't care. But where on earth is the sense of naming a
geranium?"
"Oh, I like things to have handles even if they are only geraniums. It
makes them seem more like people. How do you know but that it hurts a
geranium's feelings just to be called a geranium and nothing else? You
wouldn't like to be called nothing but a woman all the time. Yes, I
shall call it Bonny. I named that cherry-tree outside my bedroom window
this morning. I called it Snow Queen because it was so white. Of course,
it won't always be in blossom, but one can imagine that it is, can't
one?"
"I never in all my life saw or heard anything to equal her," muttered
Marilla, beating a retreat down to the cellar after potatoes. "She
is kind of interesting as Matthew says. I can feel already that I'm
wondering what on earth she'll say next. She'll be casting a spell over
me, too. She's cast it over Matthew. That look he gave me when he went
out said everything he said or hinted last night over again. I wish he
was like other men and would talk things out. A body could answer back
then and argue him into reason. But what's to be done with a man who
just _looks?_"
Anne had relapsed into reverie, with her chin in her hands and her eyes
on the sky, when Marilla returned from her cellar pilgrimage. There
Marilla left her until the early dinner was on the table.
"I suppose I can have the mare and buggy this afternoon, Matthew?" said
Marilla.
Matthew nodded and looked wistfully at Anne. Marilla intercepted the
look and said grimly:
"I'm going to drive over to White Sands and settle this thing. I'll take
Anne with me and Mrs. Spencer will probably make arrangements to send
her back to Nova Scotia at once. I'll set your tea out for you and I'll
be home in time to milk the cows."
Still Matthew said nothing and Marilla had a sense of having wasted
words and breath. There is nothing more aggravating than a man who won't
talk back--unless it is a woman who won't.
Matthew hitched the sorrel into the buggy in due time and Marilla and
Anne set off. Matthew opened the yard gate for them and as they drove
slowly through, he said, to nobody in particular as it seemed:
"Little Jerry Buote from the Creek was here this morning, and I told him
I guessed I'd hire him for the summer."
Marilla made no reply, but she hit the unlucky sorrel such a vicious
clip with the whip that the fat mare, unused to such treatment, whizzed
indignantly down the lane at an alarming pace. Marilla looked back once
as the buggy bounced along and saw that aggravating Matthew leaning over
the gate, looking wistfully after them. | Anne wakes up and takes in the sights from her window: a large cherry tree, a garden, a clover-filled field, a brook, barns, fields, and a glimpse of the sea. No wonder she wants to stay. She's also in a better mood. As Marilla comes in to wake her and they have breakfast, she tells Marilla that she's glad there's a brook at Green Gables, and "Isn't it a splendid thing that there are mornings?" . She's still sad, she says, but she eats breakfast and talks endlessly. Marilla tells her to stop talking, but Anne's weird, spacey silence makes her even more nervous. Later Marilla tells Anne to go outside but Anne refuses, because leaving will be harder the more she falls in love with the place. Marilla thinks about how Matthew wants to keep Anne and feels herself falling under Anne's spell too, wondering what Anne will say next. Marilla and Anne set out for Mrs. Spencer's to figure out what happened and what to do with Anne. In his quiet way, Matthew makes it clear, when they leave, that he still wants Anne to stay. |
Chapter VIII. The Evidence Of The Witnesses. The Babe
The examination of the witnesses began. But we will not continue our story
in such detail as before. And so we will not dwell on how Nikolay
Parfenovitch impressed on every witness called that he must give his
evidence in accordance with truth and conscience, and that he would
afterwards have to repeat his evidence on oath, how every witness was
called upon to sign the protocol of his evidence, and so on. We will only
note that the point principally insisted upon in the examination was the
question of the three thousand roubles, that is, was the sum spent here,
at Mokroe, by Mitya on the first occasion, a month before, three thousand
or fifteen hundred? And again had he spent three thousand or fifteen
hundred yesterday? Alas, all the evidence given by every one turned out to
be against Mitya. There was not one in his favor, and some witnesses
introduced new, almost crushing facts, in contradiction of his, Mitya's,
story.
The first witness examined was Trifon Borissovitch. He was not in the
least abashed as he stood before the lawyers. He had, on the contrary, an
air of stern and severe indignation with the accused, which gave him an
appearance of truthfulness and personal dignity. He spoke little, and with
reserve, waited to be questioned, answered precisely and deliberately.
Firmly and unhesitatingly he bore witness that the sum spent a month
before could not have been less than three thousand, that all the peasants
about here would testify that they had heard the sum of three thousand
mentioned by Dmitri Fyodorovitch himself. "What a lot of money he flung
away on the gypsy girls alone! He wasted a thousand, I daresay, on them
alone."
"I don't believe I gave them five hundred," was Mitya's gloomy comment on
this. "It's a pity I didn't count the money at the time, but I was
drunk...."
Mitya was sitting sideways with his back to the curtains. He listened
gloomily, with a melancholy and exhausted air, as though he would say:
"Oh, say what you like. It makes no difference now."
"More than a thousand went on them, Dmitri Fyodorovitch," retorted Trifon
Borissovitch firmly. "You flung it about at random and they picked it up.
They were a rascally, thievish lot, horse-stealers, they've been driven
away from here, or maybe they'd bear witness themselves how much they got
from you. I saw the sum in your hands, myself--count it I didn't, you
didn't let me, that's true enough--but by the look of it I should say it
was far more than fifteen hundred ... fifteen hundred, indeed! We've seen
money too. We can judge of amounts...."
As for the sum spent yesterday he asserted that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had
told him, as soon as he arrived, that he had brought three thousand with
him.
"Come now, is that so, Trifon Borissovitch?" replied Mitya. "Surely I
didn't declare so positively that I'd brought three thousand?"
"You did say so, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You said it before Andrey. Andrey
himself is still here. Send for him. And in the hall, when you were
treating the chorus, you shouted straight out that you would leave your
sixth thousand here--that is with what you spent before, we must
understand. Stepan and Semyon heard it, and Pyotr Fomitch Kalganov, too,
was standing beside you at the time. Maybe he'd remember it...."
The evidence as to the "sixth" thousand made an extraordinary impression
on the two lawyers. They were delighted with this new mode of reckoning;
three and three made six, three thousand then and three now made six, that
was clear.
They questioned all the peasants suggested by Trifon Borissovitch, Stepan
and Semyon, the driver Andrey, and Kalganov. The peasants and the driver
unhesitatingly confirmed Trifon Borissovitch's evidence. They noted down,
with particular care, Andrey's account of the conversation he had had with
Mitya on the road: " 'Where,' says he, 'am I, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, going,
to heaven or to hell, and shall I be forgiven in the next world or not?' "
The psychological Ippolit Kirillovitch heard this with a subtle smile, and
ended by recommending that these remarks as to where Dmitri Fyodorovitch
would go should be "included in the case."
Kalganov, when called, came in reluctantly, frowning and ill-humored, and
he spoke to the lawyers as though he had never met them before in his
life, though they were acquaintances whom he had been meeting every day
for a long time past. He began by saying that "he knew nothing about it
and didn't want to." But it appeared that he had heard of the "sixth"
thousand, and he admitted that he had been standing close by at the
moment. As far as he could see he "didn't know" how much money Mitya had
in his hands. He affirmed that the Poles had cheated at cards. In reply to
reiterated questions he stated that, after the Poles had been turned out,
Mitya's position with Agrafena Alexandrovna had certainly improved, and
that she had said that she loved him. He spoke of Agrafena Alexandrovna
with reserve and respect, as though she had been a lady of the best
society, and did not once allow himself to call her Grushenka. In spite of
the young man's obvious repugnance at giving evidence, Ippolit
Kirillovitch examined him at great length, and only from him learnt all
the details of what made up Mitya's "romance," so to say, on that night.
Mitya did not once pull Kalganov up. At last they let the young man go,
and he left the room with unconcealed indignation.
The Poles, too, were examined. Though they had gone to bed in their room,
they had not slept all night, and on the arrival of the police officers
they hastily dressed and got ready, realizing that they would certainly be
sent for. They gave their evidence with dignity, though not without some
uneasiness. The little Pole turned out to be a retired official of the
twelfth class, who had served in Siberia as a veterinary surgeon. His name
was Mussyalovitch. Pan Vrublevsky turned out to be an uncertificated
dentist. Although Nikolay Parfenovitch asked them questions on entering
the room they both addressed their answers to Mihail Makarovitch, who was
standing on one side, taking him in their ignorance for the most important
person and in command, and addressed him at every word as "Pan Colonel."
Only after several reproofs from Mihail Makarovitch himself, they grasped
that they had to address their answers to Nikolay Parfenovitch only. It
turned out that they could speak Russian quite correctly except for their
accent in some words. Of his relations with Grushenka, past and present,
Pan Mussyalovitch spoke proudly and warmly, so that Mitya was roused at
once and declared that he would not allow the "scoundrel" to speak like
that in his presence! Pan Mussyalovitch at once called attention to the
word "scoundrel" and begged that it should be put down in the protocol.
Mitya fumed with rage.
"He's a scoundrel! A scoundrel! You can put that down. And put down, too,
that, in spite of the protocol I still declare that he's a scoundrel!" he
cried.
Though Nikolay Parfenovitch did insert this in the protocol, he showed the
most praiseworthy tact and management. After sternly reprimanding Mitya,
he cut short all further inquiry into the romantic aspect of the case, and
hastened to pass to what was essential. One piece of evidence given by the
Poles roused special interest in the lawyers: that was how, in that very
room, Mitya had tried to buy off Pan Mussyalovitch, and had offered him
three thousand roubles to resign his claims, seven hundred roubles down,
and the remaining two thousand three hundred "to be paid next day in the
town." He had sworn at the time that he had not the whole sum with him at
Mokroe, but that his money was in the town. Mitya observed hotly that he
had not said that he would be sure to pay him the remainder next day in
the town. But Pan Vrublevsky confirmed the statement, and Mitya, after
thinking for a moment admitted, frowning, that it must have been as the
Poles stated, that he had been excited at the time, and might indeed have
said so.
The prosecutor positively pounced on this piece of evidence. It seemed to
establish for the prosecution (and they did, in fact, base this deduction
on it) that half, or a part of, the three thousand that had come into
Mitya's hands might really have been left somewhere hidden in the town, or
even, perhaps, somewhere here, in Mokroe. This would explain the
circumstance, so baffling for the prosecution, that only eight hundred
roubles were to be found in Mitya's hands. This circumstance had been the
one piece of evidence which, insignificant as it was, had hitherto told,
to some extent, in Mitya's favor. Now this one piece of evidence in his
favor had broken down. In answer to the prosecutor's inquiry, where he
would have got the remaining two thousand three hundred roubles, since he
himself had denied having more than fifteen hundred, Mitya confidently
replied that he had meant to offer the "little chap," not money, but a
formal deed of conveyance of his rights to the village of Tchermashnya,
those rights which he had already offered to Samsonov and Madame Hohlakov.
The prosecutor positively smiled at the "innocence of this subterfuge."
"And you imagine he would have accepted such a deed as a substitute for
two thousand three hundred roubles in cash?"
"He certainly would have accepted it," Mitya declared warmly. "Why, look
here, he might have grabbed not two thousand, but four or six, for it. He
would have put his lawyers, Poles and Jews, on to the job, and might have
got, not three thousand, but the whole property out of the old man."
The evidence of Pan Mussyalovitch was, of course, entered in the protocol
in the fullest detail. Then they let the Poles go. The incident of the
cheating at cards was hardly touched upon. Nikolay Parfenovitch was too
well pleased with them, as it was, and did not want to worry them with
trifles, moreover, it was nothing but a foolish, drunken quarrel over
cards. There had been drinking and disorder enough, that night.... So the
two hundred roubles remained in the pockets of the Poles.
Then old Maximov was summoned. He came in timidly, approached with little
steps, looking very disheveled and depressed. He had, all this time, taken
refuge below with Grushenka, sitting dumbly beside her, and "now and then
he'd begin blubbering over her and wiping his eyes with a blue check
handkerchief," as Mihail Makarovitch described afterwards. So that she
herself began trying to pacify and comfort him. The old man at once
confessed that he had done wrong, that he had borrowed "ten roubles in my
poverty," from Dmitri Fyodorovitch, and that he was ready to pay it back.
To Nikolay Parfenovitch's direct question, had he noticed how much money
Dmitri Fyodorovitch held in his hand, as he must have been able to see the
sum better than any one when he took the note from him, Maximov, in the
most positive manner, declared that there was twenty thousand.
"Have you ever seen so much as twenty thousand before, then?" inquired
Nikolay Parfenovitch, with a smile.
"To be sure I have, not twenty, but seven, when my wife mortgaged my
little property. She'd only let me look at it from a distance, boasting of
it to me. It was a very thick bundle, all rainbow-colored notes. And
Dmitri Fyodorovitch's were all rainbow-colored...."
He was not kept long. At last it was Grushenka's turn. Nikolay
Parfenovitch was obviously apprehensive of the effect her appearance might
have on Mitya, and he muttered a few words of admonition to him, but Mitya
bowed his head in silence, giving him to understand "that he would not
make a scene." Mihail Makarovitch himself led Grushenka in. She entered
with a stern and gloomy face, that looked almost composed and sat down
quietly on the chair offered her by Nikolay Parfenovitch. She was very
pale, she seemed to be cold, and wrapped herself closely in her
magnificent black shawl. She was suffering from a slight feverish
chill--the first symptom of the long illness which followed that night. Her
grave air, her direct earnest look and quiet manner made a very favorable
impression on every one. Nikolay Parfenovitch was even a little bit
"fascinated." He admitted himself, when talking about it afterwards, that
only then had he seen "how handsome the woman was," for, though he had
seen her several times before, he had always looked upon her as something
of a "provincial hetaira." "She has the manners of the best society," he
said enthusiastically, gossiping about her in a circle of ladies. But this
was received with positive indignation by the ladies, who immediately
called him a "naughty man," to his great satisfaction.
As she entered the room, Grushenka only glanced for an instant at Mitya,
who looked at her uneasily. But her face reassured him at once. After the
first inevitable inquiries and warnings, Nikolay Parfenovitch asked her,
hesitating a little, but preserving the most courteous manner, on what
terms she was with the retired lieutenant, Dmitri Fyodorovitch Karamazov.
To this Grushenka firmly and quietly replied:
"He was an acquaintance. He came to see me as an acquaintance during the
last month." To further inquisitive questions she answered plainly and
with complete frankness, that, though "at times" she had thought him
attractive, she had not loved him, but had won his heart as well as his
old father's "in my nasty spite," that she had seen that Mitya was very
jealous of Fyodor Pavlovitch and every one else; but that had only amused
her. She had never meant to go to Fyodor Pavlovitch, she had simply been
laughing at him. "I had no thoughts for either of them all this last
month. I was expecting another man who had wronged me. But I think," she
said in conclusion, "that there's no need for you to inquire about that,
nor for me to answer you, for that's my own affair."
Nikolay Parfenovitch immediately acted upon this hint. He again dismissed
the "romantic" aspect of the case and passed to the serious one, that is,
to the question of most importance, concerning the three thousand roubles.
Grushenka confirmed the statement that three thousand roubles had
certainly been spent on the first carousal at Mokroe, and, though she had
not counted the money herself, she had heard that it was three thousand
from Dmitri Fyodorovitch's own lips.
"Did he tell you that alone, or before some one else, or did you only hear
him speak of it to others in your presence?" the prosecutor inquired
immediately.
To which Grushenka replied that she had heard him say so before other
people, and had heard him say so when they were alone.
"Did he say it to you alone once, or several times?" inquired the
prosecutor, and learned that he had told Grushenka so several times.
Ippolit Kirillovitch was very well satisfied with this piece of evidence.
Further examination elicited that Grushenka knew, too, where that money
had come from, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had got it from Katerina
Ivanovna.
"And did you never, once, hear that the money spent a month ago was not
three thousand, but less, and that Dmitri Fyodorovitch had saved half that
sum for his own use?"
"No, I never heard that," answered Grushenka.
It was explained further that Mitya had, on the contrary, often told her
that he hadn't a farthing.
"He was always expecting to get some from his father," said Grushenka in
conclusion.
"Did he never say before you ... casually, or in a moment of irritation,"
Nikolay Parfenovitch put in suddenly, "that he intended to make an attempt
on his father's life?"
"Ach, he did say so," sighed Grushenka.
"Once or several times?"
"He mentioned it several times, always in anger."
"And did you believe he would do it?"
"No, I never believed it," she answered firmly. "I had faith in his noble
heart."
"Gentlemen, allow me," cried Mitya suddenly, "allow me to say one word to
Agrafena Alexandrovna, in your presence."
"You can speak," Nikolay Parfenovitch assented.
"Agrafena Alexandrovna!" Mitya got up from his chair, "have faith in God
and in me. I am not guilty of my father's murder!"
Having uttered these words Mitya sat down again on his chair. Grushenka
stood up and crossed herself devoutly before the ikon. "Thanks be to Thee,
O Lord," she said, in a voice thrilled with emotion, and still standing,
she turned to Nikolay Parfenovitch and added:
"As he has spoken now, believe it! I know him. He'll say anything as a
joke or from obstinacy, but he'll never deceive you against his
conscience. He's telling the whole truth, you may believe it."
"Thanks, Agrafena Alexandrovna, you've given me fresh courage," Mitya
responded in a quivering voice.
As to the money spent the previous day, she declared that she did not know
what sum it was, but had heard him tell several people that he had three
thousand with him. And to the question where he got the money, she said
that he had told her that he had "stolen" it from Katerina Ivanovna, and
that she had replied to that that he hadn't stolen it, and that he must
pay the money back next day. On the prosecutor's asking her emphatically
whether the money he said he had stolen from Katerina Ivanovna was what he
had spent yesterday, or what he had squandered here a month ago, she
declared that he meant the money spent a month ago, and that that was how
she understood him.
Grushenka was at last released, and Nikolay Parfenovitch informed her
impulsively that she might at once return to the town and that if he could
be of any assistance to her, with horses for example, or if she would care
for an escort, he ... would be--
"I thank you sincerely," said Grushenka, bowing to him, "I'm going with
this old gentleman, I am driving him back to town with me, and meanwhile,
if you'll allow me, I'll wait below to hear what you decide about Dmitri
Fyodorovitch."
She went out. Mitya was calm, and even looked more cheerful, but only for
a moment. He felt more and more oppressed by a strange physical weakness.
His eyes were closing with fatigue. The examination of the witnesses was,
at last, over. They proceeded to a final revision of the protocol. Mitya
got up, moved from his chair to the corner by the curtain, lay down on a
large chest covered with a rug, and instantly fell asleep.
He had a strange dream, utterly out of keeping with the place and the
time.
He was driving somewhere in the steppes, where he had been stationed long
ago, and a peasant was driving him in a cart with a pair of horses,
through snow and sleet. He was cold, it was early in November, and the
snow was falling in big wet flakes, melting as soon as it touched the
earth. And the peasant drove him smartly, he had a fair, long beard. He
was not an old man, somewhere about fifty, and he had on a gray peasant's
smock. Not far off was a village, he could see the black huts, and half
the huts were burnt down, there were only the charred beams sticking up.
And as they drove in, there were peasant women drawn up along the road, a
lot of women, a whole row, all thin and wan, with their faces a sort of
brownish color, especially one at the edge, a tall, bony woman, who looked
forty, but might have been only twenty, with a long thin face. And in her
arms was a little baby crying. And her breasts seemed so dried up that
there was not a drop of milk in them. And the child cried and cried, and
held out its little bare arms, with its little fists blue from cold.
"Why are they crying? Why are they crying?" Mitya asked, as they dashed
gayly by.
"It's the babe," answered the driver, "the babe weeping."
And Mitya was struck by his saying, in his peasant way, "the babe," and he
liked the peasant's calling it a "babe." There seemed more pity in it.
"But why is it weeping?" Mitya persisted stupidly, "why are its little
arms bare? Why don't they wrap it up?"
"The babe's cold, its little clothes are frozen and don't warm it."
"But why is it? Why?" foolish Mitya still persisted.
"Why, they're poor people, burnt out. They've no bread. They're begging
because they've been burnt out."
"No, no," Mitya, as it were, still did not understand. "Tell me why it is
those poor mothers stand there? Why are people poor? Why is the babe poor?
Why is the steppe barren? Why don't they hug each other and kiss? Why
don't they sing songs of joy? Why are they so dark from black misery? Why
don't they feed the babe?"
And he felt that, though his questions were unreasonable and senseless,
yet he wanted to ask just that, and he had to ask it just in that way. And
he felt that a passion of pity, such as he had never known before, was
rising in his heart, that he wanted to cry, that he wanted to do something
for them all, so that the babe should weep no more, so that the dark-
faced, dried-up mother should not weep, that no one should shed tears
again from that moment, and he wanted to do it at once, at once,
regardless of all obstacles, with all the recklessness of the Karamazovs.
"And I'm coming with you. I won't leave you now for the rest of my life,
I'm coming with you," he heard close beside him Grushenka's tender voice,
thrilling with emotion. And his heart glowed, and he struggled forward
towards the light, and he longed to live, to live, to go on and on,
towards the new, beckoning light, and to hasten, hasten, now, at once!
"What! Where?" he exclaimed opening his eyes, and sitting up on the chest,
as though he had revived from a swoon, smiling brightly. Nikolay
Parfenovitch was standing over him, suggesting that he should hear the
protocol read aloud and sign it. Mitya guessed that he had been asleep an
hour or more, but he did not hear Nikolay Parfenovitch. He was suddenly
struck by the fact that there was a pillow under his head, which hadn't
been there when he had leant back, exhausted, on the chest.
"Who put that pillow under my head? Who was so kind?" he cried, with a
sort of ecstatic gratitude, and tears in his voice, as though some great
kindness had been shown him.
He never found out who this kind man was; perhaps one of the peasant
witnesses, or Nikolay Parfenovitch's little secretary, had compassionately
thought to put a pillow under his head; but his whole soul was quivering
with tears. He went to the table and said that he would sign whatever they
liked.
"I've had a good dream, gentlemen," he said in a strange voice, with a new
light, as of joy, in his face. | First up for interrogation is the innkeeper Trifon Borisich, who insists that although he never actually counted the money, he could see by sight that Dmitri was holding 3,000 roubles. He adds that Dmitri even stated that he was going to spend his "6,000," which the interrogators find very interesting because it suggests that Dmitri spent the 3,000 he stole from Katerina and the 3,000 he stole from his father. In addition to the peasants, Kalganov and the Poles are interrogated as well. The interrogators find the Poles' story about how Dmitri tried to bribe them for 3,000 roubles further confirmation of his theft. After Maximov, the interrogators call in Grushenka, who behaves with solemnity and grace. Dmitri declares to her that he did not murder his father, and Grushenka declares her belief in Dmitri's honesty and innocence. By this point, Dmitri is utterly exhausted and falls asleep. He has a dream that he's being driven by a peasant in a cart across the steppes. As they pass through a village, he asks the peasant why everyone is so poor, and why a baby held by one of the impoverished peasant women is crying. He thinks he hears Grushenka telling him that she will stay with him for the rest of her life, then he wakes up. Parfenovich holds a transcript before him and asks Dmitri to sign it, which Dmitri does, without reading it. |
THERE was a curious social situation in Black Hawk. All the young men felt
the attraction of the fine, well-set-up country girls who had come to town
to earn a living, and, in nearly every case, to help the father struggle
out of debt, or to make it possible for the younger children of the family
to go to school.
Those girls had grown up in the first bitter-hard times, and had got
little schooling themselves. But the younger brothers and sisters, for
whom they made such sacrifices and who have had "advantages," never seem
to me, when I meet them now, half as interesting or as well educated. The
older girls, who helped to break up the wild sod, learned so much from
life, from poverty, from their mothers and grandmothers; they had all,
like Antonia, been early awakened and made observant by coming at a tender
age from an old country to a new. I can remember a score of these country
girls who were in service in Black Hawk during the few years I lived
there, and I can remember something unusual and engaging about each of
them. Physically they were almost a race apart, and out-of-door work had
given them a vigor which, when they got over their first shyness on coming
to town, developed into a positive carriage and freedom of movement, and
made them conspicuous among Black Hawk women.
That was before the day of High-School athletics. Girls who had to walk
more than half a mile to school were pitied. There was not a tennis court
in the town; physical exercise was thought rather inelegant for the
daughters of well-to-do families. Some of the High-School girls were jolly
and pretty, but they stayed indoors in winter because of the cold, and in
summer because of the heat. When one danced with them their bodies never
moved inside their clothes; their muscles seemed to ask but one thing--not
to be disturbed. I remember those girls merely as faces in the schoolroom,
gay and rosy, or listless and dull, cut off below the shoulders, like
cherubs, by the ink-smeared tops of the high desks that were surely put
there to make us round-shouldered and hollow-chested.
The daughters of Black Hawk merchants had a confident, uninquiring belief
that they were "refined," and that the country girls, who "worked out,"
were not. The American farmers in our county were quite as hard-pressed as
their neighbors from other countries. All alike had come to Nebraska with
little capital and no knowledge of the soil they must subdue. All had
borrowed money on their land. But no matter in what straits the
Pennsylvanian or Virginian found himself, he would not let his daughters
go out into service. Unless his girls could teach a country school, they
sat at home in poverty. The Bohemian and Scandinavian girls could not get
positions as teachers, because they had had no opportunity to learn the
language. Determined to help in the struggle to clear the homestead from
debt, they had no alternative but to go into service. Some of them, after
they came to town, remained as serious and as discreet in behavior as they
had been when they ploughed and herded on their father's farm. Others,
like the three Bohemian Marys, tried to make up for the years of youth
they had lost. But every one of them did what she had set out to do, and
sent home those hard-earned dollars. The girls I knew were always helping
to pay for ploughs and reapers, brood-sows, or steers to fatten.
One result of this family solidarity was that the foreign farmers in our
county were the first to become prosperous. After the fathers were out of
debt, the daughters married the sons of neighbors,--usually of like
nationality,--and the girls who once worked in Black Hawk kitchens are
to-day managing big farms and fine families of their own; their children
are better off than the children of the town women they used to serve.
I thought the attitude of the town people toward these girls very stupid.
If I told my schoolmates that Lena Lingard's grandfather was a clergyman,
and much respected in Norway, they looked at me blankly. What did it
matter? All foreigners were ignorant people who could n't speak English.
There was not a man in Black Hawk who had the intelligence or cultivation,
much less the personal distinction, of Antonia's father. Yet people saw no
difference between her and the three Marys; they were all Bohemians, all
"hired girls."
I always knew I should live long enough to see my country girls come into
their own, and I have. To-day the best that a harassed Black Hawk merchant
can hope for is to sell provisions and farm machinery and automobiles to
the rich farms where that first crop of stalwart Bohemian and Scandinavian
girls are now the mistresses.
The Black Hawk boys looked forward to marrying Black Hawk girls, and
living in a brand-new little house with best chairs that must not be sat
upon, and hand-painted china that must not be used. But sometimes a young
fellow would look up from his ledger, or out through the grating of his
father's bank, and let his eyes follow Lena Lingard, as she passed the
window with her slow, undulating walk, or Tiny Soderball, tripping by in
her short skirt and striped stockings.
The country girls were considered a menace to the social order. Their
beauty shone out too boldly against a conventional background. But anxious
mothers need have felt no alarm. They mistook the mettle of their sons.
The respect for respectability was stronger than any desire in Black Hawk
youth.
Our young man of position was like the son of a royal house; the boy who
swept out his office or drove his delivery wagon might frolic with the
jolly country girls, but he himself must sit all evening in a plush parlor
where conversation dragged so perceptibly that the father often came in
and made blundering efforts to warm up the atmosphere. On his way home
from his dull call, he would perhaps meet Tony and Lena, coming along the
sidewalk whispering to each other, or the three Bohemian Marys in their
long plush coats and caps, comporting themselves with a dignity that only
made their eventful histories the more piquant. If he went to the hotel to
see a traveling man on business, there was Tiny, arching her shoulders at
him like a kitten. If he went into the laundry to get his collars, there
were the four Danish girls, smiling up from their ironing-boards, with
their white throats and their pink cheeks.
The three Marys were the heroines of a cycle of scandalous stories, which
the old men were fond of relating as they sat about the cigar-stand in the
drug-store. Mary Dusak had been housekeeper for a bachelor rancher from
Boston, and after several years in his service she was forced to retire
from the world for a short time. Later she came back to town to take the
place of her friend, Mary Svoboda, who was similarly embarrassed. The
three Marys were considered as dangerous as high explosives to have about
the kitchen, yet they were such good cooks and such admirable housekeepers
that they never had to look for a place.
The Vannis' tent brought the town boys and the country girls together on
neutral ground. Sylvester Lovett, who was cashier in his father's bank,
always found his way to the tent on Saturday night. He took all the dances
Lena Lingard would give him, and even grew bold enough to walk home with
her. If his sisters or their friends happened to be among the onlookers on
"popular nights," Sylvester stood back in the shadow under the cottonwood
trees, smoking and watching Lena with a harassed expression. Several times
I stumbled upon him there in the dark, and I felt rather sorry for him. He
reminded me of Ole Benson, who used to sit on the draw-side and watch Lena
herd her cattle. Later in the summer, when Lena went home for a week to
visit her mother, I heard from Antonia that young Lovett drove all the way
out there to see her, and took her buggy-riding. In my ingenuousness I
hoped that Sylvester would marry Lena, and thus give all the country girls
a better position in the town.
Sylvester dallied about Lena until he began to make mistakes in his work;
had to stay at the bank until after dark to make his books balance. He was
daft about her, and every one knew it. To escape from his predicament he
ran away with a widow six years older than himself, who owned a
half-section. This remedy worked, apparently. He never looked at Lena
again, nor lifted his eyes as he ceremoniously tipped his hat when he
happened to meet her on the sidewalk.
So that was what they were like, I thought, these white-handed,
high-collared clerks and bookkeepers! I used to glare at young Lovett from
a distance and only wished I had some way of showing my contempt for him. | Jim and the Harlings are thrilled with the spring. They are outside every day helping Mrs. Harling and Antonia plant the garden and maintain it. Jim writes that the summer that was to come would change everything, but that no one knew it the day the Vannis pull into town with their traveling dance company. They set up their tent in a vacant lot by the Danish laundry and children come for dance lessons during the day. They keep very good order with time and decorum. Every Saturday night they have a dance. The country boys come from the surrounding farms as do the country girls, including Antonia. The young men of the Progressive Euchre Club also come to the dances so they can dance with "the hired girls" despite the fact their girlfriends will be angry with them. |
Ragueneau, Lise, Cyrano, then the musketeer.
CYRANO:
What's o'clock?
RAGUENEAU (bowing low):
Six o'clock.
CYRANO (with emotion):
In one hour's time!
(He paces up and down the shop.)
RAGUENEAU (following him):
Bravo! I saw. . .
CYRANO:
Well, what saw you, then?
RAGUENEAU:
Your combat!. . .
CYRANO:
Which?
RAGUENEAU:
That in the Burgundy Hotel, 'faith!
CYRANO (contemptuously):
Ah!. . .the duel!
RAGUENEAU (admiringly):
Ay! the duel in verse!. . .
LISE:
He can talk of naught else!
CYRANO:
Well! Good! let be!
RAGUENEAU (making passes with a spit that he catches up):
'At the envoi's end, I touch!. . .At the envoi's end, I touch!'. . .'Tis
fine, fine!
(With increasing enthusiasm):
'At the envoi's end--'
CYRANO:
What hour is it now, Ragueneau?
RAGUENEAU (stopping short in the act of thrusting to look at the clock):
Five minutes after six!. . .'I touch!'
(He straightens himself):
. . .Oh! to write a ballade!
LISE (to Cyrano, who, as he passes by the counter, has absently shaken hands
with her):
What's wrong with your hand?
CYRANO:
Naught; a slight cut.
RAGUENEAU:
Have you been in some danger?
CYRANO:
None in the world.
LISE (shaking her finger at him):
Methinks you speak not the truth in saying that!
CYRANO:
Did you see my nose quiver when I spoke? 'Faith, it must have been a
monstrous lie that should move it!
(Changing his tone):
I wait some one here. Leave us alone, and disturb us for naught an it were
not for crack of doom!
RAGUENEAU:
But 'tis impossible; my poets are coming. . .
LISE (ironically):
Oh, ay, for their first meal o' the day!
CYRANO:
Prythee, take them aside when I shall make you sign to do so. . .What's
o'clock?
RAGUENEAU:
Ten minutes after six.
CYRANO (nervously seating himself at Ragueneau's table, and drawing some paper
toward him):
A pen!. . .
RAGUENEAU (giving him the one from behind his ear):
Here--a swan's quill.
A MUSKETEER (with fierce mustache, enters, and in a stentorian voice):
Good-day!
(Lise goes up to him quickly.)
CYRANO (turning round):
Who's that?
RAGUENEAU:
'Tis a friend of my wife--a terrible warrior--at least so says he himself.
CYRANO (taking up the pen, and motioning Ragueneau away):
Hush!
(To himself):
I will write, fold it, give it her, and fly!
(Throws down the pen):
Coward!. . .But strike me dead if I dare to speak to her,. . .ay, even one
single word!
(To Ragueneau):
What time is it?
RAGUENEAU:
A quarter after six!. . .
CYRANO (striking his breast):
Ay--a single word of all those here! here! But writing, 'tis easier done. .
.
(He takes up the pen):
Go to, I will write it, that love-letter! Oh! I have writ it and rewrit it
in my own mind so oft that it lies there ready for pen and ink; and if I lay
but my soul by my letter-sheet, 'tis naught to do but to copy from it.
(He writes. Through the glass of the door the silhouettes of their figures
move uncertainly and hesitatingly.) | Cyrano arrives at Ragueneau's. Ragueneau congratulates Cyrano on his "duel in verse" at the theater. Cyrano asks Ragueneau to leave him alone with Roxane when she arrives, but Ragueneau says that he cannot, as his poet friends are arriving shortly for their breakfast. A Musketeer comes in, and Ragueneau tells Cyrano that he is a friend of his wife's. Cyrano begins to write a letter declaring his love for Roxane. He plans to hand her the note rather than face speaking to her directly |
What happened when the pilot-boat came in sight of Shanghai will be
easily guessed. The signals made by the Tankadere had been seen by the
captain of the Yokohama steamer, who, espying the flag at half-mast,
had directed his course towards the little craft. Phileas Fogg, after
paying the stipulated price of his passage to John Busby, and rewarding
that worthy with the additional sum of five hundred and fifty pounds,
ascended the steamer with Aouda and Fix; and they started at once for
Nagasaki and Yokohama.
They reached their destination on the morning of the 14th of November.
Phileas Fogg lost no time in going on board the Carnatic, where he
learned, to Aouda's great delight--and perhaps to his own, though he
betrayed no emotion--that Passepartout, a Frenchman, had really arrived
on her the day before.
The San Francisco steamer was announced to leave that very evening, and
it became necessary to find Passepartout, if possible, without delay.
Mr. Fogg applied in vain to the French and English consuls, and, after
wandering through the streets a long time, began to despair of finding
his missing servant. Chance, or perhaps a kind of presentiment, at
last led him into the Honourable Mr. Batulcar's theatre. He certainly
would not have recognised Passepartout in the eccentric mountebank's
costume; but the latter, lying on his back, perceived his master in the
gallery. He could not help starting, which so changed the position of
his nose as to bring the "pyramid" pell-mell upon the stage.
All this Passepartout learned from Aouda, who recounted to him what had
taken place on the voyage from Hong Kong to Shanghai on the Tankadere,
in company with one Mr. Fix.
Passepartout did not change countenance on hearing this name. He
thought that the time had not yet arrived to divulge to his master what
had taken place between the detective and himself; and, in the account
he gave of his absence, he simply excused himself for having been
overtaken by drunkenness, in smoking opium at a tavern in Hong Kong.
Mr. Fogg heard this narrative coldly, without a word; and then
furnished his man with funds necessary to obtain clothing more in
harmony with his position. Within an hour the Frenchman had cut off
his nose and parted with his wings, and retained nothing about him
which recalled the sectary of the god Tingou.
The steamer which was about to depart from Yokohama to San Francisco
belonged to the Pacific Mail Steamship Company, and was named the
General Grant. She was a large paddle-wheel steamer of two thousand
five hundred tons; well equipped and very fast. The massive
walking-beam rose and fell above the deck; at one end a piston-rod
worked up and down; and at the other was a connecting-rod which, in
changing the rectilinear motion to a circular one, was directly
connected with the shaft of the paddles. The General Grant was rigged
with three masts, giving a large capacity for sails, and thus
materially aiding the steam power. By making twelve miles an hour, she
would cross the ocean in twenty-one days. Phileas Fogg was therefore
justified in hoping that he would reach San Francisco by the 2nd of
December, New York by the 11th, and London on the 20th--thus gaining
several hours on the fatal date of the 21st of December.
There was a full complement of passengers on board, among them English,
many Americans, a large number of coolies on their way to California,
and several East Indian officers, who were spending their vacation in
making the tour of the world. Nothing of moment happened on the
voyage; the steamer, sustained on its large paddles, rolled but little,
and the Pacific almost justified its name. Mr. Fogg was as calm and
taciturn as ever. His young companion felt herself more and more
attached to him by other ties than gratitude; his silent but generous
nature impressed her more than she thought; and it was almost
unconsciously that she yielded to emotions which did not seem to have
the least effect upon her protector. Aouda took the keenest interest
in his plans, and became impatient at any incident which seemed likely
to retard his journey.
She often chatted with Passepartout, who did not fail to perceive the
state of the lady's heart; and, being the most faithful of domestics,
he never exhausted his eulogies of Phileas Fogg's honesty, generosity,
and devotion. He took pains to calm Aouda's doubts of a successful
termination of the journey, telling her that the most difficult part of
it had passed, that now they were beyond the fantastic countries of
Japan and China, and were fairly on their way to civilised places
again. A railway train from San Francisco to New York, and a
transatlantic steamer from New York to Liverpool, would doubtless bring
them to the end of this impossible journey round the world within the
period agreed upon.
On the ninth day after leaving Yokohama, Phileas Fogg had traversed
exactly one half of the terrestrial globe. The General Grant passed,
on the 23rd of November, the one hundred and eightieth meridian, and
was at the very antipodes of London. Mr. Fogg had, it is true,
exhausted fifty-two of the eighty days in which he was to complete the
tour, and there were only twenty-eight left. But, though he was only
half-way by the difference of meridians, he had really gone over
two-thirds of the whole journey; for he had been obliged to make long
circuits from London to Aden, from Aden to Bombay, from Calcutta to
Singapore, and from Singapore to Yokohama. Could he have followed
without deviation the fiftieth parallel, which is that of London, the
whole distance would only have been about twelve thousand miles;
whereas he would be forced, by the irregular methods of locomotion, to
traverse twenty-six thousand, of which he had, on the 23rd of November,
accomplished seventeen thousand five hundred. And now the course was a
straight one, and Fix was no longer there to put obstacles in their way!
It happened also, on the 23rd of November, that Passepartout made a
joyful discovery. It will be remembered that the obstinate fellow had
insisted on keeping his famous family watch at London time, and on
regarding that of the countries he had passed through as quite false
and unreliable. Now, on this day, though he had not changed the hands,
he found that his watch exactly agreed with the ship's chronometers.
His triumph was hilarious. He would have liked to know what Fix would
say if he were aboard!
"The rogue told me a lot of stories," repeated Passepartout, "about the
meridians, the sun, and the moon! Moon, indeed! moonshine more
likely! If one listened to that sort of people, a pretty sort of time
one would keep! I was sure that the sun would some day regulate itself
by my watch!"
Passepartout was ignorant that, if the face of his watch had been
divided into twenty-four hours, like the Italian clocks, he would have
no reason for exultation; for the hands of his watch would then,
instead of as now indicating nine o'clock in the morning, indicate nine
o'clock in the evening, that is, the twenty-first hour after midnight
precisely the difference between London time and that of the one
hundred and eightieth meridian. But if Fix had been able to explain
this purely physical effect, Passepartout would not have admitted, even
if he had comprehended it. Moreover, if the detective had been on
board at that moment, Passepartout would have joined issue with him on
a quite different subject, and in an entirely different manner.
Where was Fix at that moment?
He was actually on board the General Grant.
On reaching Yokohama, the detective, leaving Mr. Fogg, whom he expected
to meet again during the day, had repaired at once to the English
consulate, where he at last found the warrant of arrest. It had
followed him from Bombay, and had come by the Carnatic, on which
steamer he himself was supposed to be. Fix's disappointment may be
imagined when he reflected that the warrant was now useless. Mr. Fogg
had left English ground, and it was now necessary to procure his
extradition!
"Well," thought Fix, after a moment of anger, "my warrant is not good
here, but it will be in England. The rogue evidently intends to return
to his own country, thinking he has thrown the police off his track.
Good! I will follow him across the Atlantic. As for the money, heaven
grant there may be some left! But the fellow has already spent in
travelling, rewards, trials, bail, elephants, and all sorts of charges,
more than five thousand pounds. Yet, after all, the Bank is rich!"
His course decided on, he went on board the General Grant, and was
there when Mr. Fogg and Aouda arrived. To his utter amazement, he
recognised Passepartout, despite his theatrical disguise. He quickly
concealed himself in his cabin, to avoid an awkward explanation, and
hoped--thanks to the number of passengers--to remain unperceived by Mr.
Fogg's servant.
On that very day, however, he met Passepartout face to face on the
forward deck. The latter, without a word, made a rush for him, grasped
him by the throat, and, much to the amusement of a group of Americans,
who immediately began to bet on him, administered to the detective a
perfect volley of blows, which proved the great superiority of French
over English pugilistic skill.
When Passepartout had finished, he found himself relieved and
comforted. Fix got up in a somewhat rumpled condition, and, looking at
his adversary, coldly said, "Have you done?"
"For this time--yes."
"Then let me have a word with you."
"But I--"
"In your master's interests."
Passepartout seemed to be vanquished by Fix's coolness, for he quietly
followed him, and they sat down aside from the rest of the passengers.
"You have given me a thrashing," said Fix. "Good, I expected it. Now,
listen to me. Up to this time I have been Mr. Fogg's adversary. I am
now in his game."
"Aha!" cried Passepartout; "you are convinced he is an honest man?"
"No," replied Fix coldly, "I think him a rascal. Sh! don't budge, and
let me speak. As long as Mr. Fogg was on English ground, it was for my
interest to detain him there until my warrant of arrest arrived. I did
everything I could to keep him back. I sent the Bombay priests after
him, I got you intoxicated at Hong Kong, I separated you from him, and
I made him miss the Yokohama steamer."
Passepartout listened, with closed fists.
"Now," resumed Fix, "Mr. Fogg seems to be going back to England. Well,
I will follow him there. But hereafter I will do as much to keep
obstacles out of his way as I have done up to this time to put them in
his path. I've changed my game, you see, and simply because it was for
my interest to change it. Your interest is the same as mine; for it is
only in England that you will ascertain whether you are in the service
of a criminal or an honest man."
Passepartout listened very attentively to Fix, and was convinced that
he spoke with entire good faith.
"Are we friends?" asked the detective.
"Friends?--no," replied Passepartout; "but allies, perhaps. At the
least sign of treason, however, I'll twist your neck for you."
"Agreed," said the detective quietly.
Eleven days later, on the 3rd of December, the General Grant entered
the bay of the Golden Gate, and reached San Francisco.
Mr. Fogg had neither gained nor lost a single day. | Aouda, Fix, and Fogg are able to grab the ship bound for Yokohama and leave the Tankadere, but not without making its master a little bit richer. Phileas learns that Passepartout did arrive in Japan aboard the Carnatic, and Aouda is thrilled to learn he is in the country. Fogg searches for Passepartout and finds him with the acting troupe. Aouda tells Passepartout about all that happened on the Tankadere, but Passepartout keeps his secret about the roofie situation. Phileas resupplies Passepartout with clothes, and the three once again set sail, this time aboard the General Grant, which is bound for San Francisco. Fix boards the General Grant as well, the warrant for Phileas Fogg's arrest having been lost in Japan. He's totally frustrated, because once on American soil, British law no longer holds any authority--he'll actually have to wait until Fogg is in England again to take him into custody. One day Fix and Passepartout come face to face on deck. Passepartout rushes Fix and tries to strangle him in front of a group of Americans . Passepartout pummels Fix and then lets him up when he feels good and satisfied. Fix asks for a small chat after the fistfight, and Passepartout grudgingly agrees. Fix tells him he is actually on Phileas's side. He says he won't get in Fogg's way anymore , but he'll arrest him in England and Passepartout can see for himself whether Fogg is innocent or not. |
CHAPTER LXX
TRANQUILITY
It is because I was foolish then that I am wise to-day.
Oh thou philosopher who seest nothing except the actual
instant. How short-sighted are thy views! Thine eye
is not adapted to follow the subterranean work of the
passions.--_M. Goethe_.
This conversation was interrupted by an interrogation followed by
a conference with the advocate entrusted with the defence. These
moments were the only absolutely unpleasant ones in a life made up of
nonchalance and tender reveries.
"There is murder, and murder with premeditation," said Julien to the
judge as he had done to the advocate, "I am sorry, gentlemen, he added
with a smile, that this reduces your functions to a very small compass."
"After all," said Julien to himself, when he had managed to rid
himself of those two persons, "I must really be brave, and apparently
braver than those two men. They regard that duel with an unfortunate
termination, which I can only seriously bother myself about on the
actual day, as the greatest of evils and the arch-terror."
"The fact is that I have known a much greater unhappiness," continued
Julien, as he went on philosophising with himself. "I suffered far
more acutely during my first journey to Strasbourg, when I thought I
was abandoned by Mathilde--and to think that I desired so passionately
that same perfect intimacy which to-day leaves me so cold--as a matter
of fact I am more happy alone than when that handsome girl shares my
solitude."
The advocate, who was a red-tape pedant, thought him mad, and believed,
with the public, that it was jealousy which had lead him to take up
the pistol. He ventured one day to give Julien to understand that
this contention, whether true or false, would be an excellent way of
pleading. But the accused man became in a single minute a passionate
and drastic individual.
"As you value your life, monsieur," exclaimed Julien, quite beside
himself, "mind you never put forward such an abominable lie." The
cautious advocate was for a moment afraid of being assassinated.
He was preparing his case because the decisive moment was drawing near.
The only topic of conversation in Besancon, and all the department, was
the _cause celebre_. Julien did not know of this circumstance. He had
requested his friends never to talk to him about that kind of thing.
On this particular day, Fouque and Mathilde had tried to inform him
of certain rumours which in their view were calculated to give hope.
Julien had stopped them at the very first word.
"Leave me my ideal life. Your pettifogging troubles and details of
practical life all more or less jar on me and bring me down from my
heaven. One dies as best one can: but I wish to chose my own way of
thinking about death. What do I care for other people? My relations
with other people will be sharply cut short. Be kind enough not to talk
to me any more about those people. Seeing the judge and the advocate is
more than enough."
"As a matter of fact," he said to himself, "it seems that I am fated
to die dreaming. An obscure creature like myself, who is certain to be
forgotten within a fortnight, would be very silly, one must admit, to
go and play a part. It is nevertheless singular that I never knew so
much about the art of enjoying life, as since I have seen its end so
near me."
He passed his last day in promenading upon the narrow terrace at the
top of the turret, smoking some excellent cigars which Mathilde had
had fetched from Holland by a courier. He had no suspicion that his
appearance was waited for each day by all the telescopes in the town.
His thoughts were at Vergy. He never spoke to Fouque about madame de
Renal, but his friend told him two or three times that she was rapidly
recovering, and these words reverberated in his heart.
While Julien's soul was nearly all the time wholly in the realm
of ideas, Mathilde, who, as befits an aristocratic spirit, had
occupied herself with concrete things, had managed to make the
direct and intimate correspondence between madame de Fervaques and
M. de Frilair progress so far that the great word bishopric had been
already pronounced. The venerable prelate, who was entrusted with the
distribution of the benefices, added in a postscript to one of his
niece's letters, "This poor Sorel is only a lunatic. I hope he will be
restored to us."
At the sight of these lines, M. de Frilair felt transported. He had no
doubts about saving Julien.
"But for this Jacobin law which has ordered the formation of an
unending panel of jurymen, and which has no other real object, except
to deprive well-born people of all their influence," he said to
Mathilde on the eve of the balloting for the thirty-six jurymen of the
session, "I would have answered for the verdict. I certainly managed to
get the cure N---- acquitted."
When the names were selected by ballot on the following day, M. de
Frilair experienced a genuine pleasure in finding that they contained
five members of the Besancon congregation and that amongst those who
were strangers to the town were the names of MM. Valenod, de Moirod,
de Cholin. I can answer for these eight jurymen he said to Mathilde.
The first five are mere machines, Valenod is my agent: Moirod owes me
everything: de Cholin is an imbecile who is frightened of everything.
The journal published the names of the jurymen throughout the
department, and to her husband's unspeakable terror, madame de Renal
wished to go to Besancon. All that M. de Renal could prevail on her
to promise was that she would not leave her bed so as to avoid the
unpleasantness of being called to give evidence. "You do not understand
my position," said the former mayor of Verrieres. "I am now said to
be disloyal and a Liberal. No doubt that scoundrel Valenod and M. de
Frilair will get the procureur-general and the judges to do all they
can to cause me unpleasantness."
Madame de Renal found no difficulty in yielding to her husband's
orders. "If I appear at the assize court," she said to herself, "I
should seem as if I were asking for vengeance." In spite of all the
promises she had made to the director of her conscience and to her
husband that she would be discreet, she had scarcely arrived at
Besancon before she wrote with her own hand to each of the thirty-six
jurymen:--
"I shall not appear on the day of the trial, monsieur, because my
presence might be prejudicial to M. Sorel's case. I only desire one
thing in the world, and that I desire passionately--for him to be
saved. Have no doubt about it, the awful idea that I am the cause of an
innocent man being led to his death would poison the rest of my life
and would no doubt curtail it. How can you condemn him to death while I
continue to live? No, there is no doubt about it, society has no right
to take away a man's life, and above all, the life of a being like
Julien Sorel. Everyone at Verrieres knew that there were moments when
he was quite distracted. This poor young man has some powerful enemies,
but even among his enemies, (and how many has he not got?) who is there
who casts any doubt on his admirable talents and his deep knowledge?
The man whom you are going to try, monsieur, is not an ordinary person.
For a period of nearly eighteen months we all knew him as a devout and
well behaved student. Two or three times in the year he was seized by
fits of melancholy that went to the point of distraction. The whole
town of Verrieres, all our neighbours at Vergy, where we live in the
fine weather, my whole family, and monsieur the sub-prefect himself
will render justice to his exemplary piety. He knows all the Holy Bible
by heart. Would a blasphemer have spent years of study in learning the
Sacred Book. My sons will have the honour of presenting you with this
letter, they are children. Be good enough to question them, monsieur,
they will give you all the details concerning this poor young man which
are necessary to convince you of how barbarous it would be to condemn
him. Far from revenging me, you would be putting me to death.
"What can his enemies argue against this? The wound, which was the
result of one of those moments of madness, which my children themselves
used to remark in their tutor, is so little dangerous than in less
than two months it has allowed me to take the post from Verrieres to
Besancon. If I learn, monsieur, that you show the slightest hesitation
in releasing so innocent a person from the barbarity of the law, I will
leave my bed, where I am only kept by my husband's express orders, and
I will go and throw myself at your feet. Bring in a verdict, monsieur,
that the premeditation has not been made out, and you will not have an
innocent man's blood on your head, etc." | Julien's defense lawyer finally shows up, but Julien just tells him what he's been telling everyone else: he shot Madame de Renal with the intent to kill. The lawyer thinks Julien is crazy. Things are looking good for Julien nonetheless. More than half of the jurors selected for his trial are people that the vicar-general has some influence over. Meanwhile, Madame de Renal has realized that she still loves Julien. She writes a letter to the judge saying that she forgives Julien and doesn't want him killed for his actions. |
CHAPTER XI
I
SHE had often been invited to the weekly meetings of the Thanatopsis,
the women's study club, but she had put it off. The Thanatopsis was,
Vida Sherwin promised, "such a cozy group, and yet it puts you in touch
with all the intellectual thoughts that are going on everywhere."
Early in March Mrs. Westlake, wife of the veteran physician, marched
into Carol's living-room like an amiable old pussy and suggested, "My
dear, you really must come to the Thanatopsis this afternoon. Mrs.
Dawson is going to be leader and the poor soul is frightened to death.
She wanted me to get you to come. She says she's sure you will brighten
up the meeting with your knowledge of books and writings. (English
poetry is our topic today.) So shoo! Put on your coat!"
"English poetry? Really? I'd love to go. I didn't realize you were
reading poetry."
"Oh, we're not so slow!"
Mrs. Luke Dawson, wife of the richest man in town, gaped at them
piteously when they appeared. Her expensive frock of beaver-colored
satin with rows, plasters, and pendants of solemn brown beads was
intended for a woman twice her size. She stood wringing her hands in
front of nineteen folding chairs, in her front parlor with its faded
photograph of Minnehaha Falls in 1890, its "colored enlargement" of
Mr. Dawson, its bulbous lamp painted with sepia cows and mountains and
standing on a mortuary marble column.
She creaked, "O Mrs. Kennicott, I'm in such a fix. I'm supposed to lead
the discussion, and I wondered would you come and help?"
"What poet do you take up today?" demanded Carol, in her library tone of
"What book do you wish to take out?"
"Why, the English ones."
"Not all of them?"
"W-why yes. We're learning all of European Literature this year.
The club gets such a nice magazine, Culture Hints, and we follow its
programs. Last year our subject was Men and Women of the Bible, and next
year we'll probably take up Furnishings and China. My, it does make a
body hustle to keep up with all these new culture subjects, but it is
improving. So will you help us with the discussion today?"
On her way over Carol had decided to use the Thanatopsis as the tool
with which to liberalize the town. She had immediately conceived
enormous enthusiasm; she had chanted, "These are the real people. When
the housewives, who bear the burdens, are interested in poetry, it means
something. I'll work with them--for them--anything!"
Her enthusiasm had become watery even before thirteen women resolutely
removed their overshoes, sat down meatily, ate peppermints, dusted their
fingers, folded their hands, composed their lower thoughts, and invited
the naked muse of poetry to deliver her most improving message. They had
greeted Carol affectionately, and she tried to be a daughter to them.
But she felt insecure. Her chair was out in the open, exposed to their
gaze, and it was a hard-slatted, quivery, slippery church-parlor chair,
likely to collapse publicly and without warning. It was impossible to
sit on it without folding the hands and listening piously.
She wanted to kick the chair and run. It would make a magnificent
clatter.
She saw that Vida Sherwin was watching her. She pinched her wrist, as
though she were a noisy child in church, and when she was decent and
cramped again, she listened.
Mrs. Dawson opened the meeting by sighing, "I'm sure I'm glad to see you
all here today, and I understand that the ladies have prepared a number
of very interesting papers, this is such an interesting subject, the
poets, they have been an inspiration for higher thought, in fact wasn't
it Reverend Benlick who said that some of the poets have been as much an
inspiration as a good many of the ministers, and so we shall be glad to
hear----"
The poor lady smiled neuralgically, panted with fright, scrabbled about
the small oak table to find her eye-glasses, and continued, "We
will first have the pleasure of hearing Mrs. Jenson on the subject
'Shakespeare and Milton.'"
Mrs. Ole Jenson said that Shakespeare was born in 1564 and died 1616. He
lived in London, England, and in Stratford-on-Avon, which many American
tourists loved to visit, a lovely town with many curios and old houses
well worth examination. Many people believed that Shakespeare was the
greatest play-wright who ever lived, also a fine poet. Not much was
known about his life, but after all that did not really make so much
difference, because they loved to read his numerous plays, several of
the best known of which she would now criticize.
Perhaps the best known of his plays was "The Merchant of Venice," having
a beautiful love story and a fine appreciation of a woman's brains,
which a woman's club, even those who did not care to commit themselves
on the question of suffrage, ought to appreciate. (Laughter.) Mrs.
Jenson was sure that she, for one, would love to be like Portia. The
play was about a Jew named Shylock, and he didn't want his daughter to
marry a Venice gentleman named Antonio----
Mrs. Leonard Warren, a slender, gray, nervous woman, president of the
Thanatopsis and wife of the Congregational pastor, reported the birth
and death dates of Byron, Scott, Moore, Burns; and wound up:
"Burns was quite a poor boy and he did not enjoy the advantages we enjoy
today, except for the advantages of the fine old Scotch kirk where he
heard the Word of God preached more fearlessly than even in the finest
big brick churches in the big and so-called advanced cities of today,
but he did not have our educational advantages and Latin and the other
treasures of the mind so richly strewn before the, alas, too ofttimes
inattentive feet of our youth who do not always sufficiently appreciate
the privileges freely granted to every American boy rich or poor. Burns
had to work hard and was sometimes led by evil companionship into low
habits. But it is morally instructive to know that he was a good
student and educated himself, in striking contrast to the loose ways and
so-called aristocratic society-life of Lord Byron, on which I have just
spoken. And certainly though the lords and earls of his day may have
looked down upon Burns as a humble person, many of us have greatly
enjoyed his pieces about the mouse and other rustic subjects, with their
message of humble beauty--I am so sorry I have not got the time to quote
some of them."
Mrs. George Edwin Mott gave ten minutes to Tennyson and Browning.
Mrs. Nat Hicks, a wry-faced, curiously sweet woman, so awed by her
betters that Carol wanted to kiss her, completed the day's grim task by
a paper on "Other Poets." The other poets worthy of consideration were
Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Gray, Mrs. Hemans, and Kipling.
Miss Ella Stowbody obliged with a recital of "The Recessional" and
extracts from "Lalla Rookh." By request, she gave "An Old Sweetheart of
Mine" as encore.
Gopher Prairie had finished the poets. It was ready for the next week's
labor: English Fiction and Essays.
Mrs. Dawson besought, "Now we will have a discussion of the papers, and
I am sure we shall all enjoy hearing from one who we hope to have as a
new member, Mrs. Kennicott, who with her splendid literary training and
all should be able to give us many pointers and--many helpful pointers."
Carol had warned herself not to be so "beastly supercilious." She had
insisted that in the belated quest of these work-stained women was
an aspiration which ought to stir her tears. "But they're so
self-satisfied. They think they're doing Burns a favor. They don't
believe they have a 'belated quest.' They're sure that they have culture
salted and hung up." It was out of this stupor of doubt that Mrs.
Dawson's summons roused her. She was in a panic. How could she speak
without hurting them?
Mrs. Champ Perry leaned over to stroke her hand and whisper, "You look
tired, dearie. Don't you talk unless you want to."
Affection flooded Carol; she was on her feet, searching for words and
courtesies:
"The only thing in the way of suggestion----I know you are following
a definite program, but I do wish that now you've had such a splendid
introduction, instead of going on with some other subject next year you
could return and take up the poets more in detail. Especially actual
quotations--even though their lives are so interesting and, as Mrs.
Warren said, so morally instructive. And perhaps there are several poets
not mentioned today whom it might be worth while considering--Keats, for
instance, and Matthew Arnold and Rossetti and Swinburne. Swinburne would
be such a--well, that is, such a contrast to life as we all enjoy it in
our beautiful Middle-west----"
She saw that Mrs. Leonard Warren was not with her. She captured her by
innocently continuing:
"Unless perhaps Swinburne tends to be, uh, more outspoken than you, than
we really like. What do you think, Mrs. Warren?"
The pastor's wife decided, "Why, you've caught my very thoughts, Mrs.
Kennicott. Of course I have never READ Swinburne, but years ago, when
he was in vogue, I remember Mr. Warren saying that Swinburne (or was
it Oscar Wilde? but anyway:) he said that though many so-called
intellectual people posed and pretended to find beauty in Swinburne,
there can never be genuine beauty without the message from the heart.
But at the same time I do think you have an excellent idea, and though
we have talked about Furnishings and China as the probable subject for
next year, I believe that it would be nice if the program committee
would try to work in another day entirely devoted to English poetry! In
fact, Madame Chairman, I so move you."
When Mrs. Dawson's coffee and angel's-food had helped them to recover
from the depression caused by thoughts of Shakespeare's death they all
told Carol that it was a pleasure to have her with them. The membership
committee retired to the sitting-room for three minutes and elected her
a member.
And she stopped being patronizing.
She wanted to be one of them. They were so loyal and kind. It was they
who would carry out her aspiration. Her campaign against village sloth
was actually begun! On what specific reform should she first loose
her army? During the gossip after the meeting Mrs. George Edwin Mott
remarked that the city hall seemed inadequate for the splendid modern
Gopher Prairie. Mrs. Nat Hicks timidly wished that the young people
could have free dances there--the lodge dances were so exclusive. The
city hall. That was it! Carol hurried home.
She had not realized that Gopher Prairie was a city. From Kennicott she
discovered that it was legally organized with a mayor and city-council
and wards. She was delighted by the simplicity of voting one's self a
metropolis. Why not?
She was a proud and patriotic citizen, all evening.
II
She examined the city hall, next morning. She had remembered it only as
a bleak inconspicuousness. She found it a liver-colored frame coop half
a block from Main Street. The front was an unrelieved wall of clapboards
and dirty windows. It had an unobstructed view of a vacant lot and Nat
Hicks's tailor shop. It was larger than the carpenter shop beside it,
but not so well built.
No one was about. She walked into the corridor. On one side was the
municipal court, like a country school; on the other, the room of the
volunteer fire company, with a Ford hose-cart and the ornamental helmets
used in parades, at the end of the hall, a filthy two-cell jail, now
empty but smelling of ammonia and ancient sweat. The whole second story
was a large unfinished room littered with piles of folding chairs, a
lime-crusted mortar-mixing box, and the skeletons of Fourth of July
floats covered with decomposing plaster shields and faded red, white,
and blue bunting. At the end was an abortive stage. The room was large
enough for the community dances which Mrs. Nat Hicks advocated. But
Carol was after something bigger than dances.
In the afternoon she scampered to the public library.
The library was open three afternoons and four evenings a week. It was
housed in an old dwelling, sufficient but unattractive. Carol caught
herself picturing pleasanter reading-rooms, chairs for children, an art
collection, a librarian young enough to experiment.
She berated herself, "Stop this fever of reforming everything! I WILL be
satisfied with the library! The city hall is enough for a beginning.
And it's really an excellent library. It's--it isn't so bad. . . . Is
it possible that I am to find dishonesties and stupidity in every
human activity I encounter? In schools and business and government and
everything? Is there never any contentment, never any rest?"
She shook her head as though she were shaking off water, and hastened
into the library, a young, light, amiable presence, modest in unbuttoned
fur coat, blue suit, fresh organdy collar, and tan boots roughened from
scuffling snow. Miss Villets stared at her, and Carol purred, "I was so
sorry not to see you at the Thanatopsis yesterday. Vida said you might
come."
"Oh. You went to the Thanatopsis. Did you enjoy it?"
"So much. Such good papers on the poets." Carol lied resolutely. "But I
did think they should have had you give one of the papers on poetry!"
"Well----Of course I'm not one of the bunch that seem to have the
time to take and run the club, and if they prefer to have papers on
literature by other ladies who have no literary training--after all, why
should I complain? What am I but a city employee!"
"You're not! You're the one person that does--that does--oh, you do so
much. Tell me, is there, uh----Who are the people who control the club?"
Miss Villets emphatically stamped a date in the front of "Frank on the
Lower Mississippi" for a small flaxen boy, glowered at him as though she
were stamping a warning on his brain, and sighed:
"I wouldn't put myself forward or criticize any one for the world, and
Vida is one of my best friends, and such a splendid teacher, and there
is no one in town more advanced and interested in all movements, but I
must say that no matter who the president or the committees are, Vida
Sherwin seems to be behind them all the time, and though she is always
telling me about what she is pleased to call my 'fine work in the
library,' I notice that I'm not often called on for papers, though Mrs.
Lyman Cass once volunteered and told me that she thought my paper on
'The Cathedrals of England' was the most interesting paper we had, the
year we took up English and French travel and architecture. But----And
of course Mrs. Mott and Mrs. Warren are very important in the club, as
you might expect of the wives of the superintendent of schools and
the Congregational pastor, and indeed they are both very cultured,
but----No, you may regard me as entirely unimportant. I'm sure what I
say doesn't matter a bit!"
"You're much too modest, and I'm going to tell Vida so, and, uh, I
wonder if you can give me just a teeny bit of your time and show me
where the magazine files are kept?"
She had won. She was profusely escorted to a room like a grandmother's
attic, where she discovered periodicals devoted to house-decoration and
town-planning, with a six-year file of the National Geographic. Miss
Villets blessedly left her alone. Humming, fluttering pages with
delighted fingers, Carol sat cross-legged on the floor, the magazines in
heaps about her.
She found pictures of New England streets: the dignity of Falmouth, the
charm of Concord, Stockbridge and Farmington and Hillhouse Avenue. The
fairy-book suburb of Forest Hills on Long Island. Devonshire cottages
and Essex manors and a Yorkshire High Street and Port Sunlight. The
Arab village of Djeddah--an intricately chased jewel-box. A town in
California which had changed itself from the barren brick fronts and
slatternly frame sheds of a Main Street to a way which led the eye down
a vista of arcades and gardens.
Assured that she was not quite mad in her belief that a small American
town might be lovely, as well as useful in buying wheat and selling
plows, she sat brooding, her thin fingers playing a tattoo on her
cheeks. She saw in Gopher Prairie a Georgian city hall: warm brick walls
with white shutters, a fanlight, a wide hall and curving stair. She
saw it the common home and inspiration not only of the town but of
the country about. It should contain the court-room (she couldn't get
herself to put in a jail), public library, a collection of excellent
prints, rest-room and model kitchen for farmwives, theater, lecture
room, free community ballroom, farm-bureau, gymnasium. Forming about it
and influenced by it, as mediaeval villages gathered about the castle,
she saw a new Georgian town as graceful and beloved as Annapolis or that
bowery Alexandria to which Washington rode.
All this the Thanatopsis Club was to accomplish with no difficulty
whatever, since its several husbands were the controllers of business
and politics. She was proud of herself for this practical view.
She had taken only half an hour to change a wire-fenced potato-plot into
a walled rose-garden. She hurried out to apprize Mrs. Leonard Warren, as
president of the Thanatopsis, of the miracle which had been worked.
III
At a quarter to three Carol had left home; at half-past four she had
created the Georgian town; at a quarter to five she was in the dignified
poverty of the Congregational parsonage, her enthusiasm pattering upon
Mrs. Leonard Warren like summer rain upon an old gray roof; at two
minutes to five a town of demure courtyards and welcoming dormer windows
had been erected, and at two minutes past five the entire town was as
flat as Babylon.
Erect in a black William and Mary chair against gray and speckly-brown
volumes of sermons and Biblical commentaries and Palestine geographies
upon long pine shelves, her neat black shoes firm on a rag-rug, herself
as correct and low-toned as her background, Mrs. Warren listened without
comment till Carol was quite through, then answered delicately:
"Yes, I think you draw a very nice picture of what might easily come to
pass--some day. I have no doubt that such villages will be found on the
prairie--some day. But if I might make just the least little criticism:
it seems to me that you are wrong in supposing either that the city hall
would be the proper start, or that the Thanatopsis would be the right
instrument. After all, it's the churches, isn't it, that are the
real heart of the community. As you may possibly know, my husband
is prominent in Congregational circles all through the state for
his advocacy of church-union. He hopes to see all the evangelical
denominations joined in one strong body, opposing Catholicism and
Christian Science, and properly guiding all movements that make for
morality and prohibition. Here, the combined churches could afford
a splendid club-house, maybe a stucco and half-timber building with
gargoyles and all sorts of pleasing decorations on it, which, it seems
to me, would be lots better to impress the ordinary class of people than
just a plain old-fashioned colonial house, such as you describe. And
that would be the proper center for all educational and pleasurable
activities, instead of letting them fall into the hands of the
politicians."
"I don't suppose it will take more than thirty or forty years for the
churches to get together?" Carol said innocently.
"Hardly that long even; things are moving so rapidly. So it would be a
mistake to make any other plans."
Carol did not recover her zeal till two days after, when she tried Mrs.
George Edwin Mott, wife of the superintendent of schools.
Mrs. Mott commented, "Personally, I am terribly busy with dressmaking
and having the seamstress in the house and all, but it would be splendid
to have the other members of the Thanatopsis take up the question.
Except for one thing: First and foremost, we must have a new
schoolbuilding. Mr. Mott says they are terribly cramped."
Carol went to view the old building. The grades and the high school were
combined in a damp yellow-brick structure with the narrow windows of an
antiquated jail--a hulk which expressed hatred and compulsory training.
She conceded Mrs. Mott's demand so violently that for two days she
dropped her own campaign. Then she built the school and city hall
together, as the center of the reborn town.
She ventured to the lead-colored dwelling of Mrs. Dave Dyer. Behind the
mask of winter-stripped vines and a wide porch only a foot above the
ground, the cottage was so impersonal that Carol could never visualize
it. Nor could she remember anything that was inside it. But Mrs. Dyer
was personal enough. With Carol, Mrs. Howland, Mrs. McGanum, and Vida
Sherwin she was a link between the Jolly Seventeen and the serious
Thanatopsis (in contrast to Juanita Haydock, who unnecessarily boasted
of being a "lowbrow" and publicly stated that she would "see herself
in jail before she'd write any darned old club papers"). Mrs. Dyer was
superfeminine in the kimono in which she received Carol. Her skin was
fine, pale, soft, suggesting a weak voluptuousness. At afternoon-coffees
she had been rude but now she addressed Carol as "dear," and insisted on
being called Maud. Carol did not quite know why she was uncomfortable
in this talcum-powder atmosphere, but she hastened to get into the fresh
air of her plans.
Maud Dyer granted that the city hall wasn't "so very nice," yet, as Dave
said, there was no use doing anything about it till they received
an appropriation from the state and combined a new city hall with
a national guard armory. Dave had given verdict, "What these mouthy
youngsters that hang around the pool-room need is universal military
training. Make men of 'em."
Mrs. Dyer removed the new schoolbuilding from the city hall:
"Oh, so Mrs. Mott has got you going on her school craze! She's been
dinging at that till everybody's sick and tired. What she really wants
is a big office for her dear bald-headed Gawge to sit around and look
important in. Of course I admire Mrs. Mott, and I'm very fond of
her, she's so brainy, even if she does try to butt in and run the
Thanatopsis, but I must say we're sick of her nagging. The old building
was good enough for us when we were kids! I hate these would-be women
politicians, don't you?"
IV
The first week of March had given promise of spring and stirred Carol
with a thousand desires for lakes and fields and roads. The snow was
gone except for filthy woolly patches under trees, the thermometer
leaped in a day from wind-bitten chill to itchy warmth. As soon as Carol
was convinced that even in this imprisoned North, spring could exist
again, the snow came down as abruptly as a paper storm in a theater; the
northwest gale flung it up in a half blizzard; and with her hope of a
glorified town went hope of summer meadows.
But a week later, though the snow was everywhere in slushy heaps, the
promise was unmistakable. By the invisible hints in air and sky and
earth which had aroused her every year through ten thousand generations
she knew that spring was coming. It was not a scorching, hard, dusty day
like the treacherous intruder of a week before, but soaked with languor,
softened with a milky light. Rivulets were hurrying in each alley; a
calling robin appeared by magic on the crab-apple tree in the Howlands'
yard. Everybody chuckled, "Looks like winter is going," and "This 'll
bring the frost out of the roads--have the autos out pretty soon
now--wonder what kind of bass-fishing we'll get this summer--ought to be
good crops this year."
Each evening Kennicott repeated, "We better not take off our Heavy
Underwear or the storm windows too soon--might be 'nother spell of
cold--got to be careful 'bout catching cold--wonder if the coal will
last through?"
The expanding forces of life within her choked the desire for reforming.
She trotted through the house, planning the spring cleaning with Bea.
When she attended her second meeting of the Thanatopsis she said nothing
about remaking the town. She listened respectably to statistics on
Dickens, Thackeray, Jane Austen, George Eliot, Scott, Hardy, Lamb, De
Quincey, and Mrs. Humphry Ward, who, it seemed, constituted the writers
of English Fiction and Essays.
Not till she inspected the rest-room did she again become a fanatic.
She had often glanced at the store-building which had been turned into
a refuge in which farmwives could wait while their husbands transacted
business. She had heard Vida Sherwin and Mrs. Warren caress the virtue
of the Thanatopsis in establishing the rest-room and in sharing with the
city council the expense of maintaining it. But she had never entered it
till this March day.
She went in impulsively; nodded at the matron, a plump worthy widow
named Nodelquist, and at a couple of farm-women who were meekly rocking.
The rest-room resembled a second-hand store. It was furnished with
discarded patent rockers, lopsided reed chairs, a scratched pine table,
a gritty straw mat, old steel engravings of milkmaids being morally
amorous under willow-trees, faded chromos of roses and fish, and a
kerosene stove for warming lunches. The front window was darkened by
torn net curtains and by a mound of geraniums and rubber-plants.
While she was listening to Mrs. Nodelquist's account of how many
thousands of farmers' wives used the rest-room every year, and how much
they "appreciated the kindness of the ladies in providing them with
this lovely place, and all free," she thought, "Kindness nothing! The
kind-ladies' husbands get the farmers' trade. This is mere commercial
accommodation. And it's horrible. It ought to be the most charming room
in town, to comfort women sick of prairie kitchens. Certainly it ought
to have a clear window, so that they can see the metropolitan life go
by. Some day I'm going to make a better rest-room--a club-room. Why!
I've already planned that as part of my Georgian town hall!"
So it chanced that she was plotting against the peace of the Thanatopsis
at her third meeting (which covered Scandinavian, Russian, and Polish
Literature, with remarks by Mrs. Leonard Warren on the sinful paganism
of the Russian so-called church). Even before the entrance of the
coffee and hot rolls Carol seized on Mrs. Champ Perry, the kind and
ample-bosomed pioneer woman who gave historic dignity to the modern
matrons of the Thanatopsis. She poured out her plans. Mrs. Perry nodded
and stroked Carol's hand, but at the end she sighed:
"I wish I could agree with you, dearie. I'm sure you're one of the
Lord's anointed (even if we don't see you at the Baptist Church as often
as we'd like to)! But I'm afraid you're too tender-hearted. When Champ
and I came here we teamed-it with an ox-cart from Sauk Centre to Gopher
Prairie, and there was nothing here then but a stockade and a few
soldiers and some log cabins. When we wanted salt pork and gunpowder, we
sent out a man on horseback, and probably he was shot dead by the
Injuns before he got back. We ladies--of course we were all farmers
at first--we didn't expect any rest-room in those days. My, we'd have
thought the one they have now was simply elegant! My house was roofed
with hay and it leaked something terrible when it rained--only dry place
was under a shelf.
"And when the town grew up we thought the new city hall was real fine.
And I don't see any need for dance-halls. Dancing isn't what it was,
anyway. We used to dance modest, and we had just as much fun as all
these young folks do now with their terrible Turkey Trots and hugging
and all. But if they must neglect the Lord's injunction that young girls
ought to be modest, then I guess they manage pretty well at the K.
P. Hall and the Oddfellows', even if some of tie lodges don't always
welcome a lot of these foreigners and hired help to all their dances.
And I certainly don't see any need of a farm-bureau or this domestic
science demonstration you talk about. In my day the boys learned to farm
by honest sweating, and every gal could cook, or her ma learned her
how across her knee! Besides, ain't there a county agent at Wakamin? He
comes here once a fortnight, maybe. That's enough monkeying with this
scientific farming--Champ says there's nothing to it anyway.
"And as for a lecture hall--haven't we got the churches? Good deal
better to listen to a good old-fashioned sermon than a lot of geography
and books and things that nobody needs to know--more 'n enough heathen
learning right here in the Thanatopsis. And as for trying to make a
whole town in this Colonial architecture you talk about----I do love
nice things; to this day I run ribbons into my petticoats, even if
Champ Perry does laugh at me, the old villain! But just the same I don't
believe any of us old-timers would like to see the town that we worked
so hard to build being tore down to make a place that wouldn't look like
nothing but some Dutch story-book and not a bit like the place we loved.
And don't you think it's sweet now? All the trees and lawns? And such
comfy houses, and hot-water heat and electric lights and telephones
and cement walks and everything? Why, I thought everybody from the Twin
Cities always said it was such a beautiful town!"
Carol forswore herself; declared that Gopher Prairie had the color of
Algiers and the gaiety of Mardi Gras.
Yet the next afternoon she was pouncing on Mrs. Lyman Cass, the
hook-nosed consort of the owner of the flour-mill.
Mrs. Cass's parlor belonged to the crammed-Victorian school, as Mrs.
Luke Dawson's belonged to the bare-Victorian. It was furnished on two
principles: First, everything must resemble something else. A rocker had
a back like a lyre, a near-leather seat imitating tufted cloth, and
arms like Scotch Presbyterian lions; with knobs, scrolls, shields, and
spear-points on unexpected portions of the chair. The second principle
of the crammed-Victorian school was that every inch of the interior must
be filled with useless objects.
The walls of Mrs. Cass's parlor were plastered with "hand-painted"
pictures, "buckeye" pictures, of birch-trees, news-boys, puppies, and
church-steeples on Christmas Eve; with a plaque depicting the Exposition
Building in Minneapolis, burnt-wood portraits of Indian chiefs of no
tribe in particular, a pansy-decked poetic motto, a Yard of Roses, and
the banners of the educational institutions attended by the Casses' two
sons--Chicopee Falls Business College and McGillicuddy University. One
small square table contained a card-receiver of painted china with a rim
of wrought and gilded lead, a Family Bible, Grant's Memoirs, the latest
novel by Mrs. Gene Stratton Porter, a wooden model of a Swiss chalet
which was also a bank for dimes, a polished abalone shell holding one
black-headed pin and one empty spool, a velvet pin-cushion in a gilded
metal slipper with "Souvenir of Troy, N. Y." stamped on the toe, and an
unexplained red glass dish which had warts.
Mrs. Cass's first remark was, "I must show you all my pretty things and
art objects."
She piped, after Carol's appeal:
"I see. You think the New England villages and Colonial houses are so
much more cunning than these Middlewestern towns. I'm glad you feel that
way. You'll be interested to know I was born in Vermont."
"And don't you think we ought to try to make Gopher Prai----"
"My gracious no! We can't afford it. Taxes are much too high as it is.
We ought to retrench, and not let the city council spend another cent.
Uh----Don't you think that was a grand paper Mrs. Westlake read about
Tolstoy? I was so glad she pointed out how all his silly socialistic
ideas failed."
What Mrs. Cass said was what Kennicott said, that evening. Not in twenty
years would the council propose or Gopher Prairie vote the funds for a
new city hall.
V
Carol had avoided exposing her plans to Vida Sherwin. She was shy of the
big-sister manner; Vida would either laugh at her or snatch the idea and
change it to suit herself. But there was no other hope. When Vida came
in to tea Carol sketched her Utopia.
Vida was soothing but decisive:
"My dear, you're all off. I would like to see it: a real gardeny place
to shut out the gales. But it can't be done. What could the clubwomen
accomplish?"
"Their husbands are the most important men in town. They ARE the town!"
"But the town as a separate unit is not the husband of the Thanatopsis.
If you knew the trouble we had in getting the city council to spend the
money and cover the pumping-station with vines! Whatever you may think
of Gopher Prairie women, they're twice as progressive as the men."
"But can't the men see the ugliness?"
"They don't think it's ugly. And how can you prove it? Matter of taste.
Why should they like what a Boston architect likes?"
"What they like is to sell prunes!"
"Well, why not? Anyway, the point is that you have to work from the
inside, with what we have, rather than from the outside, with foreign
ideas. The shell ought not to be forced on the spirit. It can't be! The
bright shell has to grow out of the spirit, and express it. That means
waiting. If we keep after the city council for another ten years they
MAY vote the bonds for a new school."
"I refuse to believe that if they saw it the big men would be too
tight-fisted to spend a few dollars each for a building--think!--dancing
and lectures and plays, all done co-operatively!"
"You mention the word 'co-operative' to the merchants and they'll
lynch you! The one thing they fear more than mail-order houses is that
farmers' co-operative movements may get started."
"The secret trails that lead to scared pocket-books! Always, in
everything! And I don't have any of the fine melodrama of fiction: the
dictagraphs and speeches by torchlight. I'm merely blocked by stupidity.
Oh, I know I'm a fool. I dream of Venice, and I live in Archangel and
scold because the Northern seas aren't tender-colored. But at least they
sha'n't keep me from loving Venice, and sometime I'll run away----All
right. No more."
She flung out her hands in a gesture of renunciation.
VI
Early May; wheat springing up in blades like grass; corn and potatoes
being planted; the land humming. For two days there had been steady
rain. Even in town the roads were a furrowed welter of mud, hideous to
view and difficult to cross. Main Street was a black swamp from curb to
curb; on residence streets the grass parking beside the walks oozed gray
water. It was prickly hot, yet the town was barren under the bleak sky.
Softened neither by snow nor by waving boughs the houses squatted and
scowled, revealed in their unkempt harshness.
As she dragged homeward Carol looked with distaste at her clay-loaded
rubbers, the smeared hem of her skirt. She passed Lyman Cass's
pinnacled, dark-red, hulking house. She waded a streaky yellow pool.
This morass was not her home, she insisted. Her home, and her beautiful
town, existed in her mind. They had already been created. The task was
done. What she really had been questing was some one to share them with
her. Vida would not; Kennicott could not.
Some one to share her refuge.
Suddenly she was thinking of Guy Pollock.
She dismissed him. He was too cautious. She needed a spirit as young and
unreasonable as her own. And she would never find it. Youth would never
come singing. She was beaten.
Yet that same evening she had an idea which solved the rebuilding of
Gopher Prairie.
Within ten minutes she was jerking the old-fashioned bell-pull of Luke
Dawson. Mrs. Dawson opened the door and peered doubtfully about the
edge of it. Carol kissed her cheek, and frisked into the lugubrious
sitting-room.
"Well, well, you're a sight for sore eyes!" chuckled Mr. Dawson,
dropping his newspaper, pushing his spectacles back on his forehead.
"You seem so excited," sighed Mrs. Dawson.
"I am! Mr. Dawson, aren't you a millionaire?"
He cocked his head, and purred, "Well, I guess if I cashed in on all my
securities and farm-holdings and my interests in iron on the Mesaba and
in Northern timber and cut-over lands, I could push two million dollars
pretty close, and I've made every cent of it by hard work and having the
sense to not go out and spend every----"
"I think I want most of it from you!"
The Dawsons glanced at each other in appreciation of the jest; and
he chirped, "You're worse than Reverend Benlick! He don't hardly ever
strike me for more than ten dollars--at a time!"
"I'm not joking. I mean it! Your children in the Cities are grown-up and
well-to-do. You don't want to die and leave your name unknown. Why not
do a big, original thing? Why not rebuild the whole town? Get a great
architect, and have him plan a town that would be suitable to the
prairie. Perhaps he'd create some entirely new form of architecture.
Then tear down all these shambling buildings----"
Mr. Dawson had decided that she really did mean it. He wailed, "Why,
that would cost at least three or four million dollars!"
"But you alone, just one man, have two of those millions!"
"Me? Spend all my hard-earned cash on building houses for a lot of
shiftless beggars that never had the sense to save their money? Not
that I've ever been mean. Mama could always have a hired girl to do the
work--when we could find one. But her and I have worked our fingers to
the bone and--spend it on a lot of these rascals----?"
"Please! Don't be angry! I just mean--I mean----Oh, not spend all of it,
of course, but if you led off the list, and the others came in, and if
they heard you talk about a more attractive town----"
"Why now, child, you've got a lot of notions. Besides what's the matter
with the town? Looks good to me. I've had people that have traveled
all over the world tell me time and again that Gopher Prairie is the
prettiest place in the Middlewest. Good enough for anybody. Certainly
good enough for Mama and me. Besides! Mama and me are planning to go
out to Pasadena and buy a bungalow and live there."
VII
She had met Miles Bjornstam on the street. For the second of welcome
encounter this workman with the bandit mustache and the muddy overalls
seemed nearer than any one else to the credulous youth which she was
seeking to fight beside her, and she told him, as a cheerful anecdote, a
little of her story.
He grunted, "I never thought I'd be agreeing with Old Man Dawson, the
penny-pinching old land-thief--and a fine briber he is, too. But you
got the wrong slant. You aren't one of the people--yet. You want to do
something for the town. I don't! I want the town to do something for
itself. We don't want old Dawson's money--not if it's a gift, with a
string. We'll take it away from him, because it belongs to us. You got
to get more iron and cussedness into you. Come join us cheerful bums,
and some day--when we educate ourselves and quit being bums--we'll take
things and run 'em straight."
He had changed from her friend to a cynical man in overalls. She could
not relish the autocracy of "cheerful bums."
She forgot him as she tramped the outskirts of town.
She had replaced the city hall project by an entirely new and highly
exhilarating thought of how little was done for these unpicturesque
poor.
VIII
The spring of the plains is not a reluctant virgin but brazen and soon
away. The mud roads of a few days ago are powdery dust and the puddles
beside them have hardened into lozenges of black sleek earth like
cracked patent leather.
Carol was panting as she crept to the meeting of the Thanatopsis program
committee which was to decide the subject for next fall and winter.
Madam Chairman (Miss Ella Stowbody in an oyster-colored blouse) asked if
there was any new business.
Carol rose. She suggested that the Thanatopsis ought to help the poor
of the town. She was ever so correct and modern. She did not, she said,
want charity for them, but a chance of self-help; an employment bureau,
direction in washing babies and making pleasing stews, possibly a
municipal fund for home-building. "What do you think of my plans, Mrs.
Warren?" she concluded.
Speaking judiciously, as one related to the church by marriage, Mrs.
Warren gave verdict:
"I'm sure we're all heartily in accord with Mrs. Kennicott in feeling
that wherever genuine poverty is encountered, it is not only noblesse
oblige but a joy to fulfil our duty to the less fortunate ones. But I
must say it seems to me we should lose the whole point of the thing by
not regarding it as charity. Why, that's the chief adornment of the true
Christian and the church! The Bible has laid it down for our guidance.
'Faith, Hope, and CHARITY,' it says, and, 'The poor ye have with ye
always,' which indicates that there never can be anything to these
so-called scientific schemes for abolishing charity, never! And isn't it
better so? I should hate to think of a world in which we were deprived
of all the pleasure of giving. Besides, if these shiftless folks realize
they're getting charity, and not something to which they have a right,
they're so much more grateful."
"Besides," snorted Miss Ella Stowbody, "they've been fooling you, Mrs.
Kennicott. There isn't any real poverty here. Take that Mrs. Steinhof
you speak of: I send her our washing whenever there's too much for our
hired girl--I must have sent her ten dollars' worth the past year alone!
I'm sure Papa would never approve of a city home-building fund. Papa
says these folks are fakers. Especially all these tenant farmers that
pretend they have so much trouble getting seed and machinery. Papa
says they simply won't pay their debts. He says he's sure he hates to
foreclose mortgages, but it's the only way to make them respect the
law."
"And then think of all the clothes we give these people!" said Mrs.
Jackson Elder.
Carol intruded again. "Oh yes. The clothes. I was going to speak of
that. Don't you think that when we give clothes to the poor, if we
do give them old ones, we ought to mend them first and make them as
presentable as we can? Next Christmas when the Thanatopsis makes its
distribution, wouldn't it be jolly if we got together and sewed on the
clothes, and trimmed hats, and made them----"
"Heavens and earth, they have more time than we have! They ought to be
mighty good and grateful to get anything, no matter what shape it's in.
I know I'm not going to sit and sew for that lazy Mrs. Vopni, with all
I've got to do!" snapped Ella Stowbody.
They were glaring at Carol. She reflected that Mrs. Vopni, whose husband
had been killed by a train, had ten children.
But Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks was smiling. Mrs. Wilks was the proprietor of
Ye Art Shoppe and Magazine and Book Store, and the reader of the small
Christian Science church. She made it all clear:
"If this class of people had an understanding of Science and that we are
the children of God and nothing can harm us, they wouldn't be in error
and poverty."
Mrs. Jackson Elder confirmed, "Besides, it strikes me the club is
already doing enough, with tree-planting and the anti-fly campaign and
the responsibility for the rest-room--to say nothing of the fact that
we've talked of trying to get the railroad to put in a park at the
station!"
"I think so too!" said Madam Chairman. She glanced uneasily at Miss
Sherwin. "But what do you think, Vida?"
Vida smiled tactfully at each of the committee, and announced, "Well, I
don't believe we'd better start anything more right now. But it's been
a privilege to hear Carol's dear generous ideas, hasn't it! Oh! There is
one thing we must decide on at once. We must get together and oppose
any move on the part of the Minneapolis clubs to elect another State
Federation president from the Twin Cities. And this Mrs. Edgar Potbury
they're putting forward--I know there are people who think she's a
bright interesting speaker, but I regard her as very shallow. What do
you say to my writing to the Lake Ojibawasha Club, telling them that if
their district will support Mrs. Warren for second vice-president, we'll
support their Mrs. Hagelton (and such a dear, lovely, cultivated woman,
too) for president."
"Yes! We ought to show up those Minneapolis folks!" Ella Stowbody
said acidly. "And oh, by the way, we must oppose this movement of Mrs.
Potbury's to have the state clubs come out definitely in favor of woman
suffrage. Women haven't any place in politics. They would lose all their
daintiness and charm if they became involved in these horried plots
and log-rolling and all this awful political stuff about scandal and
personalities and so on."
All--save one--nodded. They interrupted the formal business-meeting
to discuss Mrs. Edgar Potbury's husband, Mrs. Potbury's income, Mrs.
Potbury's sedan, Mrs. Potbury's residence, Mrs. Potbury's oratorical
style, Mrs. Potbury's mandarin evening coat, Mrs. Potbury's coiffure,
and Mrs. Potbury's altogether reprehensible influence on the State
Federation of Women's Clubs.
Before the program committee adjourned they took three minutes to
decide which of the subjects suggested by the magazine Culture Hints,
Furnishings and China, or The Bible as Literature, would be better for
the coming year. There was one annoying incident. Mrs. Dr. Kennicott
interfered and showed off again. She commented, "Don't you think that we
already get enough of the Bible in our churches and Sunday Schools?"
Mrs. Leonard Warren, somewhat out of order but much more out of temper,
cried, "Well upon my word! I didn't suppose there was any one who felt
that we could get enough of the Bible! I guess if the Grand Old Book
has withstood the attacks of infidels for these two thousand years it is
worth our SLIGHT consideration!"
"Oh, I didn't mean----" Carol begged. Inasmuch as she did mean, it was
hard to be extremely lucid. "But I wish, instead of limiting ourselves
either to the Bible, or to anecdotes about the Brothers Adam's wigs,
which Culture Hints seems to regard as the significant point about
furniture, we could study some of the really stirring ideas that are
springing up today--whether it's chemistry or anthropology or labor
problems--the things that are going to mean so terribly much."
Everybody cleared her polite throat.
Madam Chairman inquired, "Is there any other discussion? Will some
one make a motion to adopt the suggestion of Vida Sherwin--to take up
Furnishings and China?"
It was adopted, unanimously.
"Checkmate!" murmured Carol, as she held up her hand.
Had she actually believed that she could plant a seed of liberalism
in the blank wall of mediocrity? How had she fallen into the folly of
trying to plant anything whatever in a wall so smooth and sun-glazed,
and so satisfying to the happy sleepers within? | Though Carol had been invited to the meetings of the Thanatopsis several times, she had never considered attending any. One day Mrs. Westlake invites Carol to the meeting. Mrs. Dawson has to preside over the meeting but she feels nervous. So she wants Carol to give her moral support. When Carol learns that papers on English poetry are to be read, Carols interest is kindled and she attends the meeting. Seated uncomfortably, she listens to the papers on English poets. She finds them concentrating more on their lives than on their works. Mrs. Ole Jenson informs the gathering that Shakespeares Merchant of Venice is a beautiful love story, which appreciates the fine brains of women. The story, according to Mrs. Jenson is of a Jew named Shylock, who does not want his daughter to marry a Venice gentleman named Antonio. Mrs. Leonard Warren, wife of the pastor reads a paper on Byron, Scott, Moore and Burns, informing the dates of birth and death. She highlights the misfortunes suffered by Burns and criticizes the loose ways of Lord Byron. Papers written in similar fashion about Tennyson, Browning, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Shelley, Gray, Mrs.Hemans and Kipling are read by each of the members. Carol is requested to give her comments. She does not want to offend them. So she just suggests that they should read the works of Keats, Mathew Arnold, Rossetti and Swinburne. They decide to have one more reading of English poetry. Carol is elected a member of the Thanatopsis. She hears the remark that the city hall seemed inadequate and feels delighted that the town has decided to call itself a city. The next day she goes to inspect the city hall. It looks bleak and unattractive. It contains the municipal court, the volunteer Fire Company and a two-cell jail. The hall is on the second floor, cluttered with folding chairs, Fourth July floats and a stage. She visits the library, the same afternoon. She tells Miss. Villets that she should have read a paper on English poetry at the Thanatopsis meeting. Miss. Villets grumbles that Vida never asks her to read a paper. She comments that Mrs. Mott the school superintendents wife and Mrs. Warren the pastors wife are more important. Carol tells her that she is too modest about the good work she does in the library and requests her to show her the magazine section. She is escorted to the room where the magazines are kept and is left alone. She finds beautiful pictures of New England streets with gardens and arcades and beautiful architecture. She creates a mental picture of a beautiful city hall with a wide hall, a courtroom, public library, rest room, and a theater, lecture hall, a ballroom and a gymnasium. Since the husbands of the members of the Thanatopsis club are the most influential people, she believes that her dream city hall can be constructed without much ado. She describes her dream hall to Mrs. Warren, who listens to her without any comments. Then she assures Carol that her husband, the pastor was trying to unite all the churches together. Once it is done there would be a beautiful church instead of the city hall, Carol has in mind. Then the church would be the center of all activities. She informs Carol that things are moving fast and they will accomplish their dream soon. Carol recovers her zeal only after two days to approach Mrs. Mott with her dreams. Mrs. Mott agrees with Carol, but points out that a better school building had priority. Carol gets the idea of building the city hall and the school together and approches Mrs. Dyer with her plan. Maud Dyer informs Carol that her husband wanted to wait for an appropriation from the state and combine the city hall with a National Guard armory, so that the youngsters could be given military training. As for the school building she asserts that it was good enough for them when they were students, so it should be good enough for the present generation. The arrival of spring after the long winter revives everybodys spirits. Carol too is distracted from her dreams of rebuilding the town by the plans of spring cleaning her house. She listens to papers on Dickens, Thackeray, Jane Austen, George Elliot, Scott, Hardy, Lamb, Dequincy and Mrs. Humphry Ward under the topic of English fiction and essays. |
CHAPTER VI.
OF THE INHABITANTS OF LILLIPUT; THEIR LEARNING, LAWS, AND CUSTOMS;
THE MANNER OF EDUCATING THEIR CHILDREN. THE AUTHOR'S WAY OF LIVING
IN THAT COUNTRY.
Although I intend to leave the description of this empire to a
particular treatise, yet, in the meantime, I am content to gratify the
curious reader with some general ideas. As the common size of the
natives is somewhat under six inches high, so there is an exact
proportion in all other animals, as well as plants and trees: for
instance, the tallest horses and oxen are between four and five inches
in height, the sheep an inch and a half, more or less; their geese about
the bigness of a sparrow, and so the several gradations downwards, till
you come to the smallest, which, to my sight, were almost invisible; but
nature hath adapted the eyes of the Lilliputians to all objects proper
for their view; they see with great exactness, but at no great distance.
And, to show the sharpness of their sight, towards objects that are
near, I have been much pleased with observing a cook pulling[29] a lark,
which was not so large as a common fly; and a young girl threading an
invisible needle with invisible silk.
Their tallest trees are about seven feet high; I mean some of those in
the great royal park, the tops whereof I could but just reach with my
fist clenched. The other vegetables are in the same proportion; but this
I leave to the reader's imagination.
I shall say but little at present of their learning, which, for many
ages, hath flourished in all its branches among them: but their manner
of writing is very peculiar, being neither from the left to the right
like the Europeans; nor from the right to the left, like the Arabians;
nor from up to down, like the Chinese, but aslant, from one corner of
the paper to the other, like ladies in England.
They bury their dead with their heads directly downwards, because they
hold an opinion, that in eleven thousand moons they are all to rise
again, in which period the earth (which they conceive to be flat) will
turn upside down, and by this means they shall, at the resurrection, be
found ready, standing on their feet. The learned among them confess the
absurdity of this doctrine, but the practice still continues, in
compliance to the vulgar.
There are some laws and customs in this empire very peculiar; and, if
they were not so directly contrary to those of my own dear country, I
should be tempted to say a little in their justification. It is only to
be wished they were as well executed. The first I shall mention relates
to informers. All crimes against the state are punished here with the
utmost severity; but, if the person accused maketh his innocence plainly
to appear upon his trial, the accuser is immediately put to an
ignominious death; and, out of his goods, or lands, the innocent person
is quadruply recompensed for the loss of his time, for the danger he
underwent, for the hardship of his imprisonment, and for all the charges
he hath been at in making his defence, or, if that fund be deficient,
it is largely supplied by the crown. The emperor also confers on him
some public mark of his favor, and proclamation is made of his innocence
through the whole city.
They look upon fraud as a greater crime than theft, and therefore seldom
fail to punish it with death; for they allege, that care and vigilance,
with a very common understanding, may preserve a man's goods from
thieves, but honesty has no fence against superior cunning; and, since
it is necessary that there should be a perpetual intercourse of buying
and selling, and dealing upon credit, where fraud is permitted and
connived at, or hath no law to punish it, the honest dealer is always
undone, and the knave gets the advantage. I remember, when I was once
interceding with the king for a criminal, who had wronged his master of
a great sum of money, which he had received by order, and run away with,
and happening to tell his majesty, by way of extenuation, that it was
only a breach of trust, the emperor thought it monstrous in me, to offer
as a defence the greatest aggravation of the crime; and, truly, I had
little to say in return, farther than the common answer, that different
nations had different customs; for, I confess, I was heartily ashamed.
Although we usually call reward and punishment the two hinges upon which
all government turns, yet I could never observe this maxim to be put in
practice by any nation except that of Lilliput. Whoever can there bring
sufficient proof that he hath strictly observed the laws of his country
for seventy-three moons, hath a claim to certain privileges, according
to his quality and condition of life, with a proportionable sum of out
of a fund appropriated for that use; he likewise acquires the title of
_snillpall_, or _legal_, which is added to his name, but doth not
descend to his posterity. And these people thought it a prodigious
defect of policy among us, when I told them that our laws were enforced
only by penalties, without any mention of reward. It is upon this
account that the image of Justice, in their courts of judicature, is
formed with six eyes, two before, as many behind, and on each side one,
to signify circumspection, with a bag of gold open in her right hand,
and a sword sheath in her left, to show she was more disposed to reward
than to punish.
In choosing persons for all employments, they have more regard to good
morals than to great abilities; for, since government is necessary to
mankind, they believe that the common size of human understanding is
fitted to some station or other, and that Providence never intended to
make the management of public affairs a mystery, to be comprehended only
by a few persons of sublime genius, of which there seldom are three born
in an age; but they suppose truth, justice, temperance, and the like, to
be in every man's power, the practice of which virtues, assisted by
experience, and a good intention, would qualify any man for the service
of his country, except where a course of study is required. But they
thought the want of moral virtues was so far from being supplied by
superior endowments of the mind, that employments could never be put
into such dangerous hands as those of persons so qualified; and at
least, that the mistakes committed by ignorance, in a virtuous
disposition, would never be of such fatal consequences to the public
weal as the practices of a man whose inclinations led him to be corrupt,
and who had great abilities to manage, to multiply, and defend his
corruptions.
In like manner, the disbelief of a Divine Providence renders a man
incapable of holding any public station; for, since kings avow
themselves to be the deputies of Providence, the Lilliputians think
nothing can be more absurd than for a prince to employ such men as
disown the authority under which he acts.
In relating these and the following laws, I would only be understood to
mean the original institutions, and not the most scandalous corruptions
into which these people are fallen, by the degenerate nature of man.
For, as to that infamous practice of acquiring great employments by
dancing on the ropes, or badges of favor and distinction by leaping over
sticks, and creeping under them, the reader is to observe, that they
were first introduced by the grandfather of the emperor, now reigning,
and grew to the present height by the gradual increase of party and
faction.
Ingratitude is, among them, a capital crime, as we read it to have been
in some other countries; for they reason thus, that whoever makes ill
returns to his benefactor, must needs be a common enemy to the rest of
mankind, from whom he hath received no obligation, and therefore such a
man is not fit to live.
Their notions relating to the duties of parents and children differ
extremely from ours. Their opinion is, that parents are the last of all
others to be trusted with the education of their own children; and,
therefore, they have, in every town, public nurseries, where all
parents, except cottagers and laborers, are obliged to send their
infants of both sexes to be reared and educated, when they come to the
age of twenty moons, at which time they are supposed to have some
rudiments of docility. These schools are of several kinds, suited to
different qualities, and to both sexes. They have certain professors,
well skilled in preparing children for such a condition of life as
befits the rank of their parents, and their own capacities as well as
inclinations. I shall first say something of the male nurseries, and
then of the female.
The nurseries for males of noble or eminent birth are provided with
grave and learned professors, and their several deputies. The clothes
and food of the children are plain and simple. They are bred up in the
principles of honor, justice, courage, modesty, clemency, religion, and
love of their country; they are always employed in some business, except
in the times of eating and sleeping, which are very short, and two hours
for diversions, consisting of bodily exercises. They are dressed by men
till four years of age, and then are obliged to dress themselves,
although their quality be ever so great; and the women attendants, who
are aged proportionably to ours at fifty, perform only the most menial
offices. They are never suffered to converse with servants, but go
together in smaller or greater numbers to take their diversions, and
always in the presence of a professor, or one of his deputies; whereby
they avoid those early bad impressions of folly and vice, to which our
children are subject. Their parents are suffered to see them only twice
a year; the visit to last but an hour; they are allowed to kiss the
child at meeting and parting; but a professor, who always stands by on
those occasions, will not suffer them to whisper, or use any fondling
expressions, or bring any presents of toys, sweetmeats, and the like.
The pension from each family, for the education and entertainment of a
child, upon failure of due payment, is levied by the emperor's officers.
The nurseries for children of ordinary gentlemen, merchants, traders,
and handicrafts, are managed proportionally after the same manner; only
those designed for trades are put out apprentices at eleven years old,
whereas those persons of quality continue in their exercises till
fifteen, which answers to twenty-one with us; but the confinement is
gradually lessened for the last three years.
In the female nurseries, the young girls of quality are educated much
like the males, only they are dressed by orderly servants of their own
sex; but always in the presence of a professor or deputy, till they come
to dress themselves, which is at five years old. And if it be found that
these nurses ever presume to entertain the girls with frightful or
foolish stories, or the common follies practised by the chambermaids
among us, they are publicly whipped thrice about the city, imprisoned
for a year, and banished for life to the most desolate part of the
country. Thus, the young ladies there are as much ashamed of being
cowards and fools as the men, and despise all personal ornaments beyond
decency and cleanliness: neither did I perceive any difference in their
education, made by their difference of sex, only that the exercises of
the women were not altogether so robust, and that some rules were given
them relating to domestic life, and a smaller compass of learning was
enjoined them: for their maxim is that, among people of quality, a wife
should be always a reasonable and agreeable companion, because she
cannot always be young. When the girls are twelve years old, which
among them is the marriageable age, their parents or guardians take
them home, with great expressions of gratitude to the professors, and
seldom without tears of the young lady and her companions.
In the nurseries of females of the meaner sort, the children are
instructed in all kinds of works proper for their sex and their several
degrees; those intended for apprentices are dismissed at seven years
old, the rest are kept to eleven.
The meaner[30] families who have children at these nurseries are
obliged, besides their annual pension, which is as low as possible, to
return to the steward of the nursery a small monthly share of their
gettings, to be a portion[31] for the child; and, therefore, all parents
are limited in their expenses by the law. For the Lilliputians think
nothing can be more unjust than for people to leave the burden of
supporting their children on the public. As to persons of quality, they
give security to appropriate a certain sum for each child, suitable to
their condition; and these funds are always managed with good husbandry
and the most exact justice.
The cottagers and laborers keep their children at home, their business
being only to till and cultivate the earth, and therefore their
education is of little consequence to the public; but the old and
diseased among them are supported by hospitals; for begging is a trade
unknown in this empire.
And here it may perhaps divert the curious reader to give some account
of my domestic,[32] and my manner of living in this country, during a
residence of nine months and thirteen days. Having a head for
mechanics, and being likewise forced by necessity, I had made for myself
a table and chair, convenient enough, out of the largest trees in the
royal park. Two hundred sempstresses were employed to make me shirts,
and linen for my bed and table, all of the strongest and coarsest kind
they could get; which, however, they were forced to quilt together in
several folds, for the thickest was some degrees finer than lawn. Their
linen is usually three inches wide, and three feet make a piece.
The sempstresses took my measure as I lay on the ground, one standing at
my neck, and another at my mid-leg, with a strong cord extended that
each held by the end, while a third measured the length of the cord with
a rule of an inch long. Then they measured my right thumb, and desired
no more; for, by a mathematical computation, that twice round the thumb
is once round the wrist, and so on to the neck and the waist, and by the
help of my old shirt, which I displayed on the ground before them for a
pattern, they fitted me exactly. Three hundred tailors were employed in
the same manner to make me clothes; but they had another contrivance for
taking my measure. I kneeled down, and they raised a ladder from the
ground to my neck; upon this ladder one of them mounted, and let fall a
plumb-line from my collar to the floor, which just answered the length
of my coat; but my waist and arms I measured myself. When my clothes
were finished, which was done in my house (for the largest of theirs
would not have been able to hold them), they looked like the patchwork
made by the ladies in England, only that mine were all of a color.
[Illustration: "THREE HUNDRED TAILORS WERE EMPLOYED TO MAKE ME CLOTHES"
P. 74.]
I had three hundred cooks to dress my victuals, in little convenient
huts built about my house, where they and their families lived, and
prepared me two dishes a-piece. I took up twenty waiters in my hand, and
placed them on the table; an hundred more attended below on the ground,
some with dishes of meat, and some with barrels of wine and other
liquors, flung on their shoulders; all of which the waiters above drew
up, as I wanted, in a very ingenious manner, by certain cords, as we
draw the bucket up a well in Europe. A dish of their meat was a good
mouthful, and a barrel of their liquor a reasonable draught. Their
mutton yields to ours, but their beef is excellent, I have had a sirloin
so large that I have been forced to make three bites of it; but this is
rare. My servants were astonished to see me eat it, bones and all, as in
our country we do the leg of a lark. Their geese and turkeys I usually
eat at a mouthful, and I must confess they far exceed ours. Of their
smaller fowl, I could take up twenty or thirty at the end of my knife.
One day his imperial majesty, being informed of my way of living,
desired that himself and his royal consort, with the young princes of
the blood of both sexes, might have the happiness, as he was pleased to
call it, of dining with me. They came accordingly, and I placed them in
chairs of state upon my table, just over against me, with their guards
about them. Flimnap, the lord high treasurer, attended there likewise,
with his white staff; and I observed he often looked on me with a sour
countenance, which I would not seem to regard, but eat more than usual,
in honor to my dear country, as well as to fill the court with
admiration. I have some private reasons to believe that this visit from
his majesty gave Flimnap an opportunity of doing me ill offices to his
master. That minister had always been my secret enemy, though he
outwardly caressed me more than was usual to the moroseness of his
nature. He represented to the emperor the low condition of his treasury;
that he was forced to take up money at a great discount; that exchequer
bills[33] would not circulate under nine per cent, below par; that I had
cost his majesty above a million and a half of _sprugs_ (their greatest
gold coin, about the bigness of a spangle); and, upon the whole, that it
would be advisable in the emperor to take the first fair occasion of
dismissing me.
[Illustration: "THE HAPPINESS ... OF DINING WITH ME." P. 76.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration] | Gulliver gives us some more details of Lilliput: first, all of the animals, trees, and buildings are proportional to the six-inch Lilliputians. In other words, everything on the island is equally tiny. They do not read left to right , right to left , nor up and down . Instead, they write diagonally across the page. The Lilliputians bury their dead head down. They think that the Earth is flat and that, at the end of the world, it will be flipped over and all of their people will be brought back to life. Once this happens, head down will actually be right side up. If someone in Lilliput accuses someone else of crimes against the state, these charges are taken very seriously. On the other hand, if it turns out that the accused person is innocent, then the accuser is executed and the accused person gets a money reward from the emperor. In fact, lying and fraud are considered worse crimes than theft in Lilliput, and they nearly always result in execution for the criminal. Gulliver points out that our criminal justice system is totally based on punishment - you commit a crime, you get thrown in jail or whatever - but in Lilliput, there is a balance of punishment and reward. If you can prove that you have gone 73 months without doing anything wrong, you get a special title and a cash reward from the Emperor. The Lilliputians also believe that it is morally better for people in office to make mistakes out of ignorance rather than out of deliberate wrongdoing. They prefer to appoint guys who are good but dumb over those who are smart but bad. As a result, the Lilliputians generally don't appoint geniuses to the government. Instead, they actively try to keep smart, gifted people out of important offices, so that, if anything goes wrong, it will be because of stupidity rather than corruption. Also, men who do not believe in God's will ) cannot serve in public office. Since the Emperor believes himself to be king thanks to the will of God, he doesn't want to employ anyone who does not believe in the source of the Emperor's power to serve under him. People in Lilliput can be executed for ingratitude, because they think it's a sign of a lack of respect for all of mankind. The Lilliputians believe that men and women come together to have children out of natural instinct, so kids don't owe their parents anything. After all, their parents are having sex and conceiving kids because they want to, not because they have any kind of self-sacrifice in mind. Indeed, the Lilliputians think that, generally, life sucks, and that being born is pretty miserable. So, parents who bring kids into the world are the last people who should be responsible for raising and educating them. They have big public nurseries for both boys and girls. These nurseries teach kids the skills they will need for their particular place in life, as decided by their parents' social position and their own interests. Nurseries for boys of high social standing are staffed by solemn professors who teach the kids to take care of themselves. They are never allowed to hang out in groups without a professor present, and they are only allowed to see their parents for an hour twice a year. They stay in these nurseries until they are 15 . Sons of middle and working class families get the same treatment, but they leave their nurseries younger. At 11 years of age, they become apprentices to learn the trades they'll practice as adults. Girls receive about the same education as boys, only with less active physical exercise and more learning about how to keep house. At 12, they become eligible for marriage. Poorer girls also receive instruction in how to do jobs appropriate for women . They leave the nursery at 7 to become apprentices. Parents have to pay an allowance for the support of their children by the state. The children of farmers and laborers stay at home, since they don't have to learn a trade and are therefore not of much interest to the Empire. Gulliver lives in Lilliput for 9 months and 13 days. During this time, he makes his own table and chair. 200 seamstresses sew him a shirt out of tiny squares of fabric and 300 cooks prepare him 2 dishes apiece every day. The Emperor invites himself over to Gulliver's home for dinner, along with his wife, children, and Flimnap the treasurer. Gulliver notices that Flimnap keeps looking at him with a frown on his face. Flimnap is a "secret enemy" of Gulliver's. Flimnap uses this visit to Gulliver's house to point out to the Emperor that Gulliver eats a huge amount, and that the Emperor's cash stores are starting to get low as a result. One reason that Flimnap hates Gulliver is that there are rumors going around that Flimnap's wife is having an affair with Gulliver . Anyway, so Gulliver protests a lot that there is absolutely no truth to this accusation. Flimnap eventually makes up with his wife, but never forgives Gulliver. Unfortunately, Flimnap has a lot of influence on the Emperor, and keeps persuading him that the kingdom needs to get rid of Gulliver. |
CANTO THE FOURTH.
Nothing so difficult as a beginning
In poesy, unless perhaps the end;
For oftentimes when Pegasus seems winning
The race, he sprains a wing, and down we tend,
Like Lucifer when hurl'd from heaven for sinning;
Our sin the same, and hard as his to mend,
Being pride, which leads the mind to soar too far,
Till our own weakness shows us what we are.
But Time, which brings all beings to their level,
And sharp Adversity, will teach at last
Man,--and, as we would hope,--perhaps the devil,
That neither of their intellects are vast:
While youth's hot wishes in our red veins revel,
We know not this--the blood flows on too fast;
But as the torrent widens towards the ocean,
We ponder deeply on each past emotion.
As boy, I thought myself a clever fellow,
And wish'd that others held the same opinion;
They took it up when my days grew more mellow,
And other minds acknowledged my dominion:
Now my sere fancy 'falls into the yellow
Leaf,' and Imagination droops her pinion,
And the sad truth which hovers o'er my desk
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'T is that I may not weep; and if I weep,
'T is that our nature cannot always bring
Itself to apathy, for we must steep
Our hearts first in the depths of Lethe's spring,
Ere what we least wish to behold will sleep:
Thetis baptized her mortal son in Styx;
A mortal mother would on Lethe fix.
Some have accused me of a strange design
Against the creed and morals of the land,
And trace it in this poem every line:
I don't pretend that I quite understand
My own meaning when I would be very fine;
But the fact is that I have nothing plann'd,
Unless it were to be a moment merry,
A novel word in my vocabulary.
To the kind reader of our sober clime
This way of writing will appear exotic;
Pulci was sire of the half-serious rhyme,
Who sang when chivalry was more Quixotic,
And revell'd in the fancies of the time,
True knights, chaste dames, huge giants, kings despotic:
But all these, save the last, being obsolete,
I chose a modern subject as more meet.
How I have treated it, I do not know;
Perhaps no better than they have treated me
Who have imputed such designs as show
Not what they saw, but what they wish'd to see:
But if it gives them pleasure, be it so;
This is a liberal age, and thoughts are free:
Meantime Apollo plucks me by the ear,
And tells me to resume my story here.
Young Juan and his lady-love were left
To their own hearts' most sweet society;
Even Time the pitiless in sorrow cleft
With his rude scythe such gentle bosoms; he
Sigh'd to behold them of their hours bereft,
Though foe to love; and yet they could not be
Meant to grow old, but die in happy spring,
Before one charm or hope had taken wing.
Their faces were not made for wrinkles, their
Pure blood to stagnate, their great hearts to fail;
The blank grey was not made to blast their hair,
But like the climes that know nor snow nor hail
They were all summer: lightning might assail
And shiver them to ashes, but to trail
A long and snake-like life of dull decay
Was not for them--they had too little day.
They were alone once more; for them to be
Thus was another Eden; they were never
Weary, unless when separate: the tree
Cut from its forest root of years--the river
Damm'd from its fountain--the child from the knee
And breast maternal wean'd at once for ever,--
Would wither less than these two torn apart;
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart--
The heart--which may be broken: happy they!
Thrice fortunate! who of that fragile mould,
The precious porcelain of human clay,
Break with the first fall: they can ne'er behold
The long year link'd with heavy day on day,
And all which must be borne, and never told;
While life's strange principle will often lie
Deepest in those who long the most to die.
'Whom the gods love die young,' was said of yore,
And many deaths do they escape by this:
The death of friends, and that which slays even more--
The death of friendship, love, youth, all that is,
Except mere breath; and since the silent shore
Awaits at last even those who longest miss
The old archer's shafts, perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Haidee and Juan thought not of the dead--
The heavens, and earth, and air, seem'd made for them:
They found no fault with Time, save that he fled;
They saw not in themselves aught to condemn:
Each was the other's mirror, and but read
Joy sparkling in their dark eyes like a gem,
And knew such brightness was but the reflection
Of their exchanging glances of affection.
The gentle pressure, and the thrilling touch,
The least glance better understood than words,
Which still said all, and ne'er could say too much;
A language, too, but like to that of birds,
Known but to them, at least appearing such
As but to lovers a true sense affords;
Sweet playful phrases, which would seem absurd
To those who have ceased to hear such, or ne'er heard,--
All these were theirs, for they were children still,
And children still they should have ever been;
They were not made in the real world to fill
A busy character in the dull scene,
But like two beings born from out a rill,
A nymph and her beloved, all unseen
To pass their lives in fountains and on flowers,
And never know the weight of human hours.
Moons changing had roll'd on, and changeless found
Those their bright rise had lighted to such joys
As rarely they beheld throughout their round;
And these were not of the vain kind which cloys,
For theirs were buoyant spirits, never bound
By the mere senses; and that which destroys
Most love, possession, unto them appear'd
A thing which each endearment more endear'd.
O beautiful! and rare as beautiful
But theirs was love in which the mind delights
To lose itself when the old world grows dull,
And we are sick of its hack sounds and sights,
Intrigues, adventures of the common school,
Its petty passions, marriages, and flights,
Where Hymen's torch but brands one strumpet more,
Whose husband only knows her not a wh--re.
Hard words; harsh truth; a truth which many know.
Enough.--The faithful and the fairy pair,
Who never found a single hour too slow,
What was it made them thus exempt from care?
Young innate feelings all have felt below,
Which perish in the rest, but in them were
Inherent--what we mortals call romantic,
And always envy, though we deem it frantic.
This is in others a factitious state,
An opium dream of too much youth and reading,
But was in them their nature or their fate:
No novels e'er had set their young hearts bleeding,
For Haidee's knowledge was by no means great,
And Juan was a boy of saintly breeding;
So that there was no reason for their loves
More than for those of nightingales or doves.
They gazed upon the sunset; 't is an hour
Dear unto all, but dearest to their eyes,
For it had made them what they were: the power
Of love had first o'erwhelm'd them from such skies,
When happiness had been their only dower,
And twilight saw them link'd in passion's ties;
Charm'd with each other, all things charm'd that brought
The past still welcome as the present thought.
I know not why, but in that hour to-night,
Even as they gazed, a sudden tremor came,
And swept, as 't were, across their hearts' delight,
Like the wind o'er a harp-string, or a flame,
When one is shook in sound, and one in sight;
And thus some boding flash'd through either frame,
And call'd from Juan's breast a faint low sigh,
While one new tear arose in Haidee's eye.
That large black prophet eye seem'd to dilate
And follow far the disappearing sun,
As if their last day! of a happy date
With his broad, bright, and dropping orb were gone;
Juan gazed on her as to ask his fate--
He felt a grief, but knowing cause for none,
His glance inquired of hers for some excuse
For feelings causeless, or at least abstruse.
She turn'd to him, and smiled, but in that sort
Which makes not others smile; then turn'd aside:
Whatever feeling shook her, it seem'd short,
And master'd by her wisdom or her pride;
When Juan spoke, too--it might be in sport--
Of this their mutual feeling, she replied--
'If it should be so,--but--it cannot be--
Or I at least shall not survive to see.'
Juan would question further, but she press'd
His lip to hers, and silenced him with this,
And then dismiss'd the omen from her breast,
Defying augury with that fond kiss;
And no doubt of all methods 't is the best:
Some people prefer wine--'t is not amiss;
I have tried both; so those who would a part take
May choose between the headache and the heartache.
One of the two, according to your choice,
Woman or wine, you 'll have to undergo;
Both maladies are taxes on our joys:
But which to choose, I really hardly know;
And if I had to give a casting voice,
For both sides I could many reasons show,
And then decide, without great wrong to either,
It were much better to have both than neither.
Juan and Haidee gazed upon each other
With swimming looks of speechless tenderness,
Which mix'd all feelings, friend, child, lover, brother,
All that the best can mingle and express
When two pure hearts are pour'd in one another,
And love too much, and yet can not love less;
But almost sanctify the sweet excess
By the immortal wish and power to bless.
Mix'd in each other's arms, and heart in heart,
Why did they not then die?--they had lived too long
Should an hour come to bid them breathe apart;
Years could but bring them cruel things or wrong;
The world was not for them, nor the world's art
For beings passionate as Sappho's song;
Love was born with them, in them, so intense,
It was their very spirit--not a sense.
They should have lived together deep in woods,
Unseen as sings the nightingale; they were
Unfit to mix in these thick solitudes
Call'd social, haunts of Hate, and Vice, and Care:
How lonely every freeborn creature broods!
The sweetest song-birds nestle in a pair;
The eagle soars alone; the gull and crow
Flock o'er their carrion, just like men below.
Now pillow'd cheek to cheek, in loving sleep,
Haidee and Juan their siesta took,
A gentle slumber, but it was not deep,
For ever and anon a something shook
Juan, and shuddering o'er his frame would creep;
And Haidee's sweet lips murmur'd like a brook
A wordless music, and her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
Or as the stirring of a deep dear stream
Within an Alpine hollow, when the wind
Walks o'er it, was she shaken by the dream,
The mystical usurper of the mind--
O'erpowering us to be whate'er may seem
Good to the soul which we no more can bind;
Strange state of being! (for 't is still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seal'd eyes to see.
She dream'd of being alone on the sea-shore,
Chain'd to a rock; she knew not how, but stir
She could not from the spot, and the loud roar
Grew, and each wave rose roughly, threatening her;
And o'er her upper lip they seem'd to pour,
Until she sobb'd for breath, and soon they were
Foaming o'er her lone head, so fierce and high--
Each broke to drown her, yet she could not die.
Anon--she was released, and then she stray'd
O'er the sharp shingles with her bleeding feet,
And stumbled almost every step she made;
And something roll'd before her in a sheet,
Which she must still pursue howe'er afraid:
'T was white and indistinct, nor stopp'd to meet
Her glance nor grasp, for still she gazed, and grasp'd,
And ran, but it escaped her as she clasp'd.
The dream changed:--in a cave she stood, its walls
Were hung with marble icicles, the work
Of ages on its water-fretted halls,
Where waves might wash, and seals might breed and lurk;
Her hair was dripping, and the very balls
Of her black eyes seem'd turn'd to tears, and mirk
The sharp rocks look'd below each drop they caught,
Which froze to marble as it fell,--she thought.
And wet, and cold, and lifeless at her feet,
Pale as the foam that froth'd on his dead brow,
Which she essay'd in vain to clear (how sweet
Were once her cares, how idle seem'd they now!),
Lay Juan, nor could aught renew the beat
Of his quench'd heart; and the sea dirges low
Rang in her sad ears like a mermaid's song,
And that brief dream appear'd a life too long.
And gazing on the dead, she thought his face
Faded, or alter'd into something new--
Like to her father's features, till each trace--
More like and like to Lambro's aspect grew--
With all his keen worn look and Grecian grace;
And starting, she awoke, and what to view?
O! Powers of Heaven! what dark eye meets she there?
'T is--'t is her father's--fix'd upon the pair!
Then shrieking, she arose, and shrieking fell,
With joy and sorrow, hope and fear, to see
Him whom she deem'd a habitant where dwell
The ocean-buried, risen from death, to be
Perchance the death of one she loved too well:
Dear as her father had been to Haidee,
It was a moment of that awful kind--
I have seen such--but must not call to mind.
Up Juan sprung to Haidee's bitter shriek,
And caught her falling, and from off the wall
Snatch'd down his sabre, in hot haste to wreak
Vengeance on him who was the cause of all:
Then Lambro, who till now forbore to speak,
Smiled scornfully, and said, 'Within my call,
A thousand scimitars await the word;
Put up, young man, put up your silly sword.'
And Haidee clung around him; 'Juan, 't is--
'T is Lambro--'t is my father! Kneel with me--
He will forgive us--yes--it must be--yes.
O! dearest father, in this agony
Of pleasure and of pain--even while I kiss
Thy garment's hem with transport, can it be
That doubt should mingle with my filial joy?
Deal with me as thou wilt, but spare this boy.'
High and inscrutable the old man stood,
Calm in his voice, and calm within his eye--
Not always signs with him of calmest mood:
He look'd upon her, but gave no reply;
Then turn'd to Juan, in whose cheek the blood
Oft came and went, as there resolved to die;
In arms, at least, he stood, in act to spring
On the first foe whom Lambro's call might bring.
'Young man, your sword;' so Lambro once more said:
Juan replied, 'Not while this arm is free.'
The old man's cheek grew pale, but not with dread,
And drawing from his belt a pistol, he
Replied, 'Your blood be then on your own head.'
Then look'd dose at the flint, as if to see
'T was fresh--for he had lately used the lock--
And next proceeded quietly to cock.
It has a strange quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off, or so;
A gentlemanly distance, not too near,
If you have got a former friend for foe;
But after being fired at once or twice,
The ear becomes more Irish, and less nice.
Lambro presented, and one instant more
Had stopp'd this Canto, and Don Juan's breath,
When Haidee threw herself her boy before;
Stern as her sire: 'On me,' she cried, 'let death
Descend--the fault is mine; this fatal shore
He found--but sought not. I have pledged my faith;
I love him--I will die with him: I knew
Your nature's firmness--know your daughter's too.'
A minute past, and she had been all tears,
And tenderness, and infancy; but now
She stood as one who champion'd human fears--
Pale, statue-like, and stern, she woo'd the blow;
And tall beyond her sex, and their compeers,
She drew up to her height, as if to show
A fairer mark; and with a fix'd eye scann'd
Her father's face--but never stopp'd his hand.
He gazed on her, and she on him; 't was strange
How like they look'd! the expression was the same;
Serenely savage, with a little change
In the large dark eye's mutual-darted flame;
For she, too, was as one who could avenge,
If cause should be--a lioness, though tame.
Her father's blood before her father's face
Boil'd up, and proved her truly of his race.
I said they were alike, their features and
Their stature, differing but in sex and years;
Even to the delicacy of their hand
There was resemblance, such as true blood wears;
And now to see them, thus divided, stand
In fix'd ferocity, when joyous tears
And sweet sensations should have welcomed both,
Show what the passions are in their full growth.
The father paused a moment, then withdrew
His weapon, and replaced it; but stood still,
And looking on her, as to look her through,
'Not I,' he said, 'have sought this stranger's ill;
Not I have made this desolation: few
Would bear such outrage, and forbear to kill;
But I must do my duty--how thou hast
Done thine, the present vouches for the past.
'Let him disarm; or, by my father's head,
His own shall roll before you like a ball!'
He raised his whistle, as the word he said,
And blew; another answer'd to the call,
And rushing in disorderly, though led,
And arm'd from boot to turban, one and all,
Some twenty of his train came, rank on rank;
He gave the word,--'Arrest or slay the Frank.'
Then, with a sudden movement, he withdrew
His daughter; while compress'd within his clasp,
'Twixt her and Juan interposed the crew;
In vain she struggled in her father's grasp--
His arms were like a serpent's coil: then flew
Upon their prey, as darts an angry asp,
The file of pirates; save the foremost, who
Had fallen, with his right shoulder half cut through.
The second had his cheek laid open; but
The third, a wary, cool old sworder, took
The blows upon his cutlass, and then put
His own well in; so well, ere you could look,
His man was floor'd, and helpless at his foot,
With the blood running like a little brook
From two smart sabre gashes, deep and red--
One on the arm, the other on the head.
And then they bound him where he fell, and bore
Juan from the apartment: with a sign
Old Lambro bade them take him to the shore,
Where lay some ships which were to sail at nine.
They laid him in a boat, and plied the oar
Until they reach'd some galliots, placed in line;
On board of one of these, and under hatches,
They stow'd him, with strict orders to the watches.
The world is full of strange vicissitudes,
And here was one exceedingly unpleasant:
A gentleman so rich in the world's goods,
Handsome and young, enjoying all the present,
Just at the very time when he least broods
On such a thing is suddenly to sea sent,
Wounded and chain'd, so that he cannot move,
And all because a lady fell in love.
Here I must leave him, for I grow pathetic,
Moved by the Chinese nymph of tears, green tea!
Than whom Cassandra was not more prophetic;
For if my pure libations exceed three,
I feel my heart become so sympathetic,
That I must have recourse to black Bohea:
'T is pity wine should be so deleterious,
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious,
Unless when qualified with thee, Cogniac!
Sweet Naiad of the Phlegethontic rill!
Ah! why the liver wilt thou thus attack,
And make, like other nymphs, thy lovers ill?
I would take refuge in weak punch, but rack
(In each sense of the word), whene'er I fill
My mild and midnight beakers to the brim,
Wakes me next morning with its synonym.
I leave Don Juan for the present, safe--
Not sound, poor fellow, but severely wounded;
Yet could his corporal pangs amount to half
Of those with which his Haidee's bosom bounded?
She was not one to weep, and rave, and chafe,
And then give way, subdued because surrounded;
Her mother was a Moorish maid, from Fez,
Where all is Eden, or a wilderness.
There the large olive rains its amber store
In marble fonts; there grain, and flower, and fruit,
Gush from the earth until the land runs o'er;
But there, too, many a poison-tree has root,
And midnight listens to the lion's roar,
And long, long deserts scorch the camel's foot,
Or heaving whelm the helpless caravan;
And as the soil is, so the heart of man.
Afric is all the sun's, and as her earth
Her human day is kindled; full of power
For good or evil, burning from its birth,
The Moorish blood partakes the planet's hour,
And like the soil beneath it will bring forth:
Beauty and love were Haidee's mother's dower;
But her large dark eye show'd deep Passion's force,
Though sleeping like a lion near a source.
Her daughter, temper'd with a milder ray,
Like summer clouds all silvery, smooth, and fair,
Till slowly charged with thunder they display
Terror to earth, and tempest to the air,
Had held till now her soft and milky way;
But overwrought with passion and despair,
The fire burst forth from her Numidian veins,
Even as the Simoom sweeps the blasted plains.
The last sight which she saw was Juan's gore,
And he himself o'ermaster'd and cut down;
His blood was running on the very floor
Where late he trod, her beautiful, her own;
Thus much she view'd an instant and no more,--
Her struggles ceased with one convulsive groan;
On her sire's arm, which until now scarce held
Her writhing, fell she like a cedar fell'd.
A vein had burst, and her sweet lips' pure dyes
Were dabbled with the deep blood which ran o'er;
And her head droop'd as when the lily lies
O'ercharged with rain: her summon'd handmaids bore
Their lady to her couch with gushing eyes;
Of herbs and cordials they produced their store,
But she defied all means they could employ,
Like one life could not hold, nor death destroy.
Days lay she in that state unchanged, though chill--
With nothing livid, still her lips were red;
She had no pulse, but death seem'd absent still;
No hideous sign proclaim'd her surely dead;
Corruption came not in each mind to kill
All hope; to look upon her sweet face bred
New thoughts of life, for it seem'd full of soul--
She had so much, earth could not claim the whole.
The ruling passion, such as marble shows
When exquisitely chisell'd, still lay there,
But fix'd as marble's unchanged aspect throws
O'er the fair Venus, but for ever fair;
O'er the Laocoon's all eternal throes,
And ever-dying Gladiator's air,
Their energy like life forms all their fame,
Yet looks not life, for they are still the same.
She woke at length, but not as sleepers wake,
Rather the dead, for life seem'd something new,
A strange sensation which she must partake
Perforce, since whatsoever met her view
Struck not on memory, though a heavy ache
Lay at her heart, whose earliest beat still true
Brought back the sense of pain without the cause,
For, for a while, the furies made a pause.
She look'd on many a face with vacant eye,
On many a token without knowing what;
She saw them watch her without asking why,
And reck'd not who around her pillow sat;
Not speechless, though she spoke not; not a sigh
Relieved her thoughts; dull silence and quick chat
Were tried in vain by those who served; she gave
No sign, save breath, of having left the grave.
Her handmaids tended, but she heeded not;
Her father watch'd, she turn'd her eyes away;
She recognized no being, and no spot,
However dear or cherish'd in their day;
They changed from room to room--but all forgot--
Gentle, but without memory she lay;
At length those eyes, which they would fain be weaning
Back to old thoughts, wax'd full of fearful meaning.
And then a slave bethought her of a harp;
The harper came, and tuned his instrument;
At the first notes, irregular and sharp,
On him her flashing eyes a moment bent,
Then to the wall she turn'd as if to warp
Her thoughts from sorrow through her heart re-sent;
And he begun a long low island song
Of ancient days, ere tyranny grew strong.
Anon her thin wan fingers beat the wall
In time to his old tune; he changed the theme,
And sung of love; the fierce name struck through all
Her recollection; on her flash'd the dream
Of what she was, and is, if ye could call
To be so being; in a gushing stream
The tears rush'd forth from her o'erclouded brain,
Like mountain mists at length dissolved in rain.
Short solace, vain relief!--thought came too quick,
And whirl'd her brain to madness; she arose
As one who ne'er had dwelt among the sick,
And flew at all she met, as on her foes;
But no one ever heard her speak or shriek,
Although her paroxysm drew towards its dose;--
Hers was a phrensy which disdain'd to rave,
Even when they smote her, in the hope to save.
Yet she betray'd at times a gleam of sense;
Nothing could make her meet her father's face,
Though on all other things with looks intense
She gazed, but none she ever could retrace;
Food she refused, and raiment; no pretence
Avail'd for either; neither change of place,
Nor time, nor skill, nor remedy, could give her
Senses to sleep--the power seem'd gone for ever.
Twelve days and nights she wither'd thus; at last,
Without a groan, or sigh, or glance, to show
A parting pang, the spirit from her past:
And they who watch'd her nearest could not know
The very instant, till the change that cast
Her sweet face into shadow, dull and slow,
Glazed o'er her eyes--the beautiful, the black--
O! to possess such lustre--and then lack!
She died, but not alone; she held within
A second principle of life, which might
Have dawn'd a fair and sinless child of sin;
But closed its little being without light,
And went down to the grave unborn, wherein
Blossom and bough lie wither'd with one blight;
In vain the dews of Heaven descend above
The bleeding flower and blasted fruit of love.
Thus lived--thus died she; never more on her
Shall sorrow light, or shame. She was not made
Through years or moons the inner weight to bear,
Which colder hearts endure till they are laid
By age in earth: her days and pleasures were
Brief, but delightful--such as had not staid
Long with her destiny; but she sleeps well
By the sea-shore, whereon she loved to dwell.
That isle is now all desolate and bare,
Its dwellings down, its tenants pass'd away;
None but her own and father's grave is there,
And nothing outward tells of human clay;
Ye could not know where lies a thing so fair,
No stone is there to show, no tongue to say
What was; no dirge, except the hollow sea's,
Mourns o'er the beauty of the Cyclades.
But many a Greek maid in a loving song
Sighs o'er her name; and many an islander
With her sire's story makes the night less long;
Valour was his, and beauty dwelt with her:
If she loved rashly, her life paid for wrong--
A heavy price must all pay who thus err,
In some shape; let none think to fly the danger,
For soon or late Love is his own avenger.
But let me change this theme which grows too sad,
And lay this sheet of sorrows on the shelf;
I don't much like describing people mad,
For fear of seeming rather touch'd myself--
Besides, I 've no more on this head to add;
And as my Muse is a capricious elf,
We 'll put about, and try another tack
With Juan, left half-kill'd some stanzas back.
Wounded and fetter'd, 'cabin'd, cribb'd, confined,'
Some days and nights elapsed before that he
Could altogether call the past to mind;
And when he did, he found himself at sea,
Sailing six knots an hour before the wind;
The shores of Ilion lay beneath their lee--
Another time he might have liked to see 'em,
But now was not much pleased with Cape Sigaeum.
There, on the green and village-cotted hill, is
(Flank'd by the Hellespont and by the sea)
Entomb'd the bravest of the brave, Achilles;
They say so (Bryant says the contrary):
And further downward, tall and towering still, is
The tumulus--of whom? Heaven knows! 't may be
Patroclus, Ajax, or Protesilaus--
All heroes, who if living still would slay us.
High barrows, without marble or a name,
A vast, untill'd, and mountain-skirted plain,
And Ida in the distance, still the same,
And old Scamander (if 't is he) remain;
The situation seems still form'd for fame--
A hundred thousand men might fight again
With case; but where I sought for Ilion's walls,
The quiet sheep feeds, and the tortoise crawls;
Troops of untended horses; here and there
Some little hamlets, with new names uncouth;
Some shepherds (unlike Paris) led to stare
A moment at the European youth
Whom to the spot their school-boy feelings bear;
A turk, with beads in hand and pipe in mouth,
Extremely taken with his own religion,
Are what I found there--but the devil a Phrygian.
Don Juan, here permitted to emerge
From his dull cabin, found himself a slave;
Forlorn, and gazing on the deep blue surge,
O'ershadow'd there by many a hero's grave;
Weak still with loss of blood, he scarce could urge
A few brief questions; and the answers gave
No very satisfactory information
About his past or present situation.
He saw some fellow captives, who appear'd
To be Italians, as they were in fact;
From them, at least, their destiny he heard,
Which was an odd one; a troop going to act
In Sicily (all singers, duly rear'd
In their vocation) had not been attack'd
In sailing from Livorno by the pirate,
But sold by the impresario at no high rate.
By one of these, the buffo of the party,
Juan was told about their curious case;
For although destined to the Turkish mart, he
Still kept his spirits up--at least his face;
The little fellow really look'd quite hearty,
And bore him with some gaiety and grace,
Showing a much more reconciled demeanour,
Than did the prima donna and the tenor.
In a few words he told their hapless story,
Saying, 'Our Machiavellian impresario,
Making a signal off some promontory,
Hail'd a strange brig--Corpo di Caio Mario!
We were transferr'd on board her in a hurry,
Without a Single scudo of salario;
But if the Sultan has a taste for song,
We will revive our fortunes before long.
'The prima donna, though a little old,
And haggard with a dissipated life,
And subject, when the house is thin, to cold,
Has some good notes; and then the tenor's wife,
With no great voice, is pleasing to behold;
Last carnival she made a deal of strife
By carrying off Count Cesare Cicogna
From an old Roman princess at Bologna.
'And then there are the dancers; there 's the Nini,
With more than one profession, gains by all;
Then there 's that laughing slut the Pelegrini,
She, too, was fortunate last carnival,
And made at least five hundred good zecchini,
But spends so fast, she has not now a paul;
And then there 's the Grotesca--such a dancer!
Where men have souls or bodies she must answer.
'As for the figuranti, they are like
The rest of all that tribe; with here and there
A pretty person, which perhaps may strike,
The rest are hardly fitted for a fair;
There 's one, though tall and stiffer than a pike,
Yet has a sentimental kind of air
Which might go far, but she don't dance with vigour;
The more 's the pity, with her face and figure.
'As for the men, they are a middling set;
The musico is but a crack'd old basin,
But being qualified in one way yet,
May the seraglio do to set his face in,
And as a servant some preferment get;
His singing I no further trust can place in:
From all the Pope makes yearly 't would perplex
To find three perfect pipes of the third sex.
'The tenor's voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In fact, he had no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow;
But being the prima donna's near relation,
Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow,
They hired him, though to hear him you 'd believe
An ass was practising recitative.
''T would not become myself to dwell upon
My own merits, and though young--I see, Sir--you
Have got a travell'd air, which speaks you one
To whom the opera is by no means new:
You 've heard of Raucocanti?--I 'm the man;
The time may come when you may hear me too;
You was not last year at the fair of Lugo,
But next, when I 'm engaged to sing there--do go.
'Our baritone I almost had forgot,
A pretty lad, but bursting with conceit;
With graceful action, science not a jot,
A voice of no great compass, and not sweet,
He always is complaining of his lot,
Forsooth, scarce fit for ballads in the street;
In lovers' parts his passion more to breathe,
Having no heart to show, he shows his teeth.'
Here Raucocanti's eloquent recital
Was interrupted by the pirate crew,
Who came at stated moments to invite all
The captives back to their sad berths; each threw
A rueful glance upon the waves (which bright all
From the blue skies derived a double blue,
Dancing all free and happy in the sun),
And then went down the hatchway one by one.
They heard next day--that in the Dardanelles,
Waiting for his Sublimity's firman,
The most imperative of sovereign spells,
Which every body does without who can,
More to secure them in their naval cells,
Lady to lady, well as man to man,
Were to be chain'd and lotted out per couple,
For the slave market of Constantinople.
It seems when this allotment was made out,
There chanced to be an odd male, and odd female,
Who (after some discussion and some doubt,
If the soprano might be deem'd to be male,
They placed him o'er the women as a scout)
Were link'd together, and it happen'd the male
Was Juan,--who, an awkward thing at his age,
Pair'd off with a Bacchante blooming visage.
With Raucocanti lucklessly was chain'd
The tenor; these two hated with a hate
Found only on the stage, and each more pain'd
With this his tuneful neighbour than his fate;
Sad strife arose, for they were so cross-grain'd,
Instead of bearing up without debate,
That each pull'd different ways with many an oath,
'Arcades ambo,' id est--blackguards both.
Juan's companion was a Romagnole,
But bred within the March of old Ancona,
With eyes that look'd into the very soul
(And other chief points of a 'bella donna'),
Bright--and as black and burning as a coal;
And through her dear brunette complexion shone
Great wish to please--a most attractive dower,
Especially when added to the power.
But all that power was wasted upon him,
For sorrow o'er each sense held stern command;
Her eye might flash on his, but found it dim;
And though thus chain'd, as natural her hand
Touch'd his, nor that--nor any handsome limb
(And she had some not easy to withstand)
Could stir his pulse, or make his faith feel brittle;
Perhaps his recent wounds might help a little.
No matter; we should ne'er too much enquire,
But facts are facts: no knight could be more true,
And firmer faith no ladye--love desire;
We will omit the proofs, save one or two:
'T is said no one in hand 'can hold a fire
By thought of frosty Caucasus;' but few,
I really think; yet Juan's then ordeal
Was more triumphant, and not much less real.
Here I might enter on a chaste description,
Having withstood temptation in my youth,
But hear that several people take exception
At the first two books having too much truth;
Therefore I 'll make Don Juan leave the ship soon,
Because the publisher declares, in sooth,
Through needles' eyes it easier for the camel is
To pass, than those two cantos into families.
'T is all the same to me; I 'm fond of yielding,
And therefore leave them to the purer page
Of Smollett, Prior, Ariosto, Fielding,
Who say strange things for so correct an age;
I once had great alacrity in wielding
My pen, and liked poetic war to wage,
And recollect the time when all this cant
Would have provoked remarks which now it shan't.
As boys love rows, my boyhood liked a squabble;
But at this hour I wish to part in peace,
Leaving such to the literary rabble:
Whether my verse's fame be doom'd to cease
While the right hand which wrote it still is able,
Or of some centuries to take a lease,
The grass upon my grave will grow as long,
And sigh to midnight winds, but not to song.
Of poets who come down to us through distance
Of time and tongues, the foster-babes of Fame,
Life seems the smallest portion of existence;
Where twenty ages gather o'er a name,
'T is as a snowball which derives assistance
From every flake, and yet rolls on the same,
Even till an iceberg it may chance to grow;
But, after all, 't is nothing but cold snow.
And so great names are nothing more than nominal,
And love of glory 's but an airy lust,
Too often in its fury overcoming all
Who would as 't were identify their dust
From out the wide destruction, which, entombing all,
Leaves nothing till 'the coming of the just'-
Save change: I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted; time will doubt of Rome.
The very generations of the dead
Are swept away, and tomb inherits tomb,
Until the memory of an age is fled,
And, buried, sinks beneath its offspring's doom:
Where are the epitaphs our fathers read?
Save a few glean'd from the sepulchral gloom
Which once-named myriads nameless lie beneath,
And lose their own in universal death.
I canter by the spot each afternoon
Where perish'd in his fame the hero-boy,
Who lived too long for men, but died too soon
For human vanity, the young De Foix!
A broken pillar, not uncouthly hewn,
But which neglect is hastening to destroy,
Records Ravenna's carnage on its face,
While weeds and ordure rankle round the base.
I pass each day where Dante's bones are laid:
A little cupola, more neat than solemn,
Protects his dust, but reverence here is paid
To the bard's tomb, and not the warrior's column.
The time must come, when both alike decay'd,
The chieftain's trophy, and the poet's volume,
Will sink where lie the songs and wars of earth,
Before Pelides' death, or Homer's birth.
With human blood that column was cemented,
With human filth that column is defiled,
As if the peasant's coarse contempt were vented
To show his loathing of the spot he soil'd:
Thus is the trophy used, and thus lamented
Should ever be those blood-hounds, from whose wild
Instinct of gore and glory earth has known
Those sufferings Dante saw in hell alone.
Yet there will still be bards: though fame is smoke,
Its fumes are frankincense to human thought;
And the unquiet feelings, which first woke
Song in the world, will seek what then they sought;
As on the beach the waves at last are broke,
Thus to their extreme verge the passions brought
Dash into poetry, which is but passion,
Or at least was so ere it grew a fashion.
If in the course of such a life as was
At once adventurous and contemplative,
Men, who partake all passions as they pass,
Acquire the deep and bitter power to give
Their images again as in a glass,
And in such colours that they seem to live;
You may do right forbidding them to show 'em,
But spoil (I think) a very pretty poem.
O! ye, who make the fortunes of all books!
Benign Ceruleans of the second sex!
Who advertise new poems by your looks,
Your 'imprimatur' will ye not annex?
What! must I go to the oblivious cooks,
Those Cornish plunderers of Parnassian wrecks?
Ah! must I then the only minstrel be,
Proscribed from tasting your Castalian tea!
What! can I prove 'a lion' then no more?
A ball-room bard, a foolscap, hot-press darling?
To bear the compliments of many a bore,
And sigh, 'I can't get out,' like Yorick's starling;
Why then I 'll swear, as poet Wordy swore
(Because the world won't read him, always snarling),
That taste is gone, that fame is but a lottery,
Drawn by the blue-coat misses of a coterie.
O! 'darkly, deeply, beautifully blue,'
As some one somewhere sings about the sky,
And I, ye learned ladies, say of you;
They say your stockings are so (Heaven knows why,
I have examined few pair of that hue);
Blue as the garters which serenely lie
Round the Patrician left-legs, which adorn
The festal midnight, and the levee morn.
Yet some of you are most seraphic creatures--
But times are alter'd since, a rhyming lover,
You read my stanzas, and I read your features:
And--but no matter, all those things are over;
Still I have no dislike to learned natures,
For sometimes such a world of virtues cover;
I knew one woman of that purple school,
The loveliest, chastest, best, but--quite a fool.
Humboldt, 'the first of travellers,' but not
The last, if late accounts be accurate,
Invented, by some name I have forgot,
As well as the sublime discovery's date,
An airy instrument, with which he sought
To ascertain the atmospheric state,
By measuring 'the intensity of blue:'
O, Lady Daphne! let me measure you!
But to the narrative:--The vessel bound
With slaves to sell off in the capital,
After the usual process, might be found
At anchor under the seraglio wall;
Her cargo, from the plague being safe and sound,
Were landed in the market, one and all,
And there with Georgians, Russians, and Circassians,
Bought up for different purposes and passions.
Some went off dearly; fifteen hundred dollars
For one Circassian, a sweet girl, were given,
Warranted virgin; beauty's brightest colours
Had deck'd her out in all the hues of heaven:
Her sale sent home some disappointed bawlers,
Who bade on till the hundreds reach'd eleven;
But when the offer went beyond, they knew
'T was for the Sultan, and at once withdrew.
Twelve negresses from Nubia brought a price
Which the West Indian market scarce would bring;
Though Wilberforce, at last, has made it twice
What 't was ere Abolition; and the thing
Need not seem very wonderful, for vice
Is always much more splendid than a king:
The virtues, even the most exalted, Charity,
Are saving--vice spares nothing for a rarity.
But for the destiny of this young troop,
How some were bought by pachas, some by Jews,
How some to burdens were obliged to stoop,
And others rose to the command of crews
As renegadoes; while in hapless group,
Hoping no very old vizier might choose,
The females stood, as one by one they pick'd 'em,
To make a mistress, or fourth wife, or victim:
All this must be reserved for further song;
Also our hero's lot, howe'er unpleasant
(Because this Canto has become too long),
Must be postponed discreetly for the present;
I 'm sensible redundancy is wrong,
But could not for the muse of me put less in 't:
And now delay the progress of Don Juan,
Till what is call'd in Ossian the fifth Juan.
[Illustration: Canto 5] | After seven stanzas in which he complains of the difficulty of making a beginning in poetry; confesses that his imagination is weakening; that the sad truth turns what was once romantic to burlesque ; admits that some have accused him of designs against "the creed and morals of the land"; and claims that his only intention is to be merry, Byron reintroduces Haidee and Juan. They were not meant to grow old but were meant to die in happy springtime. Whom the gods love die young. They think not of time's ravages; they find fault only with the way it speeds away from them. Their existence is a perfect one. They are like children, or like a nymph and her beloved, and are not meant to fill a place in a real world. They are perfectly happy. This particular evening a tremor sweeps over them, they know not why, and a tear appears in Haidee's eye, but she dismisses the omen with a kiss when Juan questions her. Later, while they are taking their siesta, Haidee dreams that she is chained to a rock. Then in her dream she is released and begins to pursue something in a sheet which keeps eluding her. Her dream changes; she is in a cave and at her feet lies Juan lifeless. As she gazes, she thinks his features change into her father's. She awakes with a start and sees her father's eyes fixed on her and Juan. Shrieking, she arises and falls. Juan springs up at her shriek and grabs his saber off the wall. Lambro now speaks for the first time, scornfully commanding Juan to put away his foolish sword, for with a word he can summon a thousand scimitars. Haidee begs her father to spare Juan. Once more Lambro commands Juan to surrender his sword. When Juan refuses, Lambro draws his pistol and cocks it. Haidee then throws herself before Juan and begs her father to shoot her first. Her father replaces his pistol in its holster and blows a whistle. At once twenty of his men appear. With a quick movement Lambro grasps his daughter and pulls her away from before Juan. "Arrest or kill the Frank," he commands his men. The pirates push forward, and though Juan fights valiantly, wounding two of them, he is soon on the ground, bleeding from the arm and head. Lambro then gives his men orders to carry Juan to one of his ships. When she sees Juan on the floor and bleeding, Haidee collapses in her father's arms and blood flows from her mouth from a vein which has burst. For several days she is in a coma. When she finally regains consciousness, she recognizes no one. The attendants try rousing her with harp music. The music succeeds in making her weep. She arises and flies at everyone in sight as at a foe. For twelve days she refuses food, clothing, and change of surroundings. On the twelfth day she dies, and with her dies Juan's unborn child, "a fair and sinless child of sin." When Juan comes to, he finds that he is at sea, and a slave. With him are some fellow captives, an Italian opera company who had been on their way to Sicily and who have been sold into slavery by their impresario. Juan learns that he and his new friends are bound for the slave market in Constantinople. Byron brings the canto to a close with the buffo's malicious description of the other members of the troupe, some remarks on fame, an appeal to his lady readers not to abandon him, and a brief description of the slave auction. |
Act V. Scene I
[Enter] ANTONIO and DELIO
ANTONIO. What think you of my hope of reconcilement
To the Arragonian brethren?
DELIO. I misdoubt it;
For though they have sent their letters of safe-conduct
For your repair to Milan, they appear
But nets to entrap you. The Marquis of Pescara,
Under whom you hold certain land in cheat,[121]
Much 'gainst his noble nature hath been mov'd
To seize those lands; and some of his dependants
Are at this instant making it their suit
To be invested in your revenues.
I cannot think they mean well to your life
That do deprive you of your means of life,
Your living.
ANTONIO. You are still an heretic[122]
To any safety I can shape myself.
DELIO. Here comes the marquis: I will make myself
Petitioner for some part of your land,
To know whither it is flying.
ANTONIO. I pray, do.
[Withdraws.]
[Enter PESCARA]
DELIO. Sir, I have a suit to you.
PESCARA. To me?
DELIO. An easy one:
There is the Citadel of Saint Bennet,
With some demesnes, of late in the possession
Of Antonio Bologna,--please you bestow them on me.
PESCARA. You are my friend; but this is such a suit,
Nor fit for me to give, nor you to take.
DELIO. No, sir?
PESCARA. I will give you ample reason for 't
Soon in private:--here 's the cardinal's mistress.
[Enter JULIA]
JULIA. My lord, I am grown your poor petitioner,
And should be an ill beggar, had I not
A great man's letter here, the cardinal's,
To court you in my favour.
[Gives a letter.]
PESCARA. He entreats for you
The Citadel of Saint Bennet, that belong'd
To the banish'd Bologna.
JULIA. Yes.
PESCARA. I could not have thought of a friend I could rather
Pleasure with it: 'tis yours.
JULIA. Sir, I thank you;
And he shall know how doubly I am engag'd
Both in your gift, and speediness of giving
Which makes your grant the greater.
Exit.
ANTONIO. How they fortify
Themselves with my ruin!
DELIO. Sir, I am
Little bound to you.
PESCARA. Why?
DELIO. Because you deni'd this suit to me, and gave 't
To such a creature.
PESCARA. Do you know what it was?
It was Antonio's land; not forfeited
By course of law, but ravish'd from his throat
By the cardinal's entreaty. It were not fit
I should bestow so main a piece of wrong
Upon my friend; 'tis a gratification
Only due to a strumpet, for it is injustice.
Shall I sprinkle the pure blood of innocents
To make those followers I call my friends
Look ruddier upon me? I am glad
This land, ta'en from the owner by such wrong,
Returns again unto so foul an use
As salary for his lust. Learn, good Delio,
To ask noble things of me, and you shall find
I 'll be a noble giver.
DELIO. You instruct me well.
ANTONIO. Why, here 's a man now would fright impudence
]From sauciest beggars.
PESCARA. Prince Ferdinand 's come to Milan,
Sick, as they give out, of an apoplexy;
But some say 'tis a frenzy: I am going
To visit him.
Exit.
ANTONIO. 'Tis a noble old fellow.
DELIO. What course do you mean to take, Antonio?
ANTONIO. This night I mean to venture all my fortune,
Which is no more than a poor ling'ring life,
To the cardinal's worst of malice. I have got
Private access to his chamber; and intend
To visit him about the mid of night,
As once his brother did our noble duchess.
It may be that the sudden apprehension
Of danger,--for I 'll go in mine own shape,--
When he shall see it fraight[123] with love and duty,
May draw the poison out of him, and work
A friendly reconcilement. If it fail,
Yet it shall rid me of this infamous calling;
For better fall once than be ever falling.
DELIO. I 'll second you in all danger; and howe'er,
My life keeps rank with yours.
ANTONIO. You are still my lov'd and best friend.
Exeunt. | Act Five begins in a public place in Milan. Delio counsels Antonio that the proffered peace from the Cardinal and Ferdinand is likely to be a trap. When the Marquis of Pescara approaches, Antonio hides and Delio asks to be granted some of the land that had been seized from Antonio. Pescara denies his request, and Julia approaches with a letter from the Cardinal, asking for the same land. Pescara grants it to her, and when Delio confronts him about his refusal, Pescara tells him that he wouldn't want to give land taken from someone in such a shameful way to a friend--Delio--but as Julia is a strumpet, it's good enough for her. Pescara says that Ferdinand has come to Milan and is rumored to be sick or crazy. He leaves to visit him. Antonio comes out from hiding and tells Delio he plans to visit the Cardinal in his bedroom tonight to either reconcile, or face his punishment and get it over with |
ACT II
(THE SAME SCENE--_The Christmas Tree is in the corner by the piano,
stripped of its ornaments and with burnt-down candle-ends on its
dishevelled branches._ NORA'S _cloak and hat are lying on the sofa. She
is alone in the room, walking about uneasily. She stops by the sofa and
takes up her cloak._)
_Nora_ (_drops the cloak_). Someone is coming now! (_Goes to the door
and listens._) No--it is no one. Of course, no one will come today,
Christmas Day--nor tomorrow either. But, perhaps--(_opens the door and
looks out_.) No, nothing in the letter-box; it is quite empty. (_Comes
forward._) What rubbish! of course he can't be in earnest about it. Such
a thing couldn't happen; it is impossible--I have three little children.
(_Enter the_ NURSE _from the room on the left, carrying a big cardboard
box._)
_Nurse_. At last I have found the box with the fancy dress.
_Nora_. Thanks; put it on the table.
_Nurse_ (_doing so_). But it is very much in want of mending.
_Nora_. I should like to tear it into a hundred thousand pieces.
_Nurse_. What an idea! It can easily be put in order--just a little
patience.
_Nora_. Yes, I will go and get Mrs. Linde to come and help me with it.
_Nurse_. What, out again? In this horrible weather? You will catch cold,
ma'am, and make yourself ill.
_Nora_. Well, worse than that might happen. How are the children?
_Nurse_. The poor little souls are playing with their Christmas
presents, but--
_Nora_. Do they ask much for me?
_Nurse_. You see, they are so accustomed to have their mamma with them.
_Nora_. Yes, but, nurse, I shall not be able to be so much with them now
as I was before.
_Nurse_. Oh well, young children easily get accustomed to anything.
_Nora_. Do you think so? Do you think they would forget their mother if
she went away altogether?
_Nurse_. Good heavens!--went away altogether?
_Nora_. Nurse, I want you to tell me something I have often wondered
about--how could you have the heart to put your own child out among
strangers?
_Nurse_. I was obliged to, if I wanted to be little Nora's nurse.
_Nora_. Yes, but how could you be willing to do it?
_Nurse_. What, when I was going to get such a good place by it? A poor
girl who has got into trouble should be glad to. Besides, that wicked
man didn't do a single thing for me.
_Nora_. But I suppose your daughter has quite forgotten you.
_Nurse_. No, indeed she hasn't. She wrote to me when she was confirmed,
and when she was married.
_Nora_ (_putting her arms round her neck_). Dear old Anne, you were a
good mother to me when I was little.
_Nurse_. Little Nora, poor dear, had no other mother but me.
_Nora_. And if my little ones had no other mother, I am sure you
would--What nonsense I am talking! (_Opens the box._) Go in to them. Now
I must--. You will see tomorrow how charming I shall look.
_Nurse_. I am sure there will be no one at the ball so charming as you,
ma'am. (_Goes into the room on the left._)
_Nora_ (_begins to unpack the box, but soon pushes it away from her_).
If only I dared go out. If only no one would come. If only I could be
sure nothing would happen here in the meantime. Stuff and nonsense! No
one will come. Only I mustn't think about it. I will brush my muff. What
lovely, lovely gloves! Out of my thoughts, out of my thoughts! One, two,
three, four, five, six--(_Screams._) Ah! there is someone coming--.
(_Makes a movement towards the door, but stands irresolute_.)
(_Enter_ MRS. LINDE _from the hall, where she has taken off her cloak
and hat_.)
_Nora_. Oh, it's you, Christine. There is no one else out there, is
there? How good of you to come!
_Mrs. Linde_. I heard you were up asking for me.
_Nora_. Yes, I was passing by. As a matter of fact, it is something you
could help me with. Let us sit down here on the sofa. Look here.
Tomorrow evening there is to be a fancy-dress ball at the Stenborgs',
who live above us; and Torvald wants me to go as a Neapolitan
fisher-girl, and dance the Tarantella that I learnt at Capri.
_Mrs. Linde_. I see; you are going to keep up the character.
_Nora_. Yes, Torvald wants me to. Look, here is the dress; Torvald had
it made for me there, but now it is all so torn, and I haven't any
idea--
_Mrs. Linde_. We will easily put that right. It is only some of the
trimming come unsewn here and there. Needle and thread? Now then, that's
all we want.
_Nora_. It _is_ nice of you.
_Mrs. Linde_ (_sewing_). So you are going to be dressed up tomorrow,
Nora. I will tell you what--I shall come in for a moment and see you in
your fine feathers. But I have completely forgotten to thank you for a
delightful evening yesterday.
_Nora_ (_gets up, and crosses the stage_). Well I don't think yesterday
was as pleasant as usual. You ought to have come to town a little
earlier, Christine. Certainly Torvald does understand how to make a
house dainty and attractive.
_Mrs. Linde_. And so do you, it seems to me; you are not your father's
daughter for nothing. But tell me, is Doctor Rank always as depressed as
he was yesterday?
_Nora_. No; yesterday it was very noticeable. I must tell you that he
suffers from a _very_ dangerous disease. He has consumption of the
spine, poor creature. His father was a horrible man who committed all
sorts of excesses; and that is why his son was sickly from childhood, do
you understand?
_Mrs. Linde_ (_dropping her sewing_). But, my dearest Nora, how do you
know anything about such things?
_Nora_ (_walking about_). Pooh! When you have three children, you get
visits now and then from--from married women, who know something of
medical matters, and they talk about one thing and another.
_Mrs. Linde_ (_goes on sewing. A short silence_). Does Doctor Rank come
here every day?
_Nora_. Every day regularly. He is Torvald's most intimate friend, and a
great friend of mine too. He is just like one of the family.
_Mrs. Linde_. But tell me this--is he perfectly sincere? I mean, isn't
he the kind of a man that is very anxious to make himself agreeable?
_Nora_. Not in the least. What makes you think that?
_Mrs. Linde_. When you introduced him to me yesterday, he declared he
had often heard my name mentioned in this house; but afterwards I
noticed that your husband hadn't the slightest idea who I was. So how
could Doctor Rank--?
_Nora_. That is quite right, Christine. Torvald is so absurdly fond of
me that he wants me absolutely to himself, as he says. At first he used
to seem almost jealous if I mentioned any of the dear folk at home, so
naturally I gave up doing so. But I often talk about such things with
Doctor Rank, because he likes hearing about them.
_Mrs. Linde_. Listen to me, Nora. You are still very like a child in
many ways, and I am older than you in many ways and have a little more
experience. Let me tell you this--you ought to make an end of it with
Doctor Rank.
_Nora_. What ought I to make an end of?
_Mrs. Linde_. Of two things, I think. Yesterday you talked some nonsense
about a rich admirer who was to leave you money--
_Nora_. An admirer who doesn't exist, unfortunately! But what then?
_Mrs. Linde_. Is Doctor Rank a man of means?
_Nora_. Yes, he is.
_Mrs. Linde_. And has no one to provide for?
_Nora_. No, no one; but--
_Mrs. Linde_. And comes here every day?
_Nora_. Yes, I told you so.
_Mrs. Linde_. But how can this well-bred man be so tactless?
_Nora_. I don't understand you at all.
_Mrs. Linde_. Don't prevaricate, Nora. Do you suppose I don't guess who
lent you the two hundred and fifty pounds.
_Nora_. Are you out of your senses? How can you think of such a thing! A
friend of ours, who comes here every day! Do you realise what a horribly
painful position that would be?
_Mrs. Linde_. Then it really isn't he?
_Nora_. No, certainly not. It would never have entered into my head for
a moment. Besides, he had no money to lend then; he came into his money
afterwards.
_Mrs. Linde_. Well, I think that was lucky for you, my dear Nora.
_Nora_. No, it would never have come into my head to ask Doctor Rank.
Although I am quite sure that if I had asked him--
_Mrs. Linde_. But of course you won't.
_Nora_. Of course not. I have no reason to think it could possibly be
necessary. But I am quite sure that if I told Doctor Rank--
_Mrs. Linde_. Behind your husband's back?
_Nora_. I must make an end of it with the other one, and that will be
behind his back too. I _must_ make an end of it with him.
_Mrs. Linde_. Yes, that is what I told you yesterday, but--
_Nora_ (_walking up and down_). A man can put a thing like that straight
much easier than a woman--
_Mrs. Linde_. One's husband, yes.
_Nora_. Nonsense! (_Standing still_.) When you pay off a debt you get
your bond back, don't you?
_Mrs. Linde_. Yes, as a matter of course.
_Nora_. And can tear it into a hundred thousand pieces, and burn it
up--the nasty, dirty paper!
_Mrs. Linde_ (_looks hard at her, lays down her sewing and gets up
slowly_). Nora, you are concealing something from me.
_Nora_. Do I look as if I were?
_Mrs. Linde_. Something has happened to you since yesterday morning.
Nora, what is it?
_Nora_ (_going nearer to her_). Christine! (_Listens_.) Hush! there's
Torvald come home. Do you mind going in to the children for the present?
Torvald can't bear to see dressmaking going on. Let Anne help you.
_Mrs. Linde_ (_gathering some of the things together_). Certainly--but I
am not going away from here till we have had it out with one another.
(_She goes into the room, on the left, as Helmer comes in from, the
hall_.)
_Nora_ (_going up to_ HELMAR). I have wanted you so much, Torvald dear.
_Helmer_. Was that the dressmaker?
_Nora_. No, it was Christine; she is helping me to put my dress in
order. You will see I shall look quite smart.
_Helmer_. Wasn't that a happy thought of mine, now?
_Nora_. Splendid! But don't you think it is nice of me, too, to do as
you wish?
_Helmer_. Nice?--because you do as your husband wishes? Well, well, you
little rogue, I am sure you did not mean it in that way. But I am not
going to disturb you; you will want to be trying on your dress, I
expect.
_Nora_. I suppose you are going to work.
_Helmer_. Yes. (_Shows her a bundle of papers_.) Look at that. I have
just been into the bank. (_Turns to go into his room_.)
_Nora_. Torvald.
_Helmer_. Yes.
_Nora_. If your little squirrel were to ask you for something very, very
prettily--?
_Helmer_. What then?
_Nora_. Would you do it?
_Helmer_. I should like to hear what it is, first.
_Nora_. Your squirrel would run about and do all her tricks if you would
be nice, and do what she wants.
_Helmer_. Speak plainly.
_Nora_. Your skylark would chirp about in every room, with her song
rising and falling--
_Helmer_. Well, my skylark does that anyhow.
_Nora_. I would play the fairy and dance for you in the moonlight,
Torvald.
_Helmer_. Nora--you surely don't mean that request you made of me this
morning?
_Nora_ (_going near him_). Yes, Torvald, I beg you so earnestly--
_Helmer_. Have you really the courage to open up that question again?
_Nora_. Yes, dear, you _must_ do as I ask; you _must_ let Krogstad keep
his post in the bank.
_Helmer_. My dear Nora, it is his post that I have arranged Mrs. Linde
shall have.
_Nora._ Yes, you have been awfully kind about that; but you could just
as well dismiss some other clerk instead of Krogstad.
_Helmer._ This is simply incredible obstinacy! Because you chose to give
him a thoughtless promise that you would speak for him, I am expected
to--
_Nora._ That isn't the reason, Torvald. It is for your own sake. This
fellow writes in the most scurrilous newspapers; you have told me so
yourself. He can do you an unspeakable amount of harm. I am frightened
to death of him--
_Helmer._ Ah, I understand; it is recollections of the past that scare
you.
_Nora._ What do you mean?
_Helmer._ Naturally you are thinking of your father.
_Nora._ Yes--yes, of course. Just recall to your mind what these
malicious creatures wrote in the papers about papa, and how horribly
they slandered him. I believe they would have procured his dismissal if
the Department had not sent you over to inquire into it, and if you had
not been so kindly disposed and helpful to him.
_Helmer._ My little Nora, there is an important difference between your
father and me. Your father's reputation as a public official was not
above suspicion. Mine is, and I hope it will continue to be so, as long
as I hold my office.
_Nora._ You never can tell what mischief these men may contrive. We
ought to be so well off, so snug and happy here in our peaceful home,
and have no cares--you and I and the children, Torvald! That is why I
beg you so earnestly--
_Helmer_. And it is just by interceding for him that you make it
impossible for me to keep him. It is already known at the Bank that I
mean to dismiss Krogstad. Is it to get about now that the new manager
has changed his mind at his wife's bidding--
_Nora_. And what if it did?
_Helmer_. Of course!--if only this obstinate little person can get her
way! Do you suppose I am going to make myself ridiculous before my whole
staff, to let people think that I am a man to be swayed by all sorts of
outside influence? I should very soon feel the consequences of it, I can
tell you. And besides, there is one thing that makes it quite impossible
for me to have Krogstad in the bank as long as I am manager.
_Nora_. Whatever is that?
_Helmer_. His moral failings I might perhaps have overlooked, if
necessary--
_Nora_. Yes, you could--couldn't you?
_Helmer_. And, I hear he is a good worker, too. But I knew him when we
were boys. It was one of those rash friendships that so often prove an
incubus in after life. I may as well tell you plainly, we were once on
very intimate terms with one another. But this tactless fellow lays no
restraint upon himself when other people are present. On the contrary,
he thinks it gives him the right to adopt a familiar tone with me, and
every minute it is "I say, Helmer, old fellow!" and that sort of thing.
I assure you it is extremely painful to me. He would make my position in
the bank intolerable.
_Nora_. Torvald, I don't believe you mean that.
_Helmer_. Don't you? Why not?
_Nora_. Because it is such a narrow-minded way of looking at things.
_Helmer_. What are you saying? Narrow-minded? Do you think I am
narrow-minded?
_Nora_. No, just the opposite, dear--and it is exactly for that reason.
_Helmer_. It's the same thing. You say my point of view is
narrow-minded, so I must be so, too. Narrow-minded! Very well--I must
put an end to this. (_Goes to the hall door and calls.)_ Helen!
_Nora_. What are you going to do?
_Helmer_ (_looking among his papers)_. Settle it. (_Enter_ MAID.) Look
here; take this letter and go downstairs with it at once. Find a
messenger and tell him to deliver it, and be quick. The address is on
it, and here is the money.
_Maid_. Very well, sir. (_Exit with the letter_.)
_Helmer_ (_putting his papers together_). Now, then, little Miss
Obstinate.
_Nora_ (_breathlessly_). Torvald--what was that letter?
_Helmer_. Krogstad's dismissal.
_Nora_. Call her back, Torvald! There is still time. Oh Torvald, call
her back! Do it for my sake--for your own sake, for the children's sake!
Do you hear me, Torvald? Call her back! You don't know what that letter
can bring upon us.
_Helmer_. It's too late.
_Nora_. Yes, it's too late.
_Helmer_. My dear Nora, I can forgive the anxiety you are in, although
really it is an insult to me. It is, indeed. Isn't it an insult to think
that I should be afraid of a starving quill-driver's vengeance? But I
forgive you, nevertheless, because it is such eloquent witness to your
great love for me. (_Takes her in his arms.)_ And that is as it should
be, my own darling Nora. Come what will, you may be sure I shall have
both courage and strength if they be needed. You will see I am man
enough to take everything upon myself.
_Nora_ (_in a horror-stricken voice_). What do you mean by that?
_Helmer_. Everything I say--
_Nora_ (_recovering herself_). You will never have to do that.
_Helmer_. That's right. Well, we will share it, Nora, as man and wife
should. That is how it shall be. (_Caressing her_.) Are you content now?
There! There!--not these frightened dove's eyes! The whole thing is only
the wildest fancy!--Now, you must go and play through the Tarantella and
practice with your tambourine. I shall go into the inner office and shut
the door, and I shall hear nothing; you can make as much noise as you
please. (_Turns back at the door.)_ And when Rank comes, tell him where
he will find me. (_Nods to her, takes his papers and goes into his room,
and shuts the door after him_.)
_Nora_ (_bewildered with anxiety, stands as if rooted to the spot, and
whispers_). He was capable of doing it. He will do it. He will do it in
spite of everything.--No, not that! Never, never! Anything rather than
that! Oh, for some help, some way out of it. (_The door-bell rings_.)
Doctor Rank! Anything rather than that--anything, whatever it is! (_She
puts her hands over her face, pulls herself together, goes to the door
and opens it. _RANK_ is standing without, hanging up his coat. During
the following dialogue it begins to grow dark_.)
_Nora_. Good-day, Doctor Rank. I knew your ring. But you mustn't go into
Torvald now; I think he is busy with something.
_Rank_. And you?
_Nora_ (_brings him in and shuts the door after him_). Oh, you know very
well I always have time for you.
_Rank_. Thank you. I shall make use of as much of it as I can.
_Nora_. What do you mean by that? As much of it as you can.
_Rank_. Well, does that alarm you?
_Nora_. It was such a strange way of putting it. Is anything likely to
happen?
_Rank_. Nothing but what I have long been prepared for. But I certainly
didn't expect it to happen so soon.
_Nora_ (_gripping him by the arm_). What have you found out? Doctor
Rank, you must tell me.
_Rank_ (_sitting down by the stove_). It is all up with me. And it can't
be helped.
_Nora_ (_with a sigh of relief_). Is it about yourself?
_Rank_. Who else? It is no use lying to one's self. I am the most
wretched of all my patients, Mrs. Helmer. Lately I have been taking
stock of my internal economy. Bankrupt! Probably within a month I shall
lie rotting in the church-yard.
_Nora_. What an ugly thing to say!
_Rank_. The thing itself is cursedly ugly, and the worst of it is that I
shall have to face so much more that is ugly before that. I shall only
make one more examination of myself; when I have done that, I shall know
pretty certainly when it will be that the horrors of dissolution will
begin. There is something I want to tell you. Helmer's refined nature
gives him an unconquerable disgust of everything that is ugly; I won't
have him in my sick-room.
_Nora_. Oh, but, Doctor Rank--
_Rank_. I won't have him there. Not on any account. I bar my door to
him. As soon as I am quite certain that the worst has come, I shall send
you my card with a black cross on it, and then you will know that the
loathsome end has begun.
_Nora_. You are quite absurd to-day. And I wanted you so much to be in a
really good humour.
_Rank_. With death stalking beside me?--To have to pay this penalty for
another man's sin! Is there any justice in that? And in every single
family, in one way or another, some such inexorable retribution is being
exacted--
_Nora_ (_putting her hands over her ears_). Rubbish! Do talk of
something cheerful.
_Rank_. Oh, it's a mere laughing matter, the whole thing. My poor
innocent spine has to suffer for my father's youthful amusements.
_Nora_ (_sitting at the table on the left_). I suppose you mean that he
was too partial to asparagus and pate de foie gras, don't you?
_Rank_. Yes, and to truffles.
_Nora_. Truffles, yes. And oysters too, I suppose?
_Rank_. Oysters, of course, that goes without saying.
_Nora_. And heaps of port and champagne. It is sad that all these nice
things should take their revenge on our bones.
_Rank_. Especially that they should revenge themselves on the unlucky
bones of those who have not had the satisfaction of enjoying them.
_Nora_. Yes, that's the saddest part of it all.
_Rank_ (_with a searching look at her_). Hm!--
_Nora_ (_after a short pause_). Why did you smile?
_Rand_. No, it was you that laughed.
_Nora_. No, it was you that smiled, Doctor Rank!
_Rank_ (_rising_). You are a greater rascal than I thought.
_Nora_. I am in a silly mood today.
_Rank_. So it seems.
_Nora_ (_putting her hands on his shoulders_). Dear, dear Doctor Rank,
death mustn't take you away from Torvald and me.
_Rank_. It is a loss you would easily recover from. Those who are gone
are soon forgotten.
_Nora_ (_looking at him anxiously_). Do you believe that?
_Rank_. People form new ties, and then--
_Nora_. Who will form new ties?
_Rank_. Both you and Helmer, when I am gone. You yourself are already on
the high road to it, I think. What did that Mrs. Linde want here last
night?
_Nora_. Oho!--you don't mean to say you are jealous of poor Christine?
_Rank_. Yes, I am. She will be my successor in this house. When I am
done for, this woman will--
_Nora_. Hush! don't speak so loud. She is in that room.
_Rank_. To-day again. There, you see.
_Nora_. She has only come to sew my dress for me. Bless my soul, how
unreasonable you are! (_Sits down on the sofa_.) Be nice now, Doctor
Rank, and to-morrow you will see how beautifully I shall dance, and you
can imagine I am doing it all for you--and for Torvald too, of course.
(_Takes various things out of the box._) Doctor Rank, come and sit down
here, and I will show you something.
_Rank_ (_sitting down_). What is it?
_Nora_. Just look at those.
_Rank_. Silk stockings.
_Nora_. Flesh-coloured. Aren't they lovely? It is so dark here now, but
to-morrow--. No, no, no! you must only look at the feet. Oh, well, you
may have leave to look at the legs too.
_Rank_. Hm!--
_Nora_. Why are you looking so critical? Don't you think they will fit
me?
_Rank_. I have no means of forming an opinion about that.
_Nora_ (_looks at him for a moment_). For shame! (_Hits him lightly on
the ear with the stockings_.) That's to punish you. (_Folds them up
again_.)
_Rank_. And what other nice things am I to be allowed to see?
_Nora_. Not a single thing more, for being so naughty. (_She looks among
the things, humming to herself_.)
_Rank_ (_after a short silence_). When I am sitting here, talking to you
as intimately as this, I cannot imagine for a moment what would have
become of me if I had never come into this house.
_Nora_ (_smiling_). I believe you do feel thoroughly at home with us.
_Rank_ (_in a lower voice, looking straight in front of him_). And to be
obliged to leave it all--
_Nora_. Nonsense, you are not going to leave it.
_Rank_ (_as before_). And not be able to leave behind one the slightest
token of one's gratitude, scarcely even a fleeting regret--nothing but
an empty place which the first comer can fill as well as any other.
_Nora_. And if I asked you now for a--? No!
_Rank_. For what?
_Nora_. For a big proof of your friendship--
_Rank_. Yes, yes.
_Nora_. I mean a tremendously big favour--
_Rank_. Would you really make me so happy for once?
_Nora_. Ah, but you don't know what it is yet.
_Rank_. No--but tell me.
_Nora_. I really can't, Doctor Rank. It is something out of all reason;
it means advice, and help, and a favour--
_Rank_. The bigger a thing it is the better. I can't conceive what it is
you mean. Do tell me. Haven't I your confidence?
_Nora_. More than anyone else. I know you are my truest and best friend,
and so I will tell you what it is. Well, Doctor Rank, it is something
you must help me to prevent. You know how devotedly, how inexpressibly
deeply Torvald loves me; he would never for a moment hesitate to give
his life for me.
_Rank_ (_leaning toward her_). Nora--do you think he is the only one--?
_Nora_ (_with a slight start_). The only one--?
_Rank_. The only one who would gladly give his life for your sake.
_Nora_ (_sadly_). Is that it?
_Rank_. I was determined you should know it before I went away, and
there will never be a better opportunity than this. Now you know it,
Nora. And now you know, too, that you can trust me as you would trust no
one else.
_Nora_ (_rises deliberately and quietly_). Let me pass.
_Rank_ (_makes room for her to pass him, but sits still_). Nora!
_Nora_ (_at the hall door_). Helen, bring in the lamp. (_Goes over to
the stove_.) Dear Doctor Rank, that was really horrid of you.
_Rank_. To have loved you as much as anyone else does? Was that horrid?
_Nora_. No, but to go and tell me so. There was really no need--
_Rank_. What do you mean? Did you know--? (MAID _enters with lamp, puts
it down on the table, and goes out_.) Nora--Mrs. Helmer--tell me, had
you any idea of this?
_Nora_. Oh, how do I know whether I had or whether I hadn't. I really
can't tell you--To think you could be so clumsy, Doctor Rank! We were
getting on so nicely.
_Bank_. Well, at all events you know now that you can command me, body
and soul. So won't you speak out?
_Nora_ (_looking at him_). After what happened?
_Rank_. I beg you to let me know what it is.
_Nora_. I can't tell you anything now.
_Rank_. Yes, yes. You mustn't punish me in that way. Let me have
permission to do for you whatever a man may do.
_Nora_. You can do nothing for me now. Besides, I really don't need any
help at all. You will find that the whole thing is merely fancy on my
part. It really is so--of course it is! (_Sits down in the
rocking-chair, and looks at him with a smile_.) You are a nice sort of
man, Doctor Rank!--don't you feel ashamed of yourself, now the lamp has
come?
_Rank_. Not a bit. But perhaps I had better go--forever?
_Nora_. No, indeed, you shall not. Of course you must come here just as
before. You know very well Torvald can't do without you.
_Rank_. Yes, but you?
_Nora_. Oh, I am always tremendously pleased when you come.
_Rank_. It is just that, that put me on the wrong track. You are a
riddle to me. I have often thought that you would almost as soon be in
my company as in Helmer's.
_Nora_. Yes--you see there are some people one loves best, and others
whom one would almost always rather have as companions.
_Rank_. Yes, there is something in that.
_Nora_. When I was at home, of course I loved papa best. But I always
thought it tremendous fun if I could steal down into the maids' room,
because they never moralized at all, and talked to each other about such
entertaining things.
_Rank_. I see--it is their place I have taken.
_Nora_ (_jumping-up and going to him_). Oh, dear, nice Doctor Rank, I
never meant that at all. But surely you can understand that being with
Torvald is a little like being with papa--(_Enter_ MAID _from the hall_.)
_Maid_. If you please, ma'am. (_Whispers and hands her a card_.)
_Nora_ (_glancing at the card_). Oh! (_Puts it in her pocket_.)
_Rank_. Is there anything wrong?
_Nora_. No, no, not in the least. It is only something--It is my new
dress--
_Rank_. What? Your dress is lying there.
_Nora_. Oh, yes, that one; but this is another. I ordered it. Torvald
mustn't know about it--
_Rank_. Oho! Then that was the great secret.
_Nora_. Of course. Just go in to him; he is sitting in the inner room.
Keep him as long as--
_Rank_. Make your mind easy; I won't let him escape. (_Goes into_
HELMER'S _room_.)
_Nora_ (_to the_ MAID). And he is standing waiting in the kitchen?
_Maid_. Yes; he came up the back stairs.
_Nora_. But didn't you tell him no one was in?
_Maid_. Yes, but it was no good.
_Nora_. He won't go away?
_Maid_. No; he says he won't until he has seen you, ma'am.
_Nora_. Well, let him come in--but quietly. Helen, you mustn't say
anything about it to any one. It is a surprise for my husband.
_Maid_. Yes, ma'am, I quite understand. (_Exit_.)
_Nora_. This dreadful thing is going to happen. It will happen in spite
of me! No, no, no, it can't happen--it shan't happen! (_She bolts the
door of_ HELMER'S _room. The_ MAID _opens the hall door for_ KROGSTAD
_and shuts it after him. He is wearing a fur coat, high boots and a fur
cap_.)
_Nora_ (_advancing towards him_). Speak low--my husband is at home.
_Krogstad_. No matter about that.
_Nora_. What do you want of me?
_Krogstad_. An explanation of something.
_Nora_. Make haste then. What is it?
_Krogstad_. You know, I suppose, that I have got my dismissal.
_Nora_. I couldn't prevent it, Mr. Krogstad. I fought as hard as I could
on your side, but it was no good.
_Krogstad_. Does your husband love you so little, then? He knows what I
can expose you to, and yet he ventures--
_Nora_. How can you suppose that he has any knowledge of the sort?
_Krogstad_. I didn't suppose so at all. It would not be the least like
our dear Torvald Helmer to show so much courage--
_Nora_. Mr. Krogstad, a little respect for my husband, please.
_Krogstad_. Certainly--all the respect he deserves. But since you have
kept the matter so carefully to yourself, I make bold to suppose that
you have a little clearer idea than you had yesterday, of what it
actually is that you have done?
_Nora_. More than you could ever teach me.
_Krogstad_. Yes, such a bad lawyer as I am.
_Nora_. What is it you want of me?
_Krogstad_. Only to see how you were, Mrs. Helmer. I have been thinking
about you all day long. A mere cashier--a quill-driver, a--well, a man
like me--even he has a little of what is called feeling, you know.
_Nora_. Show it, then; think of my little children.
_Krogstad_. Have you and your husband thought of mine? But never mind
about that. I only wanted to tell you that you need not take this matter
too seriously. In the first place there will be no accusation made on my
part.
_Nora_. No, of course not; I was sure of that.
_Krogstad_. The whole thing can be arranged amicably; there is no reason
why anyone should know anything about it. It will remain a secret
between us three.
_Nora_. My husband must never get to know anything about it.
_Krogstad_. How will you be able to prevent it? Am I to understand that
you can pay the balance that is owing?
_Nora_. No, not just at present.
_Krogstad_. Or perhaps that you have some expedient for raising the
money soon?
_Nora_. No expedient that I mean to make use of.
_Krogstad_. Well, in any case, it would have been of no use to you now.
If you stood there with ever so much money in your hand, I would never
part with your bond.
_Nora_. Tell me what purpose you mean to put it to.
_Krogstad_. I shall only preserve it--keep it in my possession. No one
who is not concerned in the matter shall have the slightest hint of it.
So that if the thought of it has driven you to any desperate
resolution--
_Nora_. It has.
_Krogstad_. If you had it in your mind to run away from your home--
_Nora_. I had.
_Krogstad_. Or even something worse--
_Nora_. How could you know that?
_Krogstad_. Give up the idea.
_Nora_. How did you know I had thought of _that?_
_Krogstad_. Most of us think of that at first. I did, too--but I hadn't
the courage.
_Nora_ (_faintly_). No more had I.
_Krogstad_ (_in a tone of relief)_. No, that's it, isn't it--you hadn't
the courage either?
_Nora_. No, I haven't--I haven't.
_Krogstad_. Besides, it would have been a great piece of folly. Once the
first storm at home is over--. I have a letter for your husband in my
pocket.
_Nora_. Telling him everything?
_Krogstad_. In as lenient a manner as I possibly could.
_Nora_ (_quickly)_. He mustn't get the letter. Tear it up. I will find
some means of getting money.
_Krogstad_. Excuse me, Mrs. Helmer, but I think I told you just how--
_Nora_. I am not speaking of what I owe you. Tell me what sum you are
asking my husband for, and I will get the money.
_Krogstad_. I am not asking your husband for a penny.
_Nora_. What do you want, then?
_Krogstad_. I will tell you. I want to rehabilitate myself, Mrs. Helmer;
I want to get on; and in that your husband must help me. For the last
year and a half I have not had a hand in anything dishonourable, and all
that time I have been struggling in most restricted circumstances. I was
content to work my way up step by step. Now I am turned out, and I am
not going to be satisfied with merely being taken into favour again. I
want to get on, I tell you. I want to get into the Bank again, in a
higher position. Your husband must make a place for me--
_Nora_. That he will never do!
_Krogstad_. He will; I know him; he dare not protest. And as soon as I
am in there again with him, then you will see! Within a year I shall be
the manager's right hand. It will be Nils Krogstad and not Torvald
Helmer who manages the Bank.
_Nora_. That's a thing you will never see!
_Krogstad_. Do you mean that you will--?
_Nora_. I have courage enough for it now.
_Krogstad_. Oh, you can't frighten me. A fine, spoilt lady like you--
_Nora_. You will see, you will see.
_Krogstad_. Under the ice, perhaps? Down into the cold, coal-black
water? And then, in the spring, to float up to the surface, all horrible
and unrecognizable, with your hair fallen out--
_Nora_. You can't frighten me.
_Krogstad_. Nor you me. People don't do such things, Mrs. Helmer.
Besides, what use would it be? I should have him completely in my power
all the same.
_Nora_. Afterwards? When I am no longer--
_Krogstad_. Have you forgot that it is I who have the keeping of your
reputation? (_Nora stands speechlessly looking at him.)_ Well, now, I
have warned you. Do not do anything foolish. When Helmer has had my
letter, I shall expect a message from him. And be sure you remember that
it is your husband himself who has forced me into such ways as this
again. I will never forgive him for that. Good-bye, Mrs. Helmer. (_Exit
through the hall.)_
_Nora_ (_goes to the hall door, opens it slightly and listens_). He is
going. He is not putting the letter in the box. Oh, no, no, that's
impossible! (_Opens the door by degrees._) What is that? He is standing
outside. He is not going downstairs. Is he hesitating? Can he--? (_A
letter drops into the box; then_ KROGSTAD'S _footsteps are heard, till
they die away as he goes downstairs._ NORA _utters a stifled cry, and
runs across the room to the table by the sofa. A short pause_.)
_Nora_. In the letter-box. (_Steals across to the hall-door_.) There it
lies--Torvald, Torvald, there is no hope for us now!
(MRS. LINDE _comes in from the room on the left, carrying the dress_.)
_Mrs. Linde_. There, I can't see anything more to mend now. Would you
like to try it on--?
_Nora_ (_in a hoarse whisper_). Christine, come here.
_Mrs. Linde_ (_throwing the dress down on the sofa_). What is the matter
with you? You look so agitated!
_Nora_. Come here. Do you see that letter? There, look--you can see it
through the glass in the letter-box.
_Mrs. Linde_. Yes, I see it.
_Nora_. That letter is from Krogstad.
_Mrs. Linde_. Nora--it was Krogstad who lent you the money!
_Nora_. Yes, and now Torvald will know all about it.
_Mrs. Linde_. Believe me, Nora, that's the best thing for both of you.
_Nora_. You don't know all. I forged a name.
_Mrs. Linde_. Good heavens--!
_Nora_. I only want to say this to you, Christine--you must be my witness.
_Mrs. Linde_. Your witness! What do you mean? What am I to--?
_Nora_. If I should go out of my mind--and it might easily happen--
_Mrs. Linde_. Nora!
_Nora_. Or if anything else should happen to me--anything, for instance,
that might prevent my being here--
_Mrs. Linde_. Nora! Nora! you are quite out of your mind.
_Nora_. And if it should happen that there were someone who wanted to
take all the responsibility, all the blame, you understand--
_Mrs. Linde_. Yes, yes--but how can you suppose--?
_Nora_. Then you must be my witness, that it is not true, Christine. I
am not out of my mind at all; I am in my right senses now, and I tell
you no one else has known anything about it; I and I alone, did the
whole thing. Remember that.
_Mrs. Linde_. I will, indeed. But I don't understand all this.
_Nora_. How should you understand it? A wonderful thing is going to
happen.
_Mrs. Linde_. A wonderful thing?
_Nora_. Yes, a wonderful thing!--But it is so terrible, Christine; it
_mustn't_ happen, not for all the world.
_Mrs. Linde_. I will go at once and see Krogstad.
_Nora_. Don't go to him; he will do you some harm.
_Mrs. Linde_. There was a time when he would gladly do anything for my
sake.
_Nora_. He?
_Mrs. Linde_. Where does he live?
_Nora_. How should I know--? Yes (_feeling in her pocket_) here is his
card. But the letter, the letter--!
_Helmer_ (_calls from his room, knocking at the door_). Nora.
_Nora_ (_cries out anxiously_). Oh, what's that? What do you want?
_Helmer_. Don't be so frightened. We are not coming in; you have locked
the door. Are you trying on your dress?
_Nora_. Yes, that's it. I look so nice, Torvald.
_Mrs. Linde_ (_who has read the card_) I see he lives at the corner
here.
_Nora_. Yes, but it's no use. It is hopeless. The letter is lying there
in the box.
_Mrs. Linde_. And your husband keeps the key?
_Nora_. Yes, always.
_Mrs. Linde_. Krogstad must ask for his letter back unread, he must find
some pretence--
_Nora_. But it is just at this time that Torvald generally--
_Mrs. Linde_. You must delay him. Go in to him in the meantime. I will
come back as soon as I can. (_She goes out hurriedly through the hall
door_.)
_Nora_ (_goes to_ HELMER'S _door, opens it and peeps in_). Torvald!
_Helmer_ (_from the inner room_). Well? May I venture at last to come
into my own room again? Come along, Rank, now you will see--(_ Halting
in the doorway_.) But what is this?
_Nora_. What is what, dear?
_Helmer_. Rank led me to expect a splendid transformation.
_Rank_ (_in the doorway_). I understood so, but evidently I was
mistaken.
_Nora_. Yes, nobody is to have the chance of admiring me in my dress
until to-morrow.
_Helmer_. But, my dear Nora, you look so worn out. Have you been
practising too much?
_Nora_. No, I have not practised at all.
_Helmer_. But you will need to--
_Nora_. Yes, indeed I shall, Torvald. But I can't get on a bit without
you to help me; I have absolutely forgotten the whole thing.
_Helmer_. Oh, we will soon work it up again.
_Nora_. Yes, help me, Torvald. Promise that you will! I am so nervous
about it--all the people--. You must give yourself up to me entirely
this evening. Not the tiniest bit of business--you mustn't even take a
pen in your hand. Will you promise, Torvald dear?
_Helmer_. I promise. This evening I will be wholly and absolutely at
your service, you helpless little mortal. Ah, by the way, first of all I
will just--(_Goes toward the hall-door_.)
_Nora_. What are you going to do there?
_Helmer_. Only see if any letters have come.
_Nora_. No, no! don't do that, Torvald!
_Helmer_. Why not?
_Nora_. Torvald, please don't. There is nothing there.
_Helmer_. Well, let me look. (_Turns to go to the letter-box._ NORA, _at
the piano, plays the first bars of the Tarantella_. HELMER _stops in the
doorway_.) Aha!
_Nora_. I can't dance to-morrow if I don't practise with you.
_Helmer_ (_going up to her_). Are you really so afraid of it, dear?
_Nora_. Yes, so dreadfully afraid of it. Let me practise at once; there
is time now, before we go to dinner. Sit down and play for me, Torvald
dear; criticise me, and correct me as you play.
_Helmer_. With great pleasure, if you wish me to. (_Sits down at the
piano_.)
_Nora_ (_takes out of the box a tambourine and a long variegated shawl.
She hastily drapes the shawl round her. Then she springs to the front of
the stage and calls out_). Now play for me! I am going to dance!
(HELMER _plays and_ NORA _dances_. RANK _stands by the piano behind_
HELMER, _and looks on_.)
_Helmer_ (_as he plays_). Slower, slower!
_Nora_. I can't do it any other way.
_Helmer_. Not so violently, Nora!
_Nora_. This is the way.
_Helmer_ (_stops playing_). No, no--that is not a bit right.
_Nora_ (_laughing and swinging the tambourine_). Didn't I tell you so?
_Rank_. Let me play for her.
_Helmer_ (_getting up_). Yes, do. I can correct her better then.
(RANK _sits down at the piano and plays. Nora dances more and more
wildly_. HELMER _has taken up a position beside the stove, and during
her dance gives her frequent instructions. She does not seem to hear
him; her hair comes down and falls over her shoulders; she pays no
attention to it, but goes on dancing. Enter_ MRS. LINDE.)
_Mrs. Linde_ (_standing as if spell-bound in the doorway_). Oh!--
_Nora_ (_as she dances_). Such fun, Christine!
_Helmer_. My dear darling Nora, you are dancing as if your life depended
on it.
_Nora_. So it does.
_Helmer_. Stop, Rank; this is sheer madness. Stop, I tell you. (RANK
_stops playing, and,_ NORA _suddenly stands still_. HELMER _goes up to
her._) I could never have believed it. You have forgotten everything I
taught you.
_Nora_ (_throwing away the tambourine_). There, you see.
_Helmer_. You will want a lot of coaching.
_Nora_. Yes, you see how much I need it. You must coach me up to the
last minute. Promise me that, Torvald!
_Helmer_. You can depend on me.
_Nora_. You must not think of anything but me, either to-day or
to-morrow; you mustn't open a single letter--not even open the
letter-box--
_Helmer_. Ah, you are still afraid of that fellow----
_Nora_. Yes, indeed I am.
_Helmer_. Nora, I can tell from your looks that there is a letter from
him lying there.
_Nora_. I don't know; I think there is; but you must not read anything
of that kind now. Nothing horrid must come between us till this is all
over.
_Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER). You mustn't contradict her.
_Helmer_ (_taking her in his arms_). The child shall have her way. But
to-morrow night, after you have danced--
_Nora_. Then you will be free. (_The_ MAID _appears in the doorway to
the right_.)
_Maid_. Dinner is served, ma'am.
_Nora_. We will have champagne, Helen.
_Maid_. Very good, ma'am.
_Helmer_. Hullo!--are we going to have a banquet? (_Exit._)
_Nora_. Yes, a champagne banquet till the small hours. (_Calls out_.)
And a few macaroons, Helen--lots, just for once!
_Helmer_. Come, come, don't be so wild and nervous. Be my own little
skylark, as you used.
_Nora_. Yes, dear, I will. But go in now and you too, Doctor Rank.
Christine, you must, help me to do up my hair.
_Rank_ (_whispers to_ HELMER _as they go out_). I suppose there is
nothing--she is not expecting anything?
_Helmer_. Far from it, my dear fellow; it is simply nothing more than
this childish nervousness I was telling you of. (_They go into the
right-hand room_.)
_Nora_. Well!
_Mrs. Linde_. Gone out of town.
_Nora_. I could tell from your face.
_Mrs. Linde_. He is coming home tomorrow evening. I wrote a note for
him.
_Nora_. You should have let it alone; you must prevent nothing. After
all, it is splendid to be waiting for a wonderful thing to happen.
_Mrs. Linde_. What is it that you are waiting for?
_Nora_, Oh, you wouldn't understand. Go in to them. I will come in a
moment. (MRS. LINDE _goes into the dining-room._ NORA _stands still for
a little while, as if to compose herself. Then she looks at her watch_.)
Five o'clock. Seven hours till midnight; and then four-and-twenty hours
till the next midnight. Then the Tarantella will be over. Twenty-four
and seven? Thirty-one hours to live.
_Helmer_ (_from the doorway on the right_). Where's my little skylark?
_Nora_ (_going to him with her arms out-stretched_). Here she is! | It is Christmas day. The Christmas tree is stripped of decorations and the candles are burned out. Nora is worried that a letter might arrive from Krogstad, revealing her secret to Torvald. The Nurse enters, carrying a box of fancy dress clothes. Nora asks after the children. It is clear that she has deliberately been spending less time with them. She asks the Nurse if they would forget their mother if she went away. She asks too how the Nurse managed to send her own child away to be looked after by others. The Nurse replies that she had no choice: her baby was illegitimate, the father did not help, and she would not have been able to take her present job if she had a child to look after. Mrs Linde arrives and repairs a Neapolitan fisher-girl's dress that Torvald wants Nora to wear to a party in the upstairs flat the following evening. She is going to dance the Tarantella. Nora tells Mrs Linde that Dr Rank is suffering from tuberculosis of the spine, and that he inherited the sickness from his dissolute father. It is implied that the father had syphilis, a venereal disease. Mrs Linde expresses concern about Dr Rank's daily visits. She believes that he is unduly fond of Nora and that he is the one who lent her the money. Nora refutes her suspicion about the source of the money. Nora hears Torvald returning and quickly hustles Mrs Linde into the next room on the grounds that he cannot bear to see dressmaking going on. Once again, she asks Torvald not to dismiss Krogstad. She claims she is afraid that he will slander Torvald. Torvald replies that she is thinking of her father, who was similarly slandered. But Torvald insists that he, unlike her father, has a reputation that is above suspicion. He has let it be known that he is dismissing Krogstad, and cannot let it be thought that he is changing his mind under the persuasion of his wife. His final reason for dismissing Krogstad is that while he might overlook his "moral failings," he fears that he will embarrass him in public by treating him familiarly . Nora is shocked at her husband's narrow-mindedness. Stung by her judgment of him, Torvald decides to settle the matter and sends a letter of dismissal to Krogstad with his final salary. Nora, panic-stricken, begs him to recall the letter, but he refuses, assuring her that he would take any troubles that arose on his own shoulders. He suggests that she go and practice her Tarantella dance. Dr Rank arrives and reveals to Nora that he expects to die within a month. He does not wish to have Torvald in his sick-room, but will send Nora a card with a black cross on it when his death is imminent. Nora flirts with Dr Rank, showing him her silk stockings. She plays with the idea of asking him for the money to pay off Krogstad, but he reveals that he loves her, and she decides that she cannot now ask him. The Maid enters with Krogstad's visiting card. Nora invents a story for Dr Rank that a new dress is being delivered and asks him to keep Torvald occupied, as he must not see it. Dr Rank leaves and Krogstad enters with a letter for Torvald, telling him about the loan to Nora and her forgery of her father's signature. He tells Nora that he does not intend to accuse her publicly, but to blackmail Torvald. He will keep her bond showing details of the loan, rather than returning it when the loan is paid off, as is customary. He will not be content with his old job back; he wants a promotion. He drops the letter into the glass-fronted letter box, to which only Torvald has the key. Mrs Linde enters. Nora, in a state of terror, shows her the letter. Mrs Linde realizes that Krogstad loaned Nora the money. Nora still expects that Torvald will take the blame entirely onto himself, as he has promised, but she wishes Mrs Linde to know that she alone is responsible. Mrs Linde believes that it is best that Torvald knows the truth. But Nora insists that he must not find out. Mrs Linde leaves to talk to Krogstad. Nora is desperate to prevent Torvald from reading the letter. She distracts him by insisting that he play the piano while she practices the Tarantella. She dances increasingly wildly, and he tries to slow her down. Dr Rank takes over the piano while Torvald gives her instructions, which she ignores. She begs Torvald to focus only on her and not to open any letter until after the party. He agrees. Mrs Linde tells Nora that Krogstad has left town until the following evening, and that she has left a note for him. Left alone, Nora works out that she has just thirty-one hours to live. Torvald enters, asking for his "little skylark", and she rushes to his arms. |
Enter two Gentlemen at seuerall Doores.
1. Whether away so fast?
2. O, God saue ye:
Eu'n to the Hall, to heare what shall become
Of the great Duke of Buckingham
1. Ile saue you
That labour Sir. All's now done but the Ceremony
Of bringing backe the Prisoner
2. Were you there ?
1. Yes indeed was I
2. Pray speake what ha's happen'd
1. You may guesse quickly what
2. Is he found guilty?
1. Yes truely is he,
And condemn'd vpon't
2. I am sorry fort
1. So are a number more
2. But pray how past it?
1. Ile tell you in a little. The great Duke
Came to the Bar; where, to his accusations
He pleaded still not guilty, and alleadged
Many sharpe reasons to defeat the Law.
The Kings Atturney on the contrary,
Vrg'd on the Examinations, proofes, confessions
Of diuers witnesses, which the Duke desir'd
To him brought viua voce to his face;
At which appear'd against him, his Surueyor
Sir Gilbert Pecke his Chancellour, and Iohn Car,
Confessor to him, with that Diuell Monke,
Hopkins, that made this mischiefe
2. That was hee
That fed him with his Prophecies
1. The same,
All these accus'd him strongly, which he faine
Would haue flung from him; but indeed he could not;
And so his Peeres vpon this euidence,
Haue found him guilty of high Treason. Much
He spoke, and learnedly for life: But all
Was either pittied in him, or forgotten
2. After all this, how did he beare himselfe?
1. When he was brought agen to th' Bar, to heare
His Knell rung out, his Iudgement, he was stir'd
With such an Agony, he sweat extreamly,
And somthing spoke in choller, ill, and hasty:
But he fell to himselfe againe, and sweetly,
In all the rest shew'd a most Noble patience
2. I doe not thinke he feares death
1. Sure he does not,
He neuer was so womanish, the cause
He may a little grieue at
2. Certainly,
The Cardinall is the end of this
1. Tis likely,
By all coniectures: First Kildares Attendure;
Then Deputy of Ireland, who remou'd
Earle Surrey, was sent thither, and in hast too,
Least he should helpe his Father
2. That tricke of State
Was a deepe enuious one,
1. At his returne,
No doubt he will requite it; this is noted
(And generally) who euer the King fauours,
The Cardnall instantly will finde imployment,
And farre enough from Court too
2. All the Commons
Hate him perniciously, and o' my Conscience
Wish him ten faddom deepe: This Duke as much
They loue and doate on: call him bounteous Buckingham,
The Mirror of all courtesie.
Enter Buckingham from his Arraignment, Tipstaues before him,
the Axe with
the edge towards him, Halberds on each side, accompanied with
Sir Thomas
Louell, Sir Nicholas Vaux, Sir Walter Sands, and common people,
&c.
1. Stay there Sir,
And see the noble ruin'd man you speake of
2. Let's stand close and behold him
Buck. All good people,
You that thus farre haue come to pitty me;
Heare what I say, and then goe home and lose me.
I haue this day receiu'd a Traitors iudgement,
And by that name must dye; yet Heauen beare witnes,
And if I haue a Conscience, let it sincke me,
Euen as the Axe falls, if I be not faithfull.
The Law I beare no mallice for my death,
T'has done vpon the premises, but Iustice:
But those that sought it, I could wish more Christians:
(Be what they will) I heartily forgiue 'em;
Yet let 'em looke they glory not in mischiefe;
Nor build their euils on the graues of great men;
For then, my guiltlesse blood must cry against 'em.
For further life in this world I ne're hope,
Nor will I sue, although the King haue mercies
More then I dare make faults.
You few that lou'd me,
And dare be bold to weepe for Buckingham,
His Noble Friends and Fellowes; whom to leaue
Is only bitter to him, only dying:
Goe with me like good Angels to my end,
And as the long diuorce of Steele fals on me,
Make of your Prayers one sweet Sacrifice,
And lift my Soule to Heauen.
Lead on a Gods name
Louell. I doe beseech your Grace, for charity
If euer any malice in your heart
Were hid against me, now to forgiue me frankly
Buck. Sir Thomas Louell, I as free forgiue you
As I would be forgiuen: I forgiue all.
There cannot be those numberlesse offences
Gainst me, that I cannot take peace with:
No blacke Enuy shall make my Graue.
Commend mee to his Grace:
And if he speake of Buckingham; pray tell him,
You met him halfe in Heauen: my vowes and prayers
Yet are the Kings; and till my Soule forsake,
Shall cry for blessings on him. May he liue
Longer then I haue time to tell his yeares;
Euer belou'd and louing, may his Rule be;
And when old Time shall lead him to his end,
Goodnesse and he, fill vp one Monument
Lou. To th' water side I must conduct your Grace;
Then giue my Charge vp to Sir Nicholas Vaux,
Who vndertakes you to your end
Vaux. Prepare there,
The Duke is comming: See the Barge be ready;
And fit it with such furniture as suites
The Greatnesse of his Person
Buck. Nay, Sir Nicholas,
Let it alone; my State now will but mocke me.
When I came hither, I was Lord High Constable,
And Duke of Buckingham: now, poore Edward Bohun;
Yet I am richer then my base Accusers,
That neuer knew what Truth meant: I now seale it;
And with that bloud will make 'em one day groane for't.
My noble Father Henry of Buckingham,
Who first rais'd head against Vsurping Richard,
Flying for succour to his Seruant Banister,
Being distrest; was by that wretch betraid,
And without Tryall, fell; Gods peace be with him.
Henry the Seauenth succeeding, truly pittying
My Fathers losse; like a most Royall Prince
Restor'd me to my Honours: and out of ruines
Made my Name once more Noble. Now his Sonne,
Henry the Eight, Life, Honour, Name and all
That made me happy; at one stroake ha's taken
For euer from the World. I had my Tryall,
And must needs say a Noble one; which makes me
A little happier then my wretched Father:
Yet thus farre we are one in Fortunes; both
Fell by our Seruants, by those Men we lou'd most:
A most vnnaturall and faithlesse Seruice.
Heauen ha's an end in all: yet, you that heare me,
This from a dying man receiue as certaine:
Where you are liberall of your loues and Councels,
Be sure you be not loose; for those you make friends,
And giue your hearts to; when they once perceiue
The least rub in your fortunes, fall away
Like water from ye, neuer found againe
But where they meane to sinke ye: all good people
Pray for me, I must now forsake ye; the last houre
Of my long weary life is come vpon me:
Farewell; and when you would say somthing that is sad,
Speake how I fell.
I haue done; and God forgiue me.
Exeunt. Duke and Traine.
1. O, this is full of pitty; Sir, it cals
I feare, too many curses on their heads
That were the Authors
2. If the Duke be guiltlesse,
'Tis full of woe: yet I can giue you inckling
Of an ensuing euill, if it fall,
Greater then this
1. Good Angels keepe it from vs:
What may it be? you doe not doubt my faith Sir?
2. This Secret is so weighty, 'twill require
A strong faith to conceale it
1. Let me haue it:
I doe not talke much
2. I am confident;
You shall Sir: Did you not of late dayes heare
A buzzing of a Separation
Betweene the King and Katherine?
1. Yes, but it held not;
For when the King once heard it, out of anger
He sent command to the Lord Mayor straight
To stop the rumor; and allay those tongues
That durst disperse it
2. But that slander Sir,
Is found a truth now: for it growes agen
Fresher then e're it was; and held for certaine
The King will venture at it. Either the Cardinall,
Or some about him neere, haue out of malice
To the good Queene, possest him with a scruple
That will vndoe her: To confirme this too,
Cardinall Campeius is arriu'd, and lately,
As all thinke for this busines
1. Tis the Cardinall;
And meerely to reuenge him on the Emperour,
For not bestowing on him at his asking,
The Archbishopricke of Toledo, this is purpos'd
2. I thinke
You haue hit the marke; but is't not cruell,
That she should feele the smart of this: the Cardinall
Will haue his will, and she must fall
1. 'Tis wofull.
Wee are too open heere to argue this:
Let's thinke in priuate more.
Exeunt. | Two guys meet on a street, rushing. Why so fast? Guy #2 is on his way to Buckingham's trial, but Guy #1 has just come from there and says it's finished already. Well, that was fast. What happened? Guy # 1 explains the trial: Buckingham pled not guilty, but he was found guilty and sentenced to death. It didn't matter that he was eloquent or that he stood up for himself rationally; he was found guilty, anyway. The gents agree that Wolsey is behind all this. This isn't the first time it's happened, either: Wolsey also kicked Earl Surrey, the Deputy of Ireland, and Kildare out of their positions... and the list goes on. Wait a minute, says Guy # 1: it seems like Wolsey gets rid of anyone the king likes. Maybe Guy #1 on to something... As the men are talking, Buckingham enters with Lovell, Vaux, Sands, and a bunch of commoners. Buckingham delivers a heartfelt speech about how he's been wrongly accused. But he's not calling for revenge; instead, he forgives the men who did this to him. Now he's off to heaven. There's not a dry eye in the house. Lovell asks for forgiveness, and Buckingham grants it--in fact, he forgives everyone. Vaux orders for a barge to be prepared to take them away. Oh, and it should be made nice enough for a duke, since Buckingham is a duke and all. Buckingham jumps in and stops Vaux: he might have come in as a duke, but he leaves as plain old Edward Bohun. He thinks back to his father's role in English history, and he thinks about the past few kings who ruled. Buckingham recognizes that he's repeated history in some ways: his dad thought his buddies were loyal to him, but they killed him. Now something similar is happening to Buckingham himself. At least he got a trial? Too bad it wasn't much of a trial. Buckingham warns everyone to be careful whom you trust, since not everyone is loyal. Then Buckingham's off. The gents think this is sad: a guiltless man taken away to execution is neither fair nor just. The gents pray that the angels keep them from wicked men who play in evil trickery and deceitful trials. Then Guy #2 asks Guys #1 if he's heard the latest rumor around the water cooler: Henry is splitting up with Katherine. The gents agree that this must all be Wolsey's doing. Katherine doesn't obey Wolsey blindly, and she's suspicious of him. On top of that, Katherine's dad didn't hire Wolsey for a job that one time. No wonder Wolsey's orchestrated the break-up. This isn't an ordinary rumor, though: Cardinal Campeius from Rome has arrived to talk to Henry about it. Married people can't just go and break up , so this is a really big deal. The gents think this means the rumor is true. Then the gents look around. They're out in the open, and they've been talking about a private matter. They don't want to get in trouble, so they hightail it right out of there. |
'The coast of Patusan (I saw it nearly two years afterwards) is straight
and sombre, and faces a misty ocean. Red trails are seen like cataracts
of rust streaming under the dark-green foliage of bushes and creepers
clothing the low cliffs. Swampy plains open out at the mouth of rivers,
with a view of jagged blue peaks beyond the vast forests. In the offing
a chain of islands, dark, crumbling shapes, stand out in the everlasting
sunlit haze like the remnants of a wall breached by the sea.
'There is a village of fisher-folk at the mouth of the Batu Kring branch
of the estuary. The river, which had been closed so long, was open then,
and Stein's little schooner, in which I had my passage, worked her
way up in three tides without being exposed to a fusillade from
"irresponsive parties." Such a state of affairs belonged already to
ancient history, if I could believe the elderly headman of the fishing
village, who came on board to act as a sort of pilot. He talked to me
(the second white man he had ever seen) with confidence, and most of his
talk was about the first white man he had ever seen. He called him Tuan
Jim, and the tone of his references was made remarkable by a strange
mixture of familiarity and awe. They, in the village, were under that
lord's special protection, which showed that Jim bore no grudge. If
he had warned me that I would hear of him it was perfectly true. I was
hearing of him. There was already a story that the tide had turned
two hours before its time to help him on his journey up the river. The
talkative old man himself had steered the canoe and had marvelled at the
phenomenon. Moreover, all the glory was in his family. His son and his
son-in-law had paddled; but they were only youths without experience,
who did not notice the speed of the canoe till he pointed out to them
the amazing fact.
'Jim's coming to that fishing village was a blessing; but to them, as to
many of us, the blessing came heralded by terrors. So many generations
had been released since the last white man had visited the river that
the very tradition had been lost. The appearance of the being that
descended upon them and demanded inflexibly to be taken up to Patusan
was discomposing; his insistence was alarming; his generosity more than
suspicious. It was an unheard-of request. There was no precedent. What
would the Rajah say to this? What would he do to them? The best part
of the night was spent in consultation; but the immediate risk from the
anger of that strange man seemed so great that at last a cranky dug-out
was got ready. The women shrieked with grief as it put off. A fearless
old hag cursed the stranger.
'He sat in it, as I've told you, on his tin box, nursing the unloaded
revolver on his lap. He sat with precaution--than which there is nothing
more fatiguing--and thus entered the land he was destined to fill with
the fame of his virtues, from the blue peaks inland to the white ribbon
of surf on the coast. At the first bend he lost sight of the sea with
its labouring waves for ever rising, sinking, and vanishing to rise
again--the very image of struggling mankind--and faced the immovable
forests rooted deep in the soil, soaring towards the sunshine,
everlasting in the shadowy might of their tradition, like life itself.
And his opportunity sat veiled by his side like an Eastern bride waiting
to be uncovered by the hand of the master. He too was the heir of a
shadowy and mighty tradition! He told me, however, that he had never in
his life felt so depressed and tired as in that canoe. All the movement
he dared to allow himself was to reach, as it were by stealth, after the
shell of half a cocoa-nut floating between his shoes, and bale some of
the water out with a carefully restrained action. He discovered how hard
the lid of a block-tin case was to sit upon. He had heroic health; but
several times during that journey he experienced fits of giddiness, and
between whiles he speculated hazily as to the size of the blister the
sun was raising on his back. For amusement he tried by looking ahead to
decide whether the muddy object he saw lying on the water's edge was a
log of wood or an alligator. Only very soon he had to give that up. No
fun in it. Always alligator. One of them flopped into the river and all
but capsized the canoe. But this excitement was over directly. Then in
a long empty reach he was very grateful to a troop of monkeys who came
right down on the bank and made an insulting hullabaloo on his passage.
Such was the way in which he was approaching greatness as genuine as any
man ever achieved. Principally, he longed for sunset; and meantime
his three paddlers were preparing to put into execution their plan of
delivering him up to the Rajah.
'"I suppose I must have been stupid with fatigue, or perhaps I did doze
off for a time," he said. The first thing he knew was his canoe coming
to the bank. He became instantaneously aware of the forest having been
left behind, of the first houses being visible higher up, of a stockade
on his left, and of his boatmen leaping out together upon a low point of
land and taking to their heels. Instinctively he leaped out after them.
At first he thought himself deserted for some inconceivable reason, but
he heard excited shouts, a gate swung open, and a lot of people poured
out, making towards him. At the same time a boat full of armed men
appeared on the river and came alongside his empty canoe, thus shutting
off his retreat.
'"I was too startled to be quite cool--don't you know? and if that
revolver had been loaded I would have shot somebody--perhaps two, three
bodies, and that would have been the end of me. But it wasn't. . . ."
"Why not?" I asked. "Well, I couldn't fight the whole population, and
I wasn't coming to them as if I were afraid of my life," he said, with
just a faint hint of his stubborn sulkiness in the glance he gave me.
I refrained from pointing out to him that they could not have known the
chambers were actually empty. He had to satisfy himself in his own way.
. . . "Anyhow it wasn't," he repeated good-humouredly, "and so I just
stood still and asked them what was the matter. That seemed to strike
them dumb. I saw some of these thieves going off with my box. That
long-legged old scoundrel Kassim (I'll show him to you to-morrow)
ran out fussing to me about the Rajah wanting to see me. I said, 'All
right.' I too wanted to see the Rajah, and I simply walked in through
the gate and--and--here I am." He laughed, and then with unexpected
emphasis, "And do you know what's the best in it?" he asked. "I'll tell
you. It's the knowledge that had I been wiped out it is this place that
would have been the loser."
'He spoke thus to me before his house on that evening I've
mentioned--after we had watched the moon float away above the chasm
between the hills like an ascending spirit out of a grave; its sheen
descended, cold and pale, like the ghost of dead sunlight. There
is something haunting in the light of the moon; it has all the
dispassionateness of a disembodied soul, and something of its
inconceivable mystery. It is to our sunshine, which--say what you
like--is all we have to live by, what the echo is to the sound:
misleading and confusing whether the note be mocking or sad. It robs all
forms of matter--which, after all, is our domain--of their substance,
and gives a sinister reality to shadows alone. And the shadows were
very real around us, but Jim by my side looked very stalwart, as though
nothing--not even the occult power of moonlight--could rob him of his
reality in my eyes. Perhaps, indeed, nothing could touch him since he
had survived the assault of the dark powers. All was silent, all was
still; even on the river the moonbeams slept as on a pool. It was the
moment of high water, a moment of immobility that accentuated the utter
isolation of this lost corner of the earth. The houses crowding along
the wide shining sweep without ripple or glitter, stepping into the
water in a line of jostling, vague, grey, silvery forms mingled with
black masses of shadow, were like a spectral herd of shapeless creatures
pressing forward to drink in a spectral and lifeless stream. Here and
there a red gleam twinkled within the bamboo walls, warm, like a living
spark, significant of human affections, of shelter, of repose.
'He confessed to me that he often watched these tiny warm gleams go
out one by one, that he loved to see people go to sleep under his eyes,
confident in the security of to-morrow. "Peaceful here, eh?" he asked.
He was not eloquent, but there was a deep meaning in the words that
followed. "Look at these houses; there's not one where I am not trusted.
Jove! I told you I would hang on. Ask any man, woman, or child . . ." He
paused. "Well, I am all right anyhow."
'I observed quickly that he had found that out in the end. I had been
sure of it, I added. He shook his head. "Were you?" He pressed my arm
lightly above the elbow. "Well, then--you were right."
'There was elation and pride, there was awe almost, in that low
exclamation. "Jove!" he cried, "only think what it is to me." Again he
pressed my arm. "And you asked me whether I thought of leaving. Good
God! I! want to leave! Especially now after what you told me of Mr.
Stein's . . . Leave! Why! That's what I was afraid of. It would have
been--it would have been harder than dying. No--on my word. Don't
laugh. I must feel--every day, every time I open my eyes--that I am
trusted--that nobody has a right--don't you know? Leave! For where? What
for? To get what?"
'I had told him (indeed it was the main object of my visit) that it was
Stein's intention to present him at once with the house and the stock
of trading goods, on certain easy conditions which would make the
transaction perfectly regular and valid. He began to snort and plunge at
first. "Confound your delicacy!" I shouted. "It isn't Stein at all. It's
giving you what you had made for yourself. And in any case keep your
remarks for McNeil--when you meet him in the other world. I hope it
won't happen soon. . . ." He had to give in to my arguments, because all
his conquests, the trust, the fame, the friendships, the love--all these
things that made him master had made him a captive, too. He looked with
an owner's eye at the peace of the evening, at the river, at the houses,
at the everlasting life of the forests, at the life of the old mankind,
at the secrets of the land, at the pride of his own heart; but it was
they that possessed him and made him their own to the innermost thought,
to the slightest stir of blood, to his last breath.
'It was something to be proud of. I, too, was proud--for him, if not so
certain of the fabulous value of the bargain. It was wonderful. It was
not so much of his fearlessness that I thought. It is strange how little
account I took of it: as if it had been something too conventional to be
at the root of the matter. No. I was more struck by the other gifts he
had displayed. He had proved his grasp of the unfamiliar situation,
his intellectual alertness in that field of thought. There was his
readiness, too! Amazing. And all this had come to him in a manner like
keen scent to a well-bred hound. He was not eloquent, but there was a
dignity in this constitutional reticence, there was a high seriousness
in his stammerings. He had still his old trick of stubborn blushing. Now
and then, though, a word, a sentence, would escape him that showed how
deeply, how solemnly, he felt about that work which had given him the
certitude of rehabilitation. That is why he seemed to love the land
and the people with a sort of fierce egoism, with a contemptuous
tenderness.' | Two years later, Marlow goes to Patusan to visit Jim. He wants to offer Jim the trading post house on the island, as a gift from Stein. He arrives to find that Jim has become a local hero, and everyone there calls him Tuan Jim, or Lord Jim. When Jim gives Marlow a brief tour, we learn that when Jim first arrived, the natives of Patusan didn't exactly lay out the red carpet. He was taken to Rajah Allang, who promptly locked him up. |
Interlopers
Now do those two gentlemen not very neat about the cuffs and buttons
who attended the last coroner's inquest at the Sol's Arms reappear in
the precincts with surprising swiftness (being, in fact, breathlessly
fetched by the active and intelligent beadle), and institute
perquisitions through the court, and dive into the Sol's parlour, and
write with ravenous little pens on tissue-paper. Now do they note
down, in the watches of the night, how the neighbourhood of Chancery
Lane was yesterday, at about midnight, thrown into a state of the
most intense agitation and excitement by the following alarming and
horrible discovery. Now do they set forth how it will doubtless be
remembered that some time back a painful sensation was created in the
public mind by a case of mysterious death from opium occurring in the
first floor of the house occupied as a rag, bottle, and general
marine store shop, by an eccentric individual of intemperate habits,
far advanced in life, named Krook; and how, by a remarkable
coincidence, Krook was examined at the inquest, which it may be
recollected was held on that occasion at the Sol's Arms, a
well-conducted tavern immediately adjoining the premises in question
on the west side and licensed to a highly respectable landlord, Mr.
James George Bogsby. Now do they show (in as many words as possible)
how during some hours of yesterday evening a very peculiar smell was
observed by the inhabitants of the court, in which the tragical
occurrence which forms the subject of that present account
transpired; and which odour was at one time so powerful that Mr.
Swills, a comic vocalist professionally engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby,
has himself stated to our reporter that he mentioned to Miss M.
Melvilleson, a lady of some pretensions to musical ability, likewise
engaged by Mr. J. G. Bogsby to sing at a series of concerts called
Harmonic Assemblies, or Meetings, which it would appear are held at
the Sol's Arms under Mr. Bogsby's direction pursuant to the Act of
George the Second, that he (Mr. Swills) found his voice seriously
affected by the impure state of the atmosphere, his jocose expression
at the time being that he was like an empty post-office, for he
hadn't a single note in him. How this account of Mr. Swills is
entirely corroborated by two intelligent married females residing in
the same court and known respectively by the names of Mrs. Piper and
Mrs. Perkins, both of whom observed the foetid effluvia and regarded
them as being emitted from the premises in the occupation of Krook,
the unfortunate deceased. All this and a great deal more the two
gentlemen who have formed an amicable partnership in the melancholy
catastrophe write down on the spot; and the boy population of the
court (out of bed in a moment) swarm up the shutters of the Sol's
Arms parlour, to behold the tops of their heads while they are about
it.
The whole court, adult as well as boy, is sleepless for that night,
and can do nothing but wrap up its many heads, and talk of the
ill-fated house, and look at it. Miss Flite has been bravely rescued
from her chamber, as if it were in flames, and accommodated with a
bed at the Sol's Arms. The Sol neither turns off its gas nor shuts
its door all night, for any kind of public excitement makes good for
the Sol and causes the court to stand in need of comfort. The house
has not done so much in the stomachic article of cloves or in
brandy-and-water warm since the inquest. The moment the pot-boy heard
what had happened, he rolled up his shirt-sleeves tight to his
shoulders and said, "There'll be a run upon us!" In the first outcry,
young Piper dashed off for the fire-engines and returned in triumph
at a jolting gallop perched up aloft on the Phoenix and holding on to
that fabulous creature with all his might in the midst of helmets and
torches. One helmet remains behind after careful investigation of all
chinks and crannies and slowly paces up and down before the house in
company with one of the two policemen who have likewise been left in
charge thereof. To this trio everybody in the court possessed of
sixpence has an insatiate desire to exhibit hospitality in a liquid
form.
Mr. Weevle and his friend Mr. Guppy are within the bar at the Sol and
are worth anything to the Sol that the bar contains if they will only
stay there. "This is not a time," says Mr. Bogsby, "to haggle about
money," though he looks something sharply after it, over the counter;
"give your orders, you two gentlemen, and you're welcome to whatever
you put a name to."
Thus entreated, the two gentlemen (Mr. Weevle especially) put names
to so many things that in course of time they find it difficult to
put a name to anything quite distinctly, though they still relate to
all new-comers some version of the night they have had of it, and of
what they said, and what they thought, and what they saw. Meanwhile,
one or other of the policemen often flits about the door, and pushing
it open a little way at the full length of his arm, looks in from
outer gloom. Not that he has any suspicions, but that he may as well
know what they are up to in there.
Thus night pursues its leaden course, finding the court still out of
bed through the unwonted hours, still treating and being treated,
still conducting itself similarly to a court that has had a little
money left it unexpectedly. Thus night at length with slow-retreating
steps departs, and the lamp-lighter going his rounds, like an
executioner to a despotic king, strikes off the little heads of fire
that have aspired to lessen the darkness. Thus the day cometh,
whether or no.
And the day may discern, even with its dim London eye, that the court
has been up all night. Over and above the faces that have fallen
drowsily on tables and the heels that lie prone on hard floors
instead of beds, the brick and mortar physiognomy of the very court
itself looks worn and jaded. And now the neighbourhood, waking up and
beginning to hear of what has happened, comes streaming in, half
dressed, to ask questions; and the two policemen and the helmet (who
are far less impressible externally than the court) have enough to do
to keep the door.
"Good gracious, gentlemen!" says Mr. Snagsby, coming up. "What's this
I hear!"
"Why, it's true," returns one of the policemen. "That's what it is.
Now move on here, come!"
"Why, good gracious, gentlemen," says Mr. Snagsby, somewhat promptly
backed away, "I was at this door last night betwixt ten and eleven
o'clock in conversation with the young man who lodges here."
"Indeed?" returns the policeman. "You will find the young man next
door then. Now move on here, some of you."
"Not hurt, I hope?" says Mr. Snagsby.
"Hurt? No. What's to hurt him!"
Mr. Snagsby, wholly unable to answer this or any question in his
troubled mind, repairs to the Sol's Arms and finds Mr. Weevle
languishing over tea and toast with a considerable expression on him
of exhausted excitement and exhausted tobacco-smoke.
"And Mr. Guppy likewise!" quoth Mr. Snagsby. "Dear, dear, dear! What
a fate there seems in all this! And my lit--"
Mr. Snagsby's power of speech deserts him in the formation of the
words "my little woman." For to see that injured female walk into the
Sol's Arms at that hour of the morning and stand before the
beer-engine, with her eyes fixed upon him like an accusing spirit,
strikes him dumb.
"My dear," says Mr. Snagsby when his tongue is loosened, "will you
take anything? A little--not to put too fine a point upon it--drop of
shrub?"
"No," says Mrs. Snagsby.
"My love, you know these two gentlemen?"
"Yes!" says Mrs. Snagsby, and in a rigid manner acknowledges their
presence, still fixing Mr. Snagsby with her eye.
The devoted Mr. Snagsby cannot bear this treatment. He takes Mrs.
Snagsby by the hand and leads her aside to an adjacent cask.
"My little woman, why do you look at me in that way? Pray don't do
it."
"I can't help my looks," says Mrs. Snagsby, "and if I could I
wouldn't."
Mr. Snagsby, with his cough of meekness, rejoins, "Wouldn't you
really, my dear?" and meditates. Then coughs his cough of trouble and
says, "This is a dreadful mystery, my love!" still fearfully
disconcerted by Mrs. Snagsby's eye.
"It IS," returns Mrs. Snagsby, shaking her head, "a dreadful
mystery."
"My little woman," urges Mr. Snagsby in a piteous manner, "don't for
goodness' sake speak to me with that bitter expression and look at me
in that searching way! I beg and entreat of you not to do it. Good
Lord, you don't suppose that I would go spontaneously combusting any
person, my dear?"
"I can't say," returns Mrs. Snagsby.
On a hasty review of his unfortunate position, Mr. Snagsby "can't
say" either. He is not prepared positively to deny that he may have
had something to do with it. He has had something--he don't know
what--to do with so much in this connexion that is mysterious that it
is possible he may even be implicated, without knowing it, in the
present transaction. He faintly wipes his forehead with his
handkerchief and gasps.
"My life," says the unhappy stationer, "would you have any objections
to mention why, being in general so delicately circumspect in your
conduct, you come into a wine-vaults before breakfast?"
"Why do YOU come here?" inquires Mrs. Snagsby.
"My dear, merely to know the rights of the fatal accident which has
happened to the venerable party who has been--combusted." Mr. Snagsby
has made a pause to suppress a groan. "I should then have related
them to you, my love, over your French roll."
"I dare say you would! You relate everything to me, Mr. Snagsby."
"Every--my lit--"
"I should be glad," says Mrs. Snagsby after contemplating his
increased confusion with a severe and sinister smile, "if you would
come home with me; I think you may be safer there, Mr. Snagsby, than
anywhere else."
"My love, I don't know but what I may be, I am sure. I am ready to
go."
Mr. Snagsby casts his eye forlornly round the bar, gives Messrs.
Weevle and Guppy good morning, assures them of the satisfaction with
which he sees them uninjured, and accompanies Mrs. Snagsby from the
Sol's Arms. Before night his doubt whether he may not be responsible
for some inconceivable part in the catastrophe which is the talk of
the whole neighbourhood is almost resolved into certainty by Mrs.
Snagsby's pertinacity in that fixed gaze. His mental sufferings are
so great that he entertains wandering ideas of delivering himself up
to justice and requiring to be cleared if innocent and punished with
the utmost rigour of the law if guilty.
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy, having taken their breakfast, step into
Lincoln's Inn to take a little walk about the square and clear as
many of the dark cobwebs out of their brains as a little walk may.
"There can be no more favourable time than the present, Tony," says
Mr. Guppy after they have broodingly made out the four sides of the
square, "for a word or two between us upon a point on which we must,
with very little delay, come to an understanding."
"Now, I tell you what, William G.!" returns the other, eyeing his
companion with a bloodshot eye. "If it's a point of conspiracy, you
needn't take the trouble to mention it. I have had enough of that,
and I ain't going to have any more. We shall have YOU taking fire
next or blowing up with a bang."
This supposititious phenomenon is so very disagreeable to Mr. Guppy
that his voice quakes as he says in a moral way, "Tony, I should have
thought that what we went through last night would have been a lesson
to you never to be personal any more as long as you lived." To which
Mr. Weevle returns, "William, I should have thought it would have
been a lesson to YOU never to conspire any more as long as you
lived." To which Mr. Guppy says, "Who's conspiring?" To which Mr.
Jobling replies, "Why, YOU are!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "No, I
am not." To which Mr. Jobling retorts again, "Yes, you are!" To which
Mr. Guppy retorts, "Who says so?" To which Mr. Jobling retorts, "I
say so!" To which Mr. Guppy retorts, "Oh, indeed?" To which Mr.
Jobling retorts, "Yes, indeed!" And both being now in a heated state,
they walk on silently for a while to cool down again.
"Tony," says Mr. Guppy then, "if you heard your friend out instead of
flying at him, you wouldn't fall into mistakes. But your temper is
hasty and you are not considerate. Possessing in yourself, Tony, all
that is calculated to charm the eye--"
"Oh! Blow the eye!" cries Mr. Weevle, cutting him short. "Say what
you have got to say!"
Finding his friend in this morose and material condition, Mr. Guppy
only expresses the finer feelings of his soul through the tone of
injury in which he recommences, "Tony, when I say there is a point on
which we must come to an understanding pretty soon, I say so quite
apart from any kind of conspiring, however innocent. You know it is
professionally arranged beforehand in all cases that are tried what
facts the witnesses are to prove. Is it or is it not desirable that
we should know what facts we are to prove on the inquiry into the
death of this unfortunate old mo--gentleman?" (Mr. Guppy was going to
say "mogul," but thinks "gentleman" better suited to the
circumstances.)
"What facts? THE facts."
"The facts bearing on that inquiry. Those are"--Mr. Guppy tells them
off on his fingers--"what we knew of his habits, when you saw him
last, what his condition was then, the discovery that we made, and
how we made it."
"Yes," says Mr. Weevle. "Those are about the facts."
"We made the discovery in consequence of his having, in his eccentric
way, an appointment with you at twelve o'clock at night, when you
were to explain some writing to him as you had often done before on
account of his not being able to read. I, spending the evening with
you, was called down--and so forth. The inquiry being only into the
circumstances touching the death of the deceased, it's not necessary
to go beyond these facts, I suppose you'll agree?"
"No!" returns Mr. Weevle. "I suppose not."
"And this is not a conspiracy, perhaps?" says the injured Guppy.
"No," returns his friend; "if it's nothing worse than this, I
withdraw the observation."
"Now, Tony," says Mr. Guppy, taking his arm again and walking him
slowly on, "I should like to know, in a friendly way, whether you
have yet thought over the many advantages of your continuing to live
at that place?"
"What do you mean?" says Tony, stopping.
"Whether you have yet thought over the many advantages of your
continuing to live at that place?" repeats Mr. Guppy, walking him on
again.
"At what place? THAT place?" pointing in the direction of the rag and
bottle shop.
Mr. Guppy nods.
"Why, I wouldn't pass another night there for any consideration that
you could offer me," says Mr. Weevle, haggardly staring.
"Do you mean it though, Tony?"
"Mean it! Do I look as if I mean it? I feel as if I do; I know that,"
says Mr. Weevle with a very genuine shudder.
"Then the possibility or probability--for such it must be
considered--of your never being disturbed in possession of those
effects lately belonging to a lone old man who seemed to have no
relation in the world, and the certainty of your being able to find
out what he really had got stored up there, don't weigh with you at
all against last night, Tony, if I understand you?" says Mr. Guppy,
biting his thumb with the appetite of vexation.
"Certainly not. Talk in that cool way of a fellow's living there?"
cries Mr. Weevle indignantly. "Go and live there yourself."
"Oh! I, Tony!" says Mr. Guppy, soothing him. "I have never lived
there and couldn't get a lodging there now, whereas you have got
one."
"You are welcome to it," rejoins his friend, "and--ugh!--you may make
yourself at home in it."
"Then you really and truly at this point," says Mr. Guppy, "give up
the whole thing, if I understand you, Tony?"
"You never," returns Tony with a most convincing steadfastness, "said
a truer word in all your life. I do!"
While they are so conversing, a hackney-coach drives into the square,
on the box of which vehicle a very tall hat makes itself manifest to
the public. Inside the coach, and consequently not so manifest to the
multitude, though sufficiently so to the two friends, for the coach
stops almost at their feet, are the venerable Mr. Smallweed and Mrs.
Smallweed, accompanied by their granddaughter Judy.
An air of haste and excitement pervades the party, and as the tall
hat (surmounting Mr. Smallweed the younger) alights, Mr. Smallweed
the elder pokes his head out of window and bawls to Mr. Guppy, "How
de do, sir! How de do!"
"What do Chick and his family want here at this time of the morning,
I wonder!" says Mr. Guppy, nodding to his familiar.
"My dear sir," cries Grandfather Smallweed, "would you do me a
favour? Would you and your friend be so very obleeging as to carry me
into the public-house in the court, while Bart and his sister bring
their grandmother along? Would you do an old man that good turn,
sir?"
Mr. Guppy looks at his friend, repeating inquiringly, "The
public-house in the court?" And they prepare to bear the venerable
burden to the Sol's Arms.
"There's your fare!" says the patriarch to the coachman with a fierce
grin and shaking his incapable fist at him. "Ask me for a penny more,
and I'll have my lawful revenge upon you. My dear young men, be easy
with me, if you please. Allow me to catch you round the neck. I won't
squeeze you tighter than I can help. Oh, Lord! Oh, dear me! Oh, my
bones!"
It is well that the Sol is not far off, for Mr. Weevle presents an
apoplectic appearance before half the distance is accomplished. With
no worse aggravation of his symptoms, however, than the utterance of
divers croaking sounds expressive of obstructed respiration, he
fulfils his share of the porterage and the benevolent old gentleman
is deposited by his own desire in the parlour of the Sol's Arms.
"Oh, Lord!" gasps Mr. Smallweed, looking about him, breathless, from
an arm-chair. "Oh, dear me! Oh, my bones and back! Oh, my aches and
pains! Sit down, you dancing, prancing, shambling, scrambling
poll-parrot! Sit down!"
This little apostrophe to Mrs. Smallweed is occasioned by a
propensity on the part of that unlucky old lady whenever she finds
herself on her feet to amble about and "set" to inanimate objects,
accompanying herself with a chattering noise, as in a witch dance. A
nervous affection has probably as much to do with these
demonstrations as any imbecile intention in the poor old woman, but
on the present occasion they are so particularly lively in connexion
with the Windsor arm-chair, fellow to that in which Mr. Smallweed is
seated, that she only quite desists when her grandchildren have held
her down in it, her lord in the meanwhile bestowing upon her, with
great volubility, the endearing epithet of "a pig-headed jackdaw,"
repeated a surprising number of times.
"My dear sir," Grandfather Smallweed then proceeds, addressing Mr.
Guppy, "there has been a calamity here. Have you heard of it, either
of you?"
"Heard of it, sir! Why, we discovered it."
"You discovered it. You two discovered it! Bart, THEY discovered it!"
The two discoverers stare at the Smallweeds, who return the
compliment.
"My dear friends," whines Grandfather Smallweed, putting out both his
hands, "I owe you a thousand thanks for discharging the melancholy
office of discovering the ashes of Mrs. Smallweed's brother."
"Eh?" says Mr. Guppy.
"Mrs. Smallweed's brother, my dear friend--her only relation. We were
not on terms, which is to be deplored now, but he never WOULD be on
terms. He was not fond of us. He was eccentric--he was very
eccentric. Unless he has left a will (which is not at all likely) I
shall take out letters of administration. I have come down to look
after the property; it must be sealed up, it must be protected. I
have come down," repeats Grandfather Smallweed, hooking the air
towards him with all his ten fingers at once, "to look after the
property."
"I think, Small," says the disconsolate Mr. Guppy, "you might have
mentioned that the old man was your uncle."
"You two were so close about him that I thought you would like me to
be the same," returns that old bird with a secretly glistening eye.
"Besides, I wasn't proud of him."
"Besides which, it was nothing to you, you know, whether he was or
not," says Judy. Also with a secretly glistening eye.
"He never saw me in his life to know me," observed Small; "I don't
know why I should introduce HIM, I am sure!"
"No, he never communicated with us, which is to be deplored," the old
gentleman strikes in, "but I have come to look after the property--to
look over the papers, and to look after the property. We shall make
good our title. It is in the hands of my solicitor. Mr. Tulkinghorn,
of Lincoln's Inn Fields, over the way there, is so good as to act as
my solicitor; and grass don't grow under HIS feet, I can tell ye.
Krook was Mrs. Smallweed's only brother; she had no relation but
Krook, and Krook had no relation but Mrs. Smallweed. I am speaking of
your brother, you brimstone black-beetle, that was seventy-six years
of age."
Mrs. Smallweed instantly begins to shake her head and pipe up,
"Seventy-six pound seven and sevenpence! Seventy-six thousand bags of
money! Seventy-six hundred thousand million of parcels of
bank-notes!"
"Will somebody give me a quart pot?" exclaims her exasperated
husband, looking helplessly about him and finding no missile within
his reach. "Will somebody obleege me with a spittoon? Will somebody
hand me anything hard and bruising to pelt at her? You hag, you cat,
you dog, you brimstone barker!" Here Mr. Smallweed, wrought up to the
highest pitch by his own eloquence, actually throws Judy at her
grandmother in default of anything else, by butting that young virgin
at the old lady with such force as he can muster and then dropping
into his chair in a heap.
"Shake me up, somebody, if you'll be so good," says the voice from
within the faintly struggling bundle into which he has collapsed. "I
have come to look after the property. Shake me up, and call in the
police on duty at the next house to be explained to about the
property. My solicitor will be here presently to protect the
property. Transportation or the gallows for anybody who shall touch
the property!" As his dutiful grandchildren set him up, panting, and
putting him through the usual restorative process of shaking and
punching, he still repeats like an echo, "The--the property! The
property! Property!"
Mr. Weevle and Mr. Guppy look at each other, the former as having
relinquished the whole affair, the latter with a discomfited
countenance as having entertained some lingering expectations yet.
But there is nothing to be done in opposition to the Smallweed
interest. Mr. Tulkinghorn's clerk comes down from his official pew in
the chambers to mention to the police that Mr. Tulkinghorn is
answerable for its being all correct about the next of kin and that
the papers and effects will be formally taken possession of in due
time and course. Mr. Smallweed is at once permitted so far to assert
his supremacy as to be carried on a visit of sentiment into the next
house and upstairs into Miss Flite's deserted room, where he looks
like a hideous bird of prey newly added to her aviary.
The arrival of this unexpected heir soon taking wind in the court
still makes good for the Sol and keeps the court upon its mettle.
Mrs. Piper and Mrs. Perkins think it hard upon the young man if there
really is no will, and consider that a handsome present ought to be
made him out of the estate. Young Piper and young Perkins, as members
of that restless juvenile circle which is the terror of the
foot-passengers in Chancery Lane, crumble into ashes behind the pump
and under the archway all day long, where wild yells and hootings
take place over their remains. Little Swills and Miss M. Melvilleson
enter into affable conversation with their patrons, feeling that
these unusual occurrences level the barriers between professionals
and non-professionals. Mr. Bogsby puts up "The popular song of King
Death, with chorus by the whole strength of the company," as the
great Harmonic feature of the week and announces in the bill that "J.
G. B. is induced to do so at a considerable extra expense in
consequence of a wish which has been very generally expressed at the
bar by a large body of respectable individuals and in homage to a
late melancholy event which has aroused so much sensation." There is
one point connected with the deceased upon which the court is
particularly anxious, namely, that the fiction of a full-sized coffin
should be preserved, though there is so little to put in it. Upon the
undertaker's stating in the Sol's bar in the course of the day that
he has received orders to construct "a six-footer," the general
solicitude is much relieved, and it is considered that Mr.
Smallweed's conduct does him great honour.
Out of the court, and a long way out of it, there is considerable
excitement too, for men of science and philosophy come to look, and
carriages set down doctors at the corner who arrive with the same
intent, and there is more learned talk about inflammable gases and
phosphuretted hydrogen than the court has ever imagined. Some of
these authorities (of course the wisest) hold with indignation that
the deceased had no business to die in the alleged manner; and being
reminded by other authorities of a certain inquiry into the evidence
for such deaths reprinted in the sixth volume of the Philosophical
Transactions; and also of a book not quite unknown on English medical
jurisprudence; and likewise of the Italian case of the Countess
Cornelia Baudi as set forth in detail by one Bianchini, prebendary of
Verona, who wrote a scholarly work or so and was occasionally heard
of in his time as having gleams of reason in him; and also of the
testimony of Messrs. Fodere and Mere, two pestilent Frenchmen who
WOULD investigate the subject; and further, of the corroborative
testimony of Monsieur Le Cat, a rather celebrated French surgeon once
upon a time, who had the unpoliteness to live in a house where such a
case occurred and even to write an account of it--still they regard
the late Mr. Krook's obstinacy in going out of the world by any such
by-way as wholly unjustifiable and personally offensive. The less the
court understands of all this, the more the court likes it, and the
greater enjoyment it has in the stock in trade of the Sol's Arms.
Then there comes the artist of a picture newspaper, with a foreground
and figures ready drawn for anything from a wreck on the Cornish
coast to a review in Hyde Park or a meeting in Manchester, and in
Mrs. Perkins' own room, memorable evermore, he then and there throws
in upon the block Mr. Krook's house, as large as life; in fact,
considerably larger, making a very temple of it. Similarly, being
permitted to look in at the door of the fatal chamber, he depicts
that apartment as three-quarters of a mile long by fifty yards high,
at which the court is particularly charmed. All this time the two
gentlemen before mentioned pop in and out of every house and assist
at the philosophical disputations--go everywhere and listen to
everybody--and yet are always diving into the Sol's parlour and
writing with the ravenous little pens on the tissue-paper.
At last come the coroner and his inquiry, like as before, except that
the coroner cherishes this case as being out of the common way and
tells the gentlemen of the jury, in his private capacity, that "that
would seem to be an unlucky house next door, gentlemen, a destined
house; but so we sometimes find it, and these are mysteries we can't
account for!" After which the six-footer comes into action and is
much admired.
In all these proceedings Mr. Guppy has so slight a part, except when
he gives his evidence, that he is moved on like a private individual
and can only haunt the secret house on the outside, where he has the
mortification of seeing Mr. Smallweed padlocking the door, and of
bitterly knowing himself to be shut out. But before these proceedings
draw to a close, that is to say, on the night next after the
catastrophe, Mr. Guppy has a thing to say that must be said to Lady
Dedlock.
For which reason, with a sinking heart and with that hang-dog sense
of guilt upon him which dread and watching enfolded in the Sol's Arms
have produced, the young man of the name of Guppy presents himself at
the town mansion at about seven o'clock in the evening and requests
to see her ladyship. Mercury replies that she is going out to dinner;
don't he see the carriage at the door? Yes, he does see the carriage
at the door; but he wants to see my Lady too.
Mercury is disposed, as he will presently declare to a
fellow-gentleman in waiting, "to pitch into the young man"; but his
instructions are positive. Therefore he sulkily supposes that the
young man must come up into the library. There he leaves the young
man in a large room, not over-light, while he makes report of him.
Mr. Guppy looks into the shade in all directions, discovering
everywhere a certain charred and whitened little heap of coal or
wood. Presently he hears a rustling. Is it--? No, it's no ghost, but
fair flesh and blood, most brilliantly dressed.
"I have to beg your ladyship's pardon," Mr. Guppy stammers, very
downcast. "This is an inconvenient time--"
"I told you, you could come at any time." She takes a chair, looking
straight at him as on the last occasion.
"Thank your ladyship. Your ladyship is very affable."
"You can sit down." There is not much affability in her tone.
"I don't know, your ladyship, that it's worth while my sitting down
and detaining you, for I--I have not got the letters that I mentioned
when I had the honour of waiting on your ladyship."
"Have you come merely to say so?"
"Merely to say so, your ladyship." Mr. Guppy besides being depressed,
disappointed, and uneasy, is put at a further disadvantage by the
splendour and beauty of her appearance.
She knows its influence perfectly, has studied it too well to miss a
grain of its effect on any one. As she looks at him so steadily and
coldly, he not only feels conscious that he has no guide in the least
perception of what is really the complexion of her thoughts, but also
that he is being every moment, as it were, removed further and
further from her.
She will not speak, it is plain. So he must.
"In short, your ladyship," says Mr. Guppy like a meanly penitent
thief, "the person I was to have had the letters of, has come to a
sudden end, and--" He stops. Lady Dedlock calmly finishes the
sentence.
"And the letters are destroyed with the person?"
Mr. Guppy would say no if he could--as he is unable to hide.
"I believe so, your ladyship."
If he could see the least sparkle of relief in her face now? No, he
could see no such thing, even if that brave outside did not utterly
put him away, and he were not looking beyond it and about it.
He falters an awkward excuse or two for his failure.
"Is this all you have to say?" inquires Lady Dedlock, having heard
him out--or as nearly out as he can stumble.
Mr. Guppy thinks that's all.
"You had better be sure that you wish to say nothing more to me, this
being the last time you will have the opportunity."
Mr. Guppy is quite sure. And indeed he has no such wish at present,
by any means.
"That is enough. I will dispense with excuses. Good evening to you!"
And she rings for Mercury to show the young man of the name of Guppy
out.
But in that house, in that same moment, there happens to be an old
man of the name of Tulkinghorn. And that old man, coming with his
quiet footstep to the library, has his hand at that moment on the
handle of the door--comes in--and comes face to face with the young
man as he is leaving the room.
One glance between the old man and the lady, and for an instant the
blind that is always down flies up. Suspicion, eager and sharp, looks
out. Another instant, close again.
"I beg your pardon, Lady Dedlock. I beg your pardon a thousand times.
It is so very unusual to find you here at this hour. I supposed the
room was empty. I beg your pardon!"
"Stay!" She negligently calls him back. "Remain here, I beg. I am
going out to dinner. I have nothing more to say to this young man!"
The disconcerted young man bows, as he goes out, and cringingly hopes
that Mr. Tulkinghorn of the Fields is well.
"Aye, aye?" says the lawyer, looking at him from under his bent
brows, though he has no need to look again--not he. "From Kenge and
Carboy's, surely?"
"Kenge and Carboy's, Mr. Tulkinghorn. Name of Guppy, sir."
"To be sure. Why, thank you, Mr. Guppy, I am very well!"
"Happy to hear it, sir. You can't be too well, sir, for the credit of
the profession."
"Thank you, Mr. Guppy!"
Mr. Guppy sneaks away. Mr. Tulkinghorn, such a foil in his
old-fashioned rusty black to Lady Dedlock's brightness, hands her
down the staircase to her carriage. He returns rubbing his chin, and
rubs it a good deal in the course of the evening. | "Interlopers" Weevle and Guppy give their statements at a tavern called Sol's Arms. No one sleeps that night; everyone goes to look at Krook's house. Miss Flite stays at a room at the Sol's Arms. Sol's Arms stays open all night, and Weevle and Guppy tell everyone about what they saw. Mr. Snagsby arrives, along with Mrs. Snagsby. She tells him she can't say for sure he wouldn't spontaneously combust. Mr. Snagsby secretly wonders if he was in some way responsible for what happened. Weevle and Guppy go for a walk. Both men deny that they've been conspiring but agree that they don't need to mention the letters. Weevle tells Guppy he can't stay in his room anymore, but Guppy tries to convince him to stay and investigate. Weevle says Guppy can stay there if he wants. Grandfather and Grandmother Smallweed and Judy arrive in a coach. Grandfather Smallweed asks them to carry him into the public house in the court. He is surprised to learn that Guppy discovered Krook's death and says Krook was Grandmother Smallweed's brother. Grandfather Smallweed has come to deal with Krook's property. His lawyer is Mr. Tulkinghorn. Mr. Guppy eventually meets with Lady Dedlock and tells her he doesn't have the letters. He says he believes they were destroyed along with Krook. On his way out of the room, he runs into Mr. Tulkinghorn, who gives Lady Dedlock a suspicious look |
He was smoking a cigarette and he stood before the fire and looked
at the meagre appointments of the room in a way that made her rather
ashamed of them. Then before (on the subject of Mrs. Beale) he let her
"draw" him--that was another of his words; it was astonishing how many
she gathered in--he remarked that really mamma kept them rather low on
the question of decorations. Mrs. Wix had put up a Japanese fan and two
rather grim texts; she had wished they were gayer, but they were all she
happened to have. Without Sir Claude's photograph, however, the place
would have been, as he said, as dull as a cold dinner. He had said
as well that there were all sorts of things they ought to have; yet
governess and pupil, it had to be admitted, were still divided between
discussing the places where any sort of thing would look best if any
sort of thing should ever come and acknowledging that mutability in the
child's career which was naturally unfavourable to accumulation. She
stayed long enough only to miss things, not half long enough to deserve
them. The way Sir Claude looked about the schoolroom had made her feel
with humility as if it were not very different from the shabby attic in
which she had visited Susan Ash. Then he had said in abrupt reference to
Mrs. Beale: "Do you think she really cares for you?"
"Oh awfully!" Maisie had replied.
"But, I mean, does she love you for yourself, as they call it, don't you
know? Is she as fond of you, now, as Mrs. Wix?"
The child turned it over. "Oh I'm not every bit Mrs. Beale has!"
Sir Claude seemed much amused at this. "No; you're not every bit she
has!"
He laughed for some moments, but that was an old story to Maisie, who
was not too much disconcerted to go on: "But she'll never give me up."
"Well, I won't either, old boy: so that's not so wonderful, and she's
not the only one. But if she's so fond of you, why doesn't she write to
you?"
"Oh on account of mamma." This was rudimentary, and she was almost
surprised at the simplicity of Sir Claude's question.
"I see--that's quite right," he answered. "She might get at you--there
are all sorts of ways. But of course there's Mrs. Wix."
"There's Mrs. Wix," Maisie lucidly concurred. "Mrs. Wix can't abide
her."
Sir Claude seemed interested. "Oh she can't abide her? Then what does
she say about her?"
"Nothing at all--because she knows I shouldn't like it. Isn't it sweet
of her?" the child asked.
"Certainly; rather nice. Mrs. Beale wouldn't hold her tongue for any
such thing as that, would she?"
Maisie remembered how little she had done so; but she desired to protect
Mrs. Beale too. The only protection she could think of, however, was the
plea: "Oh at papa's, you know, they don't mind!"
At this Sir Claude only smiled. "No, I dare say not. But here we mind,
don't we?--we take care what we say. I don't suppose it's a matter on
which I ought to prejudice you," he went on; "but I think we must on the
whole be rather nicer here than at your father's. However, I don't press
that; for it's the sort of question on which it's awfully awkward for
you to speak. Don't worry, at any rate: I assure you I'll back you up."
Then after a moment and while he smoked he reverted to Mrs. Beale and
the child's first enquiry. "I'm afraid we can't do much for her just
now. I haven't seen her since that day--upon my word I haven't seen
her." The next instant, with a laugh the least bit foolish, the young
man slightly coloured: he must have felt this profession of innocence to
be excessive as addressed to Maisie. It was inevitable to say to her,
however, that of course her mother loathed the lady of the other house.
He couldn't go there again with his wife's consent, and he wasn't the
man--he begged her to believe, falling once more, in spite of himself,
into the scruple of showing the child he didn't trip--to go there
without it. He was liable in talking with her to take the tone of her
being also a man of the world. He had gone to Mrs. Beale's to fetch
away Maisie, but that was altogether different. Now that she was in
her mother's house what pretext had he to give her mother for paying
calls on her father's wife? And of course Mrs. Beale couldn't come to
Ida's--Ida would tear her limb from limb. Maisie, with this talk of
pretexts, remembered how much Mrs. Beale had made of her being a good
one, and how, for such a function, it was her fate to be either much
depended on or much missed. Sir Claude moreover recognised on this
occasion that perhaps things would take a turn later on; and he wound
up by saying: "I'm sure she does sincerely care for you--how can she
possibly help it? She's very young and very pretty and very clever: I
think she's charming. But we must walk very straight. If you'll help me,
you know, I'll help YOU," he concluded in the pleasant fraternising,
equalising, not a bit patronising way which made the child ready to go
through anything for him and the beauty of which, as she dimly felt, was
that it was so much less a deceitful descent to her years than a real
indifference to them.
It gave her moments of secret rapture--moments of believing she might
help him indeed. The only mystification in this was the imposing time of
life that her elders spoke of as youth. For Sir Claude then Mrs. Beale
was "young," just as for Mrs. Wix Sir Claude was: that was one of the
merits for which Mrs. Wix most commended him. What therefore was Maisie
herself, and, in another relation to the matter, what therefore was
mamma? It took her some time to puzzle out with the aid of an experiment
or two that it wouldn't do to talk about mamma's youth. She even went
so far one day, in the presence of that lady's thick colour and marked
lines, as to wonder if it would occur to any one but herself to do so.
Yet if she wasn't young then she was old; and this threw an odd light on
her having a husband of a different generation. Mr. Farange was still
older--that Maisie perfectly knew; and it brought her in due course
to the perception of how much more, since Mrs. Beale was younger than
Sir Claude, papa must be older than Mrs. Beale. Such discoveries were
disconcerting and even a trifle confounding: these persons, it appeared,
were not of the age they ought to be. This was somehow particularly
the case with mamma, and the fact made her reflect with some relief on
her not having gone with Mrs. Wix into the question of Sir Claude's
attachment to his wife. She was conscious that in confining their
attention to the state of her ladyship's own affections they had been
controlled--Mrs. Wix perhaps in especial--by delicacy and even by
embarrassment. The end of her colloquy with her stepfather in the
schoolroom was her saying: "Then if we're not to see Mrs. Beale at all
it isn't what she seemed to think when you came for me."
He looked rather blank. "What did she seem to think?"
"Why that I've brought you together."
"She thought that?" Sir Claude asked.
Maisie was surprised at his already forgetting it. "Just as I had
brought papa and her. Don't you remember she said so?"
It came back to Sir Claude in a peal of laughter. "Oh yes--she said so!"
"And YOU said so," Maisie lucidly pursued.
He recovered, with increasing mirth, the whole occasion. "And YOU said
so!" he retorted as if they were playing a game.
"Then were we all mistaken?"
He considered a little. "No, on the whole not. I dare say it's just what
you HAVE done. We ARE together--it's really most odd. She's thinking of
us--of you and me--though we don't meet. And I've no doubt you'll find
it will be all right when you go back to her."
"Am I going back to her?" Maisie brought out with a little gasp which
was like a sudden clutch of the happy present.
It appeared to make Sir Claude grave a moment; it might have made him
feel the weight of the pledge his action had given. "Oh some day, I
suppose! We've plenty of time."
"I've such a tremendous lot to make up," Maisie said with a sense of
great boldness.
"Certainly, and you must make up every hour of it. Oh I'll SEE that you
do!"
This was encouraging; and to show cheerfully that she was reassured she
replied: "That's what Mrs. Wix sees too."
"Oh yes," said Sir Claude; "Mrs. Wix and I are shoulder to shoulder."
Maisie took in a little this strong image; after which she exclaimed:
"Then I've done it also to you and her--I've brought YOU together!"
"Blest if you haven't!" Sir Claude laughed. "And more, upon my word,
than any of the lot. Oh you've done for US! Now if you could--as I
suggested, you know, that day--only manage me and your mother!"
The child wondered. "Bring you and HER together?"
"You see we're not together--not a bit. But I oughtn't to tell you such
things; all the more that you won't really do it--not you. No, old
chap," the young man continued; "there you'll break down. But it won't
matter--we'll rub along. The great thing is that you and I are all
right."
"WE'RE all right!" Maisie echoed devoutly. But the next moment, in the
light of what he had just said, she asked: "How shall I ever leave you?"
It was as if she must somehow take care of him.
His smile did justice to her anxiety. "Oh well, you needn't! It won't
come to that."
"Do you mean that when I do go you'll go with me?"
Sir Claude cast about. "Not exactly 'with' you perhaps; but I shall
never be far off."
"But how do you know where mamma may take you?"
He laughed again. "I don't, I confess!" Then he had an idea, though
something too jocose. "That will be for you to see--that she shan't take
me too far."
"How can I help it?" Maisie enquired in surprise. "Mamma doesn't care
for me," she said very simply. "Not really." Child as she was, her
little long history was in the words; and it was as impossible to
contradict her as if she had been venerable.
Sir Claude's silence was an admission of this, and still more the tone
in which he presently replied: "That won't prevent her from--some time
or other--leaving me with you."
"Then we'll live together?" she eagerly demanded.
"I'm afraid," said Sir Claude, smiling, "that that will be Mrs. Beale's
real chance."
Her eagerness just slightly dropped at this; she remembered Mrs. Wix's
pronouncement that it was all an extraordinary muddle. "To take me
again? Well, can't you come to see me there?"
"Oh I dare say!"
Though there were parts of childhood Maisie had lost she had all
childhood's preference for the particular promise. "Then you WILL
come--you'll come often, won't you?" she insisted; while at the moment
she spoke the door opened for the return of Mrs. Wix. Sir Claude
hereupon, instead of replying, gave her a look which left her silent
and embarrassed.
When he again found privacy convenient, however--which happened to be
long in coming--he took up their conversation very much where it had
dropped. "You see, my dear, if I shall be able to go to you at your
father's it yet isn't at all the same thing for Mrs. Beale to come to
you here." Maisie gave a thoughtful assent to this proposition, though
conscious she could scarcely herself say just where the difference would
lie. She felt how much her stepfather saved her, as he said with his
habitual amusement, the trouble of that. "I shall probably be able to go
to Mrs. Beale's without your mother's knowing it."
Maisie stared with a certain thrill at the dramatic element in this.
"And she couldn't come here without mamma's--" She was unable to
articulate the word for what mamma would do.
"My dear child, Mrs. Wix would tell of it."
"But I thought," Maisie objected, "that Mrs. Wix and you--"
"Are such brothers-in-arms?"--Sir Claude caught her up. "Oh yes, about
everything but Mrs. Beale. And if you should suggest," he went on, "that
we might somehow or other hide her peeping in from Mrs. Wix--"
"Oh, I don't suggest THAT!" Maisie in turn cut him short.
Sir Claude looked as if he could indeed quite see why. "No; it would
really be impossible." There came to her from this glance at what they
might hide the first small glimpse of something in him that she wouldn't
have expected. There had been times when she had had to make the best
of the impression that she was herself deceitful; yet she had never
concealed anything bigger than a thought. Of course she now concealed
this thought of how strange it would be to see HIM hide; and while she
was so actively engaged he continued: "Besides, you know, I'm not afraid
of your father."
"And you are of my mother?"
"Rather, old man!" Sir Claude returned. | Maisie and Sir Claude have a heart-to-heart. Sir Claude drops lots of vague hints. Maisie reminds him that she has brought him and Mrs. Beale together, and he hints at his marital difficulties. Sir Claude also tells Maisie that she won't be apart from him when she goes back to live with her father and Mrs. Beale, even though they won't all be living in the same place. This is almost as confusing for the reader as it is for Maisie; Sir Claude is being cagey, and none of what he's saying makes much sense. Sir Claude says that Mrs. Wix doesn't approve of Mrs. Beale, and Maisie starts to suspect that he's hiding something, although she can't yet say what it is. |
CHAPTER XXVII
I
A LETTER from Raymie Wutherspoon, in France, said that he had been sent
to the front, been slightly wounded, been made a captain. From Vida's
pride Carol sought to draw a stimulant to rouse her from depression.
Miles had sold his dairy. He had several thousand dollars. To Carol he
said good-by with a mumbled word, a harsh hand-shake, "Going to buy a
farm in northern Alberta--far off from folks as I can get." He turned
sharply away, but he did not walk with his former spring. His shoulders
seemed old.
It was said that before he went he cursed the town. There was talk
of arresting him, of riding him on a rail. It was rumored that at the
station old Champ Perry rebuked him, "You better not come back here.
We've got respect for your dead, but we haven't got any for a blasphemer
and a traitor that won't do anything for his country and only bought one
Liberty Bond."
Some of the people who had been at the station declared that Miles made
some dreadful seditious retort: something about loving German workmen
more than American bankers; but others asserted that he couldn't find
one word with which to answer the veteran; that he merely sneaked up on
the platform of the train. He must have felt guilty, everybody agreed,
for as the train left town, a farmer saw him standing in the vestibule
and looking out.
His house--with the addition which he had built four months ago--was
very near the track on which his train passed.
When Carol went there, for the last time, she found Olaf's chariot with
its red spool wheels standing in the sunny corner beside the stable. She
wondered if a quick eye could have noticed it from a train.
That day and that week she went reluctantly to Red Cross work; she
stitched and packed silently, while Vida read the war bulletins. And she
said nothing at all when Kennicott commented, "From what Champ says,
I guess Bjornstam was a bad egg, after all. In spite of Bea, don't
know but what the citizens' committee ought to have forced him to
be patriotic--let on like they could send him to jail if he didn't
volunteer and come through for bonds and the Y. M. C. A. They've worked
that stunt fine with all these German farmers."
II
She found no inspiration but she did find a dependable kindness in Mrs.
Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old woman's receptivity and had
relief in sobbing the story of Bea.
Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely a pleasant
voice which said things about Charles Lamb and sunsets.
Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs. Flickerbaugh,
the tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney. Carol encountered her at
the drug store.
"Walking?" snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why, yes."
"Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that retains the use
of her legs. Come home and have a cup o' tea with me."
Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she was
uncomfortable in the presence of the amused stares which Mrs.
Flickerbaugh's raiment drew. Today, in reeking early August, she wore a
man's cap, a skinny fur like a dead cat, a necklace of imitation pearls,
a scabrous satin blouse, and a thick cloth skirt hiked up in front.
"Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope you don't mind
the house looking like a rat's nest. You don't like this town. Neither
do I," said Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why----"
"Course you don't!"
"Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find some solution.
Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find the hexagonal hole." Carol
was very brisk.
"How do you know you ever will find it?"
"There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman--she ought to
have a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston--but she escapes by
being absorbed in reading."
"You be satisfied to never do anything but read?"
"No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town always!"
"Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll die here--and
I'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a business woman. I had
a good deal of talent for tending to figures. All gone now. Some folks
think I'm crazy. Guess I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and sing
hymns. Folks think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing and
ironing and mending socks. Want an office of my own, and sell things.
Julius never hear of it. Too late."
Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could this drabness
of life keep up forever, then? Would she some day so despise herself
and her neighbors that she too would walk Main Street an old skinny
eccentric woman in a mangy cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt that
the trap had finally closed. She went into the house, a frail small
woman, still winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with the
weight of the drowsy boy in her arms.
She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that Kennicott had
to make a professional call on Mrs. Dave Dyer.
Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the street was
meshed in silence. There was but the hum of motor tires crunching the
road, the creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand
attacking a mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the
precise rhythm of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen--sounds
that were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of
the world, beyond the boundaries of hope. Though she should sit here
forever, no brave procession, no one who was interesting, would be
coming by. It was tediousness made tangible, a street builded of
lassitude and of futility.
Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and bounced when Cy
tickled her ear in village love. They strolled with the half-dancing
gait of lovers, kicking their feet out sideways or shuffling a dragging
jig, and the concrete walk sounded to the broken two-four rhythm. Their
voices had a dusky turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on the
porch of the doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt that
everywhere in the darkness panted an ardent quest which she was missing
as she sank back to wait for----There must be something. | Raymie Wutherspoon is promoted to the rank of a captain. Bjornstam sells his farm and leaves Gopher Prairie to settle in North Alberta. Many people opine that Bjornstam should have been sent to the prison. Even Kennicott believes that Bjornstam was bad. Mrs. Westlake talks sweetly and Carol tells the old Matron Bea's story. One day Mrs. Flickerbaugh invites her for tea. Carol listens with surprise that the lawyer's wife hated the town. She wanted to be a businesswoman. But her husband did not allow her to start her own business. So Mrs. Flickerbaugh had turned eccentric and this frightens Carol because she fears the same fate for herself. She sits alone on the porch because Kennicott had gone to make a professional call on Maud Dyer. She watches Cy Bogart and Myrtle Cass walk down the road hand in hand. She gets the sensation that something ardent is going on around her, which she is unable to see. |
The same. De Guiche.
DE GUICHE:
It smells good here.
A CADET (humming):
Lo! Lo-lo!
DE GUICHE (looking at him):
What is the matter?--You are very red.
THE CADET:
The matter?--Nothing!--'Tis my blood--boiling at the thought of the coming
battle!
ANOTHER:
Poum, poum--poum. . .
DE GUICHE (turning round):
What's that?
THE CADET (slightly drunk):
Nothing!. . .'Tis a song!--a little. . .
DE GUICHE:
You are merry, my friend!
THE CADET:
The approach of danger is intoxicating!
DE GUICHE (calling Carbon de Castel-Jaloux, to give him an order):
Captain! I. . .
(He stops short on seeing him):
Plague take me! but you look bravely, too!
CARBON (crimson in the face, hiding a bottle behind his back, with an evasive
movement):
Oh!. . .
DE GUICHE:
I have one cannon left, and have had it carried there--
(he points behind the scenes):
--in that corner. . .Your men can use it in case of need.
A CADET (reeling slightly):
Charming attention!
ANOTHER (with a gracious smile):
Kind solicitude!
DE GUICHE:
How? they are all gone crazy?
(Drily):
As you are not used to cannon, beware of the recoil.
FIRST CADET:
Pooh!
DE GUICHE (furious, going up to him):
But. . .
THE CADET:
Gascon cannons never recoil!
DE GUICHE (taking him by the arm and shaking him):
You are tipsy!--but what with?
THE CADET (grandiloquently):
--With the smell of powder!
DE GUICHE (shrugging his shoulders and pushing him away, then going quickly to
Roxane):
Briefly, Madame, what decision do you deign to take?
ROXANE:
I stay here.
DE GUICHE:
You must fly!
ROXANE:
No! I will stay.
DE GUICHE:
Since things are thus, give me a musket, one of you!
CARBON:
Wherefore?
DE GUICHE:
Because I too--mean to remain.
CYRANO:
At last! This is true valor, Sir!
FIRST CADET:
Then you are Gascon after all, spite of your lace collar?
ROXANE:
What is all this?
DE GUICHE:
I leave no woman in peril.
SECOND CADET (to the first):
Hark you! Think you not we might give him something to eat?
(All the viands reappear as if by magic.)
DE GUICHE (whose eyes sparkle):
Victuals!
THE THIRD CADET:
Yes, you'll see them coming from under every coat!
DE GUICHE (controlling himself, haughtily):
Do you think I will eat your leavings?
CYRANO (saluting him):
You make progress.
DE GUICHE (proudly, with a light touch of accent on the word 'breaking'):
I will fight without br-r-eaking my fast!
FIRST CADET (with wild delight):
Br-r-r-eaking! He has got the accent!
DE GUICHE (laughing):
I?
THE CADET:
'Tis a Gascon!
(All begin to dance.)
CARBON DE CASTEL-JALOUX (who had disappeared behind the rampart, reappearing
on the ridge):
I have drawn my pikemen up in line. They are a resolute troop.
(He points to a row of pikes, the tops of which are seen over the ridge.)
DE GUICHE (bowing to Roxane):
Will you accept my hand, and accompany me while I review them?
(She takes it, and they go up toward the rampart. All uncover and follow
them.)
CHRISTIAN (going to Cyrano, eagerly):
Tell me quickly!
(As Roxane appears on the ridge, the tops of the lances disappear, lowered for
the salute, and a shout is raised. She bows.)
THE PIKEMEN (outside):
Vivat!
CHRISTIAN:
What is this secret?
CYRANO:
If Roxane should. . .
CHRISTIAN:
Should?. . .
CYRANO:
Speak of the letters?. . .
CHRISTIAN:
Yes, I know!. . .
CYRANO:
Do not spoil all by seeming surprised. . .
CHRISTIAN:
At what?
CYRANO:
I must explain to you!. . .Oh! 'tis no great matter--I but thought of it to-
day on seeing her. You have. . .
CHRISTIAN:
Tell quickly!
CYRANO:
You have. . .written to her oftener than you think. . .
CHRISTIAN:
How so?
CYRANO:
Thus, 'faith! I had taken it in hand to express your flame for you!. . .At
times I wrote without saying, 'I am writing!'
CHRISTIAN:
Ah!. . .
CYRANO:
'Tis simple enough!
CHRISTIAN:
But how did you contrive, since we have been cut off, thus. . .to?. . .
CYRANO:
. . .Oh! before dawn. . .I was able to get through. . .
CHRISTIAN (folding his arms):
That was simple, too? And how oft, pray you, have I written?. . .Twice in
the week?. . .Three times?. . .Four?. . .
CYRANO:
More often still.
CHRISTIAN:
What! Every day?
CYRANO:
Yes, every day,--twice.
CHRISTIAN (violently):
And that became so mad a joy for you, that you braved death. . .
CYRANO (seeing Roxane returning):
Hush! Not before her!
(He goes hurriedly into his tent.) | De Guiche returns and again asks Roxane to leave. When she refuses, he resolves to stay and fight too. The men are impressed by his courage, wondering if de Guiche too is a Gascon, and offer him some food. He refuses to eat their left-overs, and betrays a hint of a Gascon accent, making them all the more certain that he is one of them. Cyrano takes Christian to one side and confesses that he sent Roxane more letters than Christian thought. He wrote to her every day, sometimes twice a day. Christian realizes that with each letter, Cyrano had to risk his life crossing enemy lines. He suspects Cyrano's secret, but once again, they are interrupted by Roxane. Cyrano disappears into a tent |
Chapter XX. The Morning.
In vivid contrast to the sad and terrible destiny of the king imprisoned
in the Bastile, and tearing, in sheer despair, the bolts and bars of
his dungeon, the rhetoric of the chroniclers of old would not fail to
present, as a complete antithesis, the picture of Philippe lying asleep
beneath the royal canopy. We do not pretend to say that such rhetoric is
always bad, and always scatters, in places where they have no right to
grow, the flowers with which it embellishes and enlivens history. But we
shall, on the present occasion, carefully avoid polishing the antithesis
in question, but shall proceed to draw another picture as minutely as
possible, to serve as foil and counterfoil to the one in the preceding
chapter. The young prince alighted from Aramis's room, in the same way
the king had descended from the apartment dedicated to Morpheus.
The dome gradually and slowly sank down under Aramis's pressure, and
Philippe stood beside the royal bed, which had ascended again after
having deposited its prisoner in the secret depths of the subterranean
passage. Alone, in the presence of all the luxury which surrounded him;
alone, in the presence of his power; alone, with the part he was about
to be forced to act, Philippe for the first time felt his heart, and
mind, and soul expand beneath the influence of a thousand mutable
emotions, which are the vital throbs of a king's heart. He could not
help changing color when he looked upon the empty bed, still tumbled
by his brother's body. This mute accomplice had returned, after having
completed the work it had been destined to perform; it returned with the
traces of the crime; it spoke to the guilty author of that crime, with
the frank and unreserved language which an accomplice never fears to
use in the company of his companion in guilt; for it spoke the truth.
Philippe bent over the bed, and perceived a pocket-handkerchief lying on
it, which was still damp from the cold sweat which had poured from Louis
XIV.'s face. This sweat-bestained handkerchief terrified Philippe, as
the gore of Abel frightened Cain.
"I am face to face with my destiny," said Philippe, his eyes on fire,
and his face a livid white. "Is it likely to be more terrifying than my
captivity has been sad and gloomy? Though I am compelled to follow out,
at every moment, the sovereign power and authority I have usurped, shall
I cease to listen to the scruples of my heart? Yes! the king has lain
on this bed; it is indeed his head that has left its impression on this
pillow; his bitter tears that have stained this handkerchief: and yet,
I hesitate to throw myself on the bed, or to press in my hand the
handkerchief which is embroidered with my brother's arms. Away with such
weakness; let me imitate M. d'Herblay, who asserts that a man's action
should be always one degree above his thoughts; let me imitate M.
d'Herblay, whose thoughts are of and for himself alone, who regards
himself as a man of honor, so long as he injures or betrays his enemies
only. I, I alone, should have occupied this bed, if Louis XIV. had not,
owing to my mother's criminal abandonment, stood in my way; and this
handkerchief, embroidered with the arms of France, would in right and
justice belong to me alone, if, as M. d'Herblay observes, I had been
left my royal cradle. Philippe, son of France, take your place on that
bed; Philippe, sole king of France, resume the blazonry that is yours!
Philippe, sole heir presumptive to Louis XIII., your father, show
yourself without pity or mercy for the usurper who, at this moment, has
not even to suffer the agony of the remorse of all that you have had to
submit to."
With these words, Philippe, notwithstanding an instinctive repugnance of
feeling, and in spite of the shudder of terror which mastered his will,
threw himself on the royal bed, and forced his muscles to press the
still warm place where Louis XIV. had lain, while he buried his burning
face in the handkerchief still moistened by his brother's tears. With
his head thrown back and buried in the soft down of his pillow, Philippe
perceived above him the crown of France, suspended, as we have stated,
by angels with outspread golden wings.
A man may be ambitious of lying in a lion's den, but can hardly hope to
sleep there quietly. Philippe listened attentively to every sound; his
heart panted and throbbed at the very suspicion of approaching terror
and misfortune; but confident in his own strength, which was confirmed
by the force of an overpoweringly resolute determination, he waited
until some decisive circumstance should permit him to judge for himself.
He hoped that imminent danger might be revealed to him, like those
phosphoric lights of the tempest which show the sailors the altitude of
the waves against which they have to struggle. But nothing approached.
Silence, that mortal enemy of restless hearts, and of ambitious minds,
shrouded in the thickness of its gloom during the remainder of the night
the future king of France, who lay there sheltered beneath his stolen
crown. Towards the morning a shadow, rather than a body, glided into the
royal chamber; Philippe expected his approach and neither expressed nor
exhibited any surprise.
"Well, M. d'Herblay?"
"Well, sire, all is accomplished."
"How?"
"Exactly as we expected."
"Did he resist?"
"Terribly! tears and entreaties."
"And then?"
"A perfect stupor."
"But at last?"
"Oh! at last, a complete victory, and absolute silence."
"Did the governor of the Bastile suspect anything?"
"Nothing."
"The resemblance, however--"
"Was the cause of the success."
"But the prisoner cannot fail to explain himself. Think well of that. I
have myself been able to do as much as that, on former occasion."
"I have already provided for every chance. In a few days, sooner if
necessary, we will take the captive out of his prison, and will send him
out of the country, to a place of exile so remote--"
"People can return from their exile, Monsieur d'Herblay."
"To a place of exile so distant, I was going to say, that human strength
and the duration of human life would not be enough for his return."
Once more a cold look of intelligence passed between Aramis and the
young king.
"And M. du Vallon?" asked Philippe in order to change the conversation.
"He will be presented to you to-day, and confidentially will
congratulate you on the danger which that conspirator has made you run."
"What is to be done with him?"
"With M. du Vallon?"
"Yes; confer a dukedom on him, I suppose."
"A dukedom," replied Aramis, smiling in a significant manner.
"Why do you laugh, Monsieur d'Herblay?"
"I laugh at the extreme caution of your idea."
"Cautious, why so?"
"Your majesty is doubtless afraid that poor Porthos may possible become
a troublesome witness, and you wish to get rid of him."
"What! in making him a duke?"
"Certainly; you would assuredly kill him, for he would die from joy, and
the secret would die with him."
"Good heavens!"
"Yes," said Aramis, phlegmatically; "I should lose a very good friend."
At this moment, and in the middle of this idle conversation, under the
light tone of which the two conspirators concealed their joy and pride
at their mutual success, Aramis heard something which made him prick up
his ears.
"What is that?" said Philippe.
"The dawn, sire."
"Well?"
"Well, before you retired to bed last night, you probably decided to do
something this morning at break of day."
"Yes, I told my captain of the musketeers," replied the young man
hurriedly, "that I should expect him."
"If you told him that, he will certainly be here, for he is a most
punctual man."
"I hear a step in the vestibule."
"It must be he."
"Come, let us begin the attack," said the young king resolutely.
"Be cautious for Heaven's sake. To begin the attack, and with
D'Artagnan, would be madness. D'Artagnan knows nothing, he has seen
nothing; he is a hundred miles from suspecting our mystery in the
slightest degree, but if he comes into this room the first this morning,
he will be sure to detect something of what has taken place, and which
he would imagine it his business to occupy himself about. Before we
allow D'Artagnan to penetrate into this room, we must air the room
thoroughly, or introduce so many people into it, that the keenest scent
in the whole kingdom may be deceived by the traces of twenty different
persons."
"But how can I send him away, since I have given him a rendezvous?"
observed the prince, impatient to measure swords with so redoubtable an
antagonist.
"I will take care of that," replied the bishop, "and in order to begin,
I am going to strike a blow which will completely stupefy our man."
"He, too, is striking a blow, for I hear him at the door," added the
prince, hurriedly.
And, in fact, a knock at the door was heard at that moment. Aramis was
not mistaken; for it was indeed D'Artagnan who adopted that mode of
announcing himself.
We have seen how he passed the night in philosophizing with M. Fouquet,
but the musketeer was very weary even of feigning to fall asleep, and
as soon as earliest dawn illumined with its gloomy gleams of light the
sumptuous cornices of the superintendent's room, D'Artagnan rose from
his armchair, arranged his sword, brushed his coat and hat with his
sleeve, like a private soldier getting ready for inspection.
"Are you going out?" said Fouquet.
"Yes, monseigneur. And you?"
"I shall remain."
"You pledge your word?"
"Certainly."
"Very good. Besides, my only reason for going out is to try and get that
reply,--you know what I mean?"
"That sentence, you mean--"
"Stay, I have something of the old Roman in me. This morning, when I
got up, I remarked that my sword had got caught in one of the
_aiguillettes_, and that my shoulder-belt had slipped quite off. That is
an infallible sign."
"Of prosperity?"
"Yes, be sure of it; for every time that that confounded belt of mine
stuck fast to my back, it always signified a punishment from M. de
Treville, or a refusal of money by M. de Mazarin. Every time my sword
hung fast to my shoulder-belt, it always predicted some disagreeable
commission or another for me to execute, and I have had showers of
them all my life through. Every time, too, my sword danced about in its
sheath, a duel, fortunate in its result, was sure to follow: whenever it
dangled about the calves of my legs, it signified a slight wound; every
time it fell completely out of the scabbard, I was booked, and made up
my mind that I should have to remain on the field of battle, with two or
three months under surgical bandages into the bargain."
"I did not know your sword kept you so well informed," said Fouquet,
with a faint smile, which showed how he was struggling against his
own weakness. "Is your sword bewitched, or under the influence of some
imperial charm?"
"Why, you must know that my sword may almost be regarded as part of my
own body. I have heard that certain men seem to have warnings given them
by feeling something the matter with their legs, or a throbbing of their
temples. With me, it is my sword that warns me. Well, it told me of
nothing this morning. But, stay a moment--look here, it has just fallen
of its own accord into the last hole of the belt. Do you know what that
is a warning of?"
"No."
"Well, that tells me of an arrest that will have to be made this very
day."
"Well," said the surintendant, more astonished than annoyed by this
frankness, "if there is nothing disagreeable predicted to you by your
sword, I am to conclude that it is not disagreeable for you to arrest
me."
"You! arrest _you!_"
"Of course. The warning--"
"Does not concern you, since you have been arrested ever since
yesterday. It is not you I shall have to arrest, be assured of that.
That is the reason why I am delighted, and also the reason why I said
that my day will be a happy one."
And with these words, pronounced with the most affectionate graciousness
of manner, the captain took leave of Fouquet in order to wait upon the
king. He was on the point of leaving the room, when Fouquet said to him,
"One last mark of kindness."
"What is it, monseigneur?"
"M. d'Herblay; let me see Monsieur d'Herblay."
"I am going to try and get him to come to you."
D'Artagnan did not think himself so good a prophet. It was written that
the day would pass away and realize all the predictions that had been
made in the morning. He had accordingly knocked, as we have seen, at the
king's door. The door opened. The captain thought that it was the king
who had just opened it himself; and this supposition was not altogether
inadmissible, considering the state of agitation in which he had left
Louis XIV. the previous evening; but instead of his royal master, whom
he was on the point of saluting with the greatest respect, he perceived
the long, calm features of Aramis. So extreme was his surprise that
he could hardly refrain from uttering a loud exclamation. "Aramis!" he
said.
"Good morning, dear D'Artagnan," replied the prelate, coldly.
"You here!" stammered out the musketeer.
"His majesty desires you to report that he is still sleeping, after
having been greatly fatigued during the whole night."
"Ah!" said D'Artagnan, who could not understand how the bishop of
Vannes, who had been so indifferent a favorite the previous evening, had
become in half a dozen hours the most magnificent mushroom of fortune
that had ever sprung up in a sovereign's bedroom. In fact, to transmit
the orders of the king even to the mere threshold of that monarch's
room, to serve as an intermediary of Louis XIV. so as to be able to
give a single order in his name at a couple paces from him, he must have
become more than Richelieu had ever been to Louis XIII. D'Artagnan's
expressive eye, half-opened lips, his curling mustache, said as much
indeed in the plainest language to the chief favorite, who remained calm
and perfectly unmoved.
"Moreover," continued the bishop, "you will be good enough, monsieur le
capitaine des mousquetaires, to allow those only to pass into the king's
room this morning who have special permission. His majesty does not wish
to be disturbed just yet."
"But," objected D'Artagnan, almost on the point of refusing to obey this
order, and particularly of giving unrestrained passage to the suspicions
which the king's silence had aroused--"but, monsieur l'eveque, his
majesty gave me a rendezvous for this morning."
"Later, later," said the king's voice, from the bottom of the alcove; a
voice which made a cold shudder pass through the musketeer's veins. He
bowed, amazed, confused, and stupefied by the smile with which Aramis
seemed to overwhelm him, as soon as these words had been pronounced.
"And then," continued the bishop, "as an answer to what you were coming
to ask the king, my dear D'Artagnan, here is an order of his majesty,
which you will be good enough to attend to forthwith, for it concerns M.
Fouquet."
D'Artagnan took the order which was held out to him. "To be set at
liberty!" he murmured. "Ah!" and he uttered a second "ah!" still more
full of intelligence than the former; for this order explained Aramis's
presence with the king, and that Aramis, in order to have obtained
Fouquet's pardon, must have made considerable progress in the royal
favor, and that this favor explained, in its tenor, the hardly
conceivable assurance with which M. d'Herblay issued the order in the
king's name. For D'Artagnan it was quite sufficient to have understood
something of the matter in hand to order to understand the rest. He
bowed and withdrew a couple of paces, as though he were about to leave.
"I am going with you," said the bishop.
"Where to?"
"To M. Fouquet; I wish to be a witness of his delight."
"Ah! Aramis, how you puzzled me just now!" said D'Artagnan again.
"But you understand _now_, I suppose?"
"Of course I understand," he said aloud; but added in a low tone to
himself, almost hissing the words between his teeth, "No, no, I do not
understand yet. But it is all the same, for here is the order for it."
And then he added, "I will lead the way, monseigneur," and he conducted
Aramis to Fouquet's apartments. | Philippe looks around his brother's bedroom and starts feeling like a king. Then he starts feeling guilty as he slips into bed. In the morning, Aramis walks into the bedchamber. Philippe is awake and expecting him. The two men catch up on all the latest events: Louis is safely shut up in the Bastille, and Porthos should be given a dukedom or killed - it's a bit unclear. The next order of business is dealing with D'Artagnan, who is supposed to have a morning meeting with the King. Aramis goes to intercept D'Artagnan and prevent him from entering the bedchamber, where he might suspect something is amiss. As D'Artagnan leaves Fouquet's room, he predicts that he will arrest someone before the end of the day. Fouquet asks D'Artagnan to have Aramis come see him. D'Artagnan agrees. D'Artagnan knocks on the door to the King's bedchamber, half-expecting the King himself to open the door. He is absolutely flabbergasted to see Aramis open the door. Aramis tells D'Artagnan that the King wants the court to know he is still sleeping. D'Artagnan is shocked to see that the King esteems Aramis so highly. Last night, the King paid no attention to Aramis, but here he is in the morning, in the King's bedchamber, issuing orders in the King's name. D'Artagnan objects that he had a meeting scheduled for this morning. The King's voice comes from the bedchamber, telling D'Artagnan that they can meet later. Before D'Artagnan leaves, Aramis hands him an order concerning Fouquet. It is an order issuing the release of Fouquet. This clears up the mystery for D'Artagnan, who assumes that Aramis was in the King's bedchamber to negotiate Fouquet's release. Aramis accompanies D'Artagnan. He claims he wants to witness Fouquet's delight for himself. |
When Nuflo at length opened his eyes he found me sitting alone and
despondent by the fire, just returned from my vain chase. I had been
caught in a heavy mist on the mountain-side, and was wet through as well
as weighed down by fatigue and drowsiness, consequent upon the previous
day's laborious march and my night-long vigil; yet I dared not think of
rest. She had gone from me, and I could not have prevented it; yet the
thought that I had allowed her to slip out of my arms, to go away alone
on that long, perilous journey, was as intolerable as if I had consented
to it.
Nuflo was at first startled to hear of her sudden departure; but he
laughed at my fears, affirming that after having once been over the
ground she could not lose herself; that she would be in no danger from
the Indians, as she would invariably see them at a distance and avoid
them, and that wild beasts, serpents, and other evil creatures would do
her no harm. The small amount of food she required to sustain life could
be found anywhere; furthermore, her journey would not be interrupted
by bad weather, since rain and heat had no effect on her. In the end he
seemed pleased that she had left us, saying that with Rima in the wood
the house and cultivated patch and hidden provisions and implements
would be safe, for no Indian would venture to come where she was. His
confidence reassured me, and casting myself down on the sandy floor of
the cave, I fell into a deep slumber, which lasted until evening; then
I only woke to share a meal with the old man, and sleep again until the
following day.
Nuflo was not ready to start yet; he was enamoured of the unaccustomed
comforts of a dry sleeping-place and a fire blown about by no wind and
into which fell no hissing raindrops. Not for two days more would he
consent to set out on the return journey, and if he could have persuaded
me our stay at Riolama would have lasted a week.
We had fine weather at starting; but before long it clouded, and then
for upwards of a fortnight we had it wet and stormy, which so hindered
us that it took us twenty-three days to accomplish the return journey,
whereas the journey out had only taken eighteen. The adventures we
met with and the pains we suffered during this long march need not be
related. The rain made us miserable, but we suffered more from hunger
than from any other cause, and on more than one occasion were reduced to
the verge of starvation. Twice we were driven to beg for food at Indian
villages, and as we had nothing to give in exchange for it, we got
very little. It is possible to buy hospitality from the savage without
fish-hooks, nails, and calico; but on this occasion I found myself
without that impalpable medium of exchange which had been so great
a help to me on my first journey to Parahuari. Now I was weak and
miserable and without cunning. It is true that we could have exchanged
the two dogs for cassava bread and corn, but we should then have been
worse off than ever. And in the end the dogs saved us by an occasional
capture--an armadillo surprised in the open and seized before it could
bury itself in the soil, or an iguana, opossum, or labba, traced by
means of their keen sense of smell to its hiding-place. Then Nuflo would
rejoice and feast, rewarding them with the skin, bones, and entrails.
But at length one of the dogs fell lame, and Nuflo, who was very hungry,
made its lameness an excuse for dispatching it, which he did apparently
without compunction, notwithstanding that the poor brute had served
him well in its way. He cut up and smoke-dried the flesh, and the
intolerable pangs of hunger compelled me to share the loathsome food
with him. We were not only indecent, it seemed to me, but cannibals to
feed on the faithful servant that had been our butcher. "But what does
it matter?" I argued with myself. "All flesh, clean and unclean, should
be, and is, equally abhorrent to me, and killing animals a kind of
murder. But now I find myself constrained to do this evil thing that
good may come. Only to live I take it now--this hateful strength-giver
that will enable me to reach Rima, and the purer, better life that is to
be."
During all that time, when we toiled onwards league after league in
silence, or sat silent by the nightly fire, I thought of many things;
but the past, with which I had definitely broken, was little in my mind.
Rima was still the source and centre of all my thoughts; from her they
rose, and to her returned. Thinking, hoping, dreaming, sustained me in
those dark days and nights of pain and privation. Imagination was the
bread that gave me strength, the wine that exhilarated. What sustained
old Nuflo's mind I know not. Probably it was like a chrysalis, dormant,
independent of sustenance; the bright-winged image to be called at some
future time to life by a great shouting of angelic hosts and noises of
musical instruments slept secure, coffined in that dull, gross nature.
The old beloved wood once more! Never did his native village in some
mountain valley seem more beautiful to the Switzer, returning, war-worn,
from long voluntary exile, than did that blue cloud on the horizon--the
forest where Rima dwelt, my bride, my beautiful--and towering over
it the dark cone of Ytaioa, now seem to my hungry eyes! How near at
last--how near! And yet the two or three intervening leagues to be
traversed so slowly, step by step--how vast the distance seemed! Even at
far Riolama, when I set out on my return, I scarcely seemed so far from
my love. This maddening impatience told on my strength, which was small,
and hindered me. I could not run nor even walk fast; old Nuflo, slow,
and sober, with no flame consuming his heart, was more than my equal in
the end, and to keep up with him was all I could do. At the finish he
became silent and cautious, first entering the belt of trees leading
away through the low range of hills at the southern extremity of the
wood. For a mile or upwards we trudged on in the shade; then I began
to recognize familiar ground, the old trees under which I had walked
or sat, and knew that a hundred yards further on there would be a first
glimpse of the palm-leaf thatch. Then all weakness forsook me; with a
low cry of passionate longing and joy I rushed on ahead; but I strained
my eyes in vain for a sight of that sweet shelter; no patch of pale
yellow colour appeared amidst the universal verdure of bushes, creepers,
and trees--trees beyond trees, trees towering above trees.
For some moments I could not realize it. No, I had surely made a
mistake, the house had not stood on that spot; it would appear in sight
a little further on. I took a few uncertain steps onwards, and then
again stood still, my brain reeling, my heart swelling nigh to bursting
with anguish. I was still standing motionless, with hand pressed to my
breast, when Nuflo overtook me. "Where is it--the house?" I stammered,
pointing with my hand. All his stolidity seemed gone now; he was
trembling too, his lips silently moving. At length he spoke: "They
have come--the children of hell have been here, and have destroyed
everything!"
"Rima! What has become of Rima?" I cried; but without replying he walked
on, and I followed.
The house, we soon found, had been burnt down. Not a stick remained.
Where it had stood a heap of black ashes covered the ground--nothing
more. But on looking round we could discover no sign of human beings
having recently visited the spot. A rank growth of grass and herbage now
covered the once clear space surrounding the site of the dwelling, and
the ash-heap looked as if it had been lying there for a month at least.
As to what had become of Rima the old man could say no word. He sat down
on the ground overwhelmed at the calamity: Runi's people had been there,
he could not doubt it, and they would come again, and he could only look
for death at their hands. The thought that Rima had perished, that she
was lost, was unendurable. It could not be! No doubt the Indians tract
come and destroyed the house during our absence; but she had returned,
and they had gone away again to come no more. She would be somewhere in
the forest, perhaps not far off, impatiently waiting our return. The old
man stared at me while I spoke; he appeared to be in a kind of stupor,
and made no reply: and at last, leaving him still sitting on the ground,
I went into the wood to look for Rima.
As I walked there, occasionally stopping to peer into some shadowy glade
or opening, and to listen, I was tempted again and again to call the
name of her I sought aloud; and still the fear that by so doing I might
bring some hidden danger on myself, perhaps on her, made me silent. A
strange melancholy rested on the forest, a quietude seldom broken by a
distant bird's cry. How, I asked myself, should I ever find her in that
wide forest while I moved about in that silent, cautious way? My only
hope was that she would find me. It occurred to me that the most likely
place to seek her would be some of the old haunts known to us both,
where we had talked together. I thought first of the mora tree, where
she had hidden herself from me, and thither I directed my steps. About
this tree, and within its shade, I lingered for upwards of an hour; and,
finally, casting my eyes up into the great dim cloud of green and purple
leaves, I softly called: "Rima, Rima, if you have seen me, and have
concealed yourself from me in your hiding-place, in mercy answer me--in
mercy come down to me now!" But Rima answered not, nor threw down
any red glowing leaves to mock me: only the wind, high up, whispered
something low and sorrowful in the foliage; and turning, I wandered away
at random into the deeper shadows.
By and by I was startled by the long, piercing cry of a wildfowl,
sounding strangely loud in the silence; and no sooner was the air still
again than it struck me that no bird had uttered that cry. The Indian
is a good mimic of animal voices, but practice had made me able to
distinguish the true from the false bird-note. For a minute or so I
stood still, at a loss what to do, then moved on again with greater
caution, scarcely breathing, straining my sight to pierce the shadowy
depths. All at once I gave a great start, for directly before me, on the
projecting root in the deeper shade of a tree, sat a dark, motionless
human form. I stood still, watching it for some time, not yet knowing
that it had seen me, when all doubts were put to flight by the form
rising and deliberately advancing--a naked Indian with a zabatana in
his hand. As he came up out of the deeper shade I recognized Piake, the
surly elder brother of my friend Kua-ko.
It was a great shock to meet him in the wood, but I had no time to
reflect just then. I only remembered that I had deeply offended him and
his people, that they probably looked on me as an enemy, and would
think little of taking my life. It was too late to attempt to escape by
flight; I was spent with my long journey and the many privations I had
suffered, while he stood there in his full strength with a deadly weapon
in his hand.
Nothing was left but to put a bold face on, greet him in a friendly way,
and invent some plausible story to account for my action in secretly
leaving the village.
He was now standing still, silently regarding me, and glancing round
I saw that he was not alone: at a distance of about forty yards on my
right hand two other dusky forms appeared watching me from the deep
shade.
"Piake!" I cried, advancing three or four steps.
"You have returned," he answered, but without moving. "Where from?"
"Riolama."
He shook his head, then asked where it was.
"Twenty days towards the setting sun," I said. As he remained silent I
added: "I heard that I could find gold in the mountains there. An old
man told me, and we went to look for gold."
"What did you find?"
"Nothing."
"Ah!"
And so our conversation appeared to be at an end. But after a few
moments my intense desire to discover whether the savages knew aught of
Rima or not made me hazard a question.
"Do you live here in the forest now?" I asked.
He shook his head, and after a while said: "We come to kill animals."
"You are like me now," I returned quickly; "you fear nothing."
He looked distrustfully at me, then came a little nearer and said: "You
are very brave. I should not have gone twenty days' journey with no
weapons and only an old man for companion. What weapons did you have?"
I saw that he feared me and wished to make sure that I had it not in
my power to do him some injury. "No weapon except my knife," I replied,
with assumed carelessness. With that I raised my cloak so as to let him
see for himself, turning my body round before him. "Have you found my
pistol?" I added.
He shook his head; but he appeared less suspicious now and came close up
to me. "How do you get food? Where are you going?" he asked.
I answered boldly: "Food! I am nearly starving. I am going to the
village to see if the women have got any meat in the pot, and to tell
Runi all I have done since I left him."
He looked at me keenly, a little surprised at my confidence perhaps,
then said that he was also going back and would accompany me One of the
other men now advanced, blow-pipe in hand, to join us, and, leaving the
wood, we started to walk across the savannah.
It was hateful to have to recross that savannah again, to leave the
woodland shadows where I had hoped to find Rima; but I was powerless:
I was a prisoner once more, the lost captive recovered and not yet
pardoned, probably never to be pardoned. Only by means of my own cunning
could I be saved, and Nuflo, poor old man, must take his chance.
Again and again as we tramped over the barren ground, and when we
climbed the ridge, I was compelled to stand still to recover breath,
explaining to Piake that I had been travelling day and night, with no
meat during the last three days, so that I was exhausted. This was
an exaggeration, but it was necessary to account in some way for the
faintness I experienced during our walk, caused less by fatigue and want
of food than by anguish of mind.
At intervals I talked to him, asking after all the other members of the
community by name. At last, thinking only of Rima, I asked him if any
other person or persons besides his people came to the wood now or lived
there.
He said no. "Once," I said, "there was a daughter of the Didi, a girl
you all feared: is she there now?"
He looked at me with suspicion and then shook his head. I dared not
press him with more questions; but after an interval he said plainly:
"She is not there now."
And I was forced to believe him; for had Rima been in the wood
they would not have been there. She was not there, this much I had
discovered. Had she, then, lost her way, or perished on that long
journey from Riolama? Or had she returned only to fall into the hands
of her cruel enemies? My heart was heavy in me; but if these devils in
human shape knew more than they had told me, I must, I said, hide my
anxiety and wait patiently to find it out, should they spare my
life. And if they spared me and had not spared that other sacred life
interwoven with mine, the time would come when they would find, too
late, that they had taken to their bosom a worse devil than themselves.
My arrival at the village created some excitement; but I was plainly no
longer regarded as a friend or one of the family. Runi was absent, and
I looked forward to his return with no little apprehension; he would
doubtless decide my fate. Kua-ko was also away. The others sat or stood
about the great room, staring at me in silence. I took no notice, but
merely asked for food, then for my hammock, which I hung up in the old
place, and lying down I fell into a doze. Runi made his appearance at
dusk. I rose and greeted him, but he spoke no word and, until he went to
his hammock, sat in sullen silence, ignoring my presence.
On the following day the crisis came. We were once more gathered in the
room--all but Kua-ko and another of the men, who had not yet returned
from some expedition--and for the space of half an hour not a word
was spoken by anyone. Something was expected; even the children were
strangely still, and whenever one of the pet birds strayed in at the
open door, uttering a little plaintive note, it was chased out again,
but without a sound. At length Runi straightened himself on his seat and
fixed his eyes on me; then cleared his throat and began a long harangue,
delivered in the loud, monotonous singsong which I knew so well and
which meant that the occasion was an important one. And as is usual
in such efforts, the same thought and expressions were used again and
again, and yet again, with dull, angry insistence. The orator of Guayana
to be impressive must be long, however little he may have to say.
Strange as it may seem, I listened critically to him, not without a
feeling of scorn at his lower intelligence. But I was easier in my mind
now. From the very fact of his addressing such a speech to me I was
convinced that he wished not to take my life, and would not do so if I
could clear myself of the suspicion of treachery.
I was a white man, he said, they were Indians; nevertheless they had
treated me well. They had fed me and sheltered me. They had done a
great deal for me: they had taught me the use of the zabatana, and had
promised to make one for me, asking for nothing in return. They had also
promised me a wife. How had I treated them? I had deserted them, going
away secretly to a distance, leaving them in doubt as to my intentions.
How could they tell why I had gone, and where? They had an enemy. Managa
was his name; he and his people hated them; I knew that he wished them
evil; I knew where to find him, for they had told me. That was what they
thought when I suddenly left them. Now I returned to them, saying that
I had been to Riolama. He knew where Riolama was, although he had never
been there: it was so far. Why did I go to Riolama? It was a bad place.
There were Indians there, a few; but they were not good Indians like
those of Parahuari, and would kill a white man. HAD I gone there? Why
had I gone there?
He finished at last, and it was my turn to speak, but he had given me
plenty of time, and my reply was ready. "I have heard you," I said.
"Your words are good words. They are the words of a friend. 'I am the
white man's friend,' you say; 'is he my friend? He went away secretly,
saying no word; why did he go without speaking to his friend who had
treated him well? Has he been to my enemy Managa? Perhaps he is a friend
of my enemy? Where has he been?' I must now answer these things, saying
true words to my friend. You are an Indian, I am a white man. You do not
know all the white man's thoughts. These are the things I wish to tell
you. In the white man's country are two kinds of men. There are the rich
men, who have all that a man can desire--houses made of stone, full of
fine things, fine clothes, fine weapons, fine ornaments; and they have
horses, cattle, sheep, dogs--everything they desire. Because they have
gold, for with gold the white man buys everything. The other kind
of white men are the poor, who have no gold and cannot buy or have
anything: they must work hard for the rich man for the little food he
gives them, and a rag to cover their nakedness; and if he gives them
shelter they have it; if not they must lie down in the rain out of
doors. In my own country, a hundred days from here, I was the son of a
great chief, who had much gold, and when he died it was all mine, and I
was rich. But I had an enemy, one worse than Managa, for he was rich and
had many people. And in a war his people overcame mine, and he took my
gold, and all I possessed, making me poor. The Indian kills his enemy,
but the white man takes his gold, and that is worse than death. Then I
said: 'I have been a rich man and now I am poor, and must work like a
dog for some rich man, for the sake of the little food he will throw me
at the end of each day. No, I cannot do it! I will go away and live with
the Indians, so that those who have seen me a rich man shall never see
me working like a dog for a master, and cry out and mock at me. For the
Indians are not like white men: they have no gold; they are not rich
and poor; all are alike. One roof covers them from the rain and sun.
All have weapons which they make; all kill birds in the forest and catch
fish in the rivers; and the women cook the meat and all eat from one
pot. And with the Indians I will be an Indian, and hunt in the forest
and eat with them and drink with them.' Then I left my country and came
here, and lived with you, Runi, and was well treated. And now, why did
I go away? This I have now to tell you. After I had been here a certain
time I went over there to the forest. You wished me not to go, because
of an evil thing, a daughter of the Didi, that lived there; but I feared
nothing and went. There I met an old man, who talked to me in the white
man's language. He had travelled and seen much, and told me one strange
thing. On a mountain at Riolama he told me that he had seen a great lump
of gold, as much as a man could carry. And when I heard this I said:
'With the gold I could return to my country, and buy weapons for myself
and all my people and go to war with my enemy and deprive him of all his
possessions and serve him as he served me.' I asked the old man to take
me to Riolama; and when he had consented I went away from here without
saying a word, so as not to be prevented. It is far to Riolama, and I
had no weapons; but I feared nothing. I said: 'If I must fight I must
fight, and if I must be killed I must be killed.' But when I got to
Riolama I found no gold. There was only a yellow stone which the old
man had mistaken for gold. It was yellow, like gold, but it would buy
nothing. Therefore I came back to Parahuari again, to my friend; and if
he is angry with me still because I went away without informing him, let
him say: 'Go and seek elsewhere for a new friend, for I am your friend
no longer.'"
I concluded thus boldly because I did not wish him to know that I had
suspected him of harbouring any sinister designs, or that I looked
on our quarrel as a very serious one. When I had finished speaking he
emitted a sound which expressed neither approval nor disapproval, but
only the fact that he had heard me. But I was satisfied. His expression
had undergone a favourable change; it was less grim. After a while
he remarked, with a peculiar twitching of the mouth which might have
developed into a smile: "The white man will do much to get gold. You
walked twenty days to see a yellow stone that would buy nothing." It was
fortunate that he took this view of the case, which was flattering to
his Indian nature, and perhaps touched his sense of the ludicrous. At
all events, he said nothing to discredit my story, to which they had all
listened with profound interest.
From that time it seemed to be tacitly agreed to let bygones be bygones;
and I could see that as the dangerous feeling that had threatened my
life diminished, the old pleasure they had once found in my company
returned. But my feelings towards them did not change, nor could they
while that black and terrible suspicion concerning Rima was in my heart.
I talked again freely with them, as if there had been no break in the
old friendly relations. If they watched me furtively whenever I went
out of doors, I affected not to see it. I set to work to repair my rude
guitar, which had been broken in my absence, and studied to show them
a cheerful countenance. But when alone, or in my hammock, hidden from
their eyes, free to look into my own heart, then I was conscious that
something new and strange had come into my life; that a new nature,
black and implacable, had taken the place of the old. And sometimes
it was hard to conceal this fury that burnt in me; sometimes I felt an
impulse to spring like a tiger on one of the Indians, to hold him fast
by the throat until the secret I wished to learn was forced from his
lips, then to dash his brains out against the stone. But they were many,
and there was no choice but to be cautious and patient if I wished to
outwit them with a cunning superior to their own.
Three days after my arrival at the village, Kua-ko returned with his
companion. I greeted him with affected warmth, but was really pleased
that he was back, believing that if the Indians knew anything of Rima he
among them all would be most likely to tell it.
Kua-ko appeared to have brought some important news, which he discussed
with Runi and the others; and on the following day I noticed that
preparations for an expedition were in progress. Spears and bows and
arrows were got ready, but not blow-pipes, and I knew by this that the
expedition would not be a hunting one. Having discovered so much, also
that only four men were going out, I called Kua-ko aside and begged him
to let me go with them. He seemed pleased at the proposal, and at once
repeated it to Runi, who considered for a little and then consented.
By and by he said, touching his bow: "You cannot fight with our weapons;
what will you do if we meet an enemy?"
I smiled and returned that I would not run away. All I wished to show
him was that his enemies were my enemies, that I was ready to fight for
my friend.
He was pleased at my words, and said no more and gave me no weapons.
Next morning, however, when we set out before daylight, I made the
discovery that he was carrying my revolver fastened to his waist. He
had concealed it carefully under the one simple garment he wore, but it
bulged slightly, and so the secret was betrayed. I had never believed
that he had lost it, and I was convinced that he took it now with the
object of putting it into my hands at the last moment in case of meeting
with an enemy.
From the village we travelled in a north-westerly direction, and before
noon camped in a grove of dwarf trees, where we remained until the sun
was low, then continued our walk through a rather barren country. At
night we camped again beside a small stream, only a few inches deep,
and after a meal of smoked meat and parched maize prepared to sleep till
dawn on the next day.
Sitting by the fire I resolved to make a first attempt to discover from
Kua-ko anything concerning Rima which might be known to him. Instead
of lying down when the others did, I remained seated, my guardian also
sitting--no doubt waiting for me to lie down first. Presently I moved
nearer to him and began a conversation in a low voice, anxious not to
rouse the attention of the other men.
"Once you said that Oalava would be given to me for a wife," I began.
"Some day I shall want a wife."
He nodded approval, and remarked sententiously that the desire to
possess a wife was common to all men.
"What has been left to me?" I said despondingly and spreading out my
hands. "My pistol gone, and did I not give Runi the tinder-box, and the
little box with a cock painted on it to you? I had no return--not even
the blow-pipe. How, then, can I get me a wife?"
He, like the others--dull-witted savage that he was--had come to the
belief that I was incapable of the cunning and duplicity they practiced.
I could not see a green parrot sitting silent and motionless amidst the
green foliage as they could; I had not their preternatural keenness of
sight; and, in like manner, to deceive with lies and false seeming was
their faculty and not mine. He fell readily into the trap. My return to
practical subjects pleased him. He bade me hope that Oalava might yet be
mine in spite of my poverty. It was not always necessary to have things
to get a wife: to be able to maintain her was enough; some day I would
be like one of themselves, able to kill animals and catch fish. Besides,
did not Runi wish to keep me with them for other reasons? But he could
not keep me wifeless. I could do much: I could sing and make music; I
was brave and feared nothing; I could teach the children to fight.
He did not say, however, that I could teach anything to one of his years
and attainments.
I protested that he gave me too much praise, that they were just as
brave. Did they not show a courage equal to mine by going every day to
hunt in that wood which was inhabited by the daughter of the Didi?
I came to this subject with fear and trembling, but he took it quietly.
He shook his head, and then all at once began to tell me how they first
came to go there to hunt. He said that a few days after I had secretly
disappeared, two men and a woman, returning home from a distant place
where they had been on a visit to a relation, stopped at the village.
These travellers related that two days' journey from Ytaioa they had
met three persons travelling in an opposite direction: an old man with
a white beard, followed by two yellow dogs, a young man in a big cloak,
and a strange-looking girl. Thus it came to be known that I had left the
wood with the old man and the daughter of the Didi. It was great news to
them, for they did not believe that we had any intention of returning,
and at once they began to hunt in the wood, and went there every day,
killing birds, monkeys, and other animals in numbers.
His words had begun to excite me greatly, but I studied to appear calm
and only slightly interested, so as to draw him on to say more.
"Then we returned," I said at last. "But only two of us, and not
together. I left the old man on the road, and SHE left us in Riolama.
She went away from us into the mountains--who knows whither!"
"But she came back!" he returned, with a gleam of devilish satisfaction
in his eyes that made the blood run cold in my veins.
It was hard to dissemble still, to tempt him to say something that
would madden me! "No, no," I answered, after considering his words. "She
feared to return; she went away to hide herself in the great mountains
beyond Riolama. She could not come back."
"But she came back!" he persisted, with that triumphant gleam in his
eyes once more. Under my cloak my hand had clutched my knife-handle, but
I strove hard against the fierce, almost maddening impulse to pluck it
out and bury it, quick as lightning, in his accursed throat.
He continued: "Seven days before you returned we saw her in the wood. We
were always expecting, watching, always afraid; and when hunting we were
three and four together. On that day I and three others saw her. It was
in an open place, where the trees are big and wide apart. We started
up and chased her when she ran from us, but feared to shoot. And in one
moment she climbed up into a small tree, then, like a monkey, passed
from its highest branches into a big tree. We could not see her there,
but she was there in the big tree, for there was no other tree near--no
way of escape. Three of us sat down to watch, and the other went back
to the village. He was long gone; we were just going to leave the tree,
fearing that she would do us some injury, when he came back, and with
him all the others, men, women, and children. They brought axes and
knives. Then Runi said: 'Let no one shoot an arrow into the tree
thinking to hit her, for the arrow would be caught in her hand and
thrown back at him. We must burn her in the tree; there is no way to
kill her except by fire.' Then we went round and round looking up, but
could see nothing; and someone said: 'She has escaped, flying like a
bird from the tree'; but Runi answered that fire would show. So we cut
down the small tree and lopped the branches off and heaped them round
the big trunk. Then, at a distance, we cut down ten more small trees,
and afterwards, further away, ten more, and then others, and piled them
all round, tree after tree, until the pile reached as far from the trunk
as that," and here he pointed to a bush forty to fifty yards from where
we sat.
The feeling with which I had listened to this recital had become
intolerable. The sweat ran from me in streams; I shivered like a person
in a fit of ague, and clenched my teeth together to prevent them from
rattling. "I must drink," I said, cutting him short and rising to my
feet. He also rose, but did not follow me, when, with uncertain steps, I
made my way to the waterside, which was ten or twelve yards away. Lying
prostrate on my chest, I took a long draught of clear cold water, and
held my face for a few moments in the current. It sent a chill through
me, drying my wet skin, and bracing me for the concluding part of the
hideous narrative. Slowly I stepped back to the fireside and sat down
again, while he resumed his old place at my side.
"You burnt the tree down," I said. "Finish telling me now and let me
sleep--my eyes are heavy."
"Yes. While the men cut and brought trees, the women and children
gathered dry stuff in the forest and brought it in their arms and piled
it round. Then they set fire to it on all sides, laughing and shouting:
'Burn, burn, daughter of the Didi!' At length all the lower branches of
the big tree were on fire, and the trunk was on fire, but above it was
still green, and we could see nothing. But the flames went up higher and
higher with a great noise; and at last from the top of the tree, out
of the green leaves, came a great cry, like the cry of a bird: 'Abel!
Abel!' and then looking we saw something fall; through leaves and smoke
and flame it fell like a great white bird killed with an arrow and
falling to the earth, and fell into the flames beneath. And it was the
daughter of the Didi, and she was burnt to ashes like a moth in the
flames of a fire, and no one has ever heard or seen her since."
It was well for me that he spoke rapidly, and finished quickly.
Even before he had quite concluded I drew my cloak round my face and
stretched myself out. And I suppose that he at once followed my example,
but I had grown blind and deaf to outward things just then. My heart no
longer throbbed violently; it fluttered and seemed to grow feebler and
feebler in its action: I remember that there was a dull, rushing sound
in my ears, that I gasped for breath, that my life seemed ebbing away.
After these horrible sensations had passed, I remained quiet for about
half an hour; and during this time the picture of that last act in the
hateful tragedy grew more and more distinct and vivid in my mind, until
I seemed to be actually gazing on it, until my ears were filled with the
hissing and crackling of the fire, the exultant shouts of the savages,
and above all the last piercing cry of "Abel! Abel!" from the cloud of
burning foliage. I could not endure it longer, and rose at last to my
feet. I glanced at Kua-ko lying two or three yards away, and he, like
the others, was, or appeared to be, in a deep sleep; he was lying on
his back, and his dark firelit face looked as still and unconscious as
a face of stone. Now was my chance to escape--if to escape was my wish.
Yes; for I now possessed the coveted knowledge, and nothing more was to
be gained by keeping with my deadly enemies. And now, most fortunately
for me, they had brought me far on the road to that place of the five
hills where Managa lived--Managa, whose name had been often in my
mind since my return to Parahuari. Glancing away from Kua-ko's still
stone-like face. I caught sight of that pale solitary star which Runi
had pointed out to me low down in the north-western sky when I had asked
him where his enemy lived. In that direction we had been travelling
since leaving the village; surely if I walked all night, by tomorrow I
could reach Managa's hunting-ground, and be safe and think over what I
had heard and on what I had to do.
I moved softly away a few steps, then thinking that it would be well to
take a spear in my hand, I turned back, and was surprised and startled
to notice that Kua-ko had moved in the interval. He had turned over on
his side, and his face was now towards me. His eyes appeared closed, but
he might be only feigning sleep, and I dared not go back to pick up the
spear. After a moment's hesitation I moved on again, and after a second
glance back and seeing that he did not stir, I waded cautiously across
the stream, walked softly twenty or thirty yards, and then began to run.
At intervals I paused to listen for a moment; and presently I heard a
pattering sound as of footsteps coming swiftly after me. I instantly
concluded that Kua-ko had been awake all the time watching my movements,
and that he was now following me. I now put forth my whole speed, and
while thus running could distinguish no sound. That he would miss me,
for it was very dark, although with a starry sky above, was my only
hope; for with no weapon except my knife my chances would be small
indeed should he overtake me. Besides, he had no doubt roused the others
before starting, and they would be close behind. There were no bushes
in that place to hide myself in and let them pass me; and presently, to
make matters worse, the character of the soil changed, and I was running
over level clayey ground, so white with a salt efflorescence that a
dark object moving on it would show conspicuously at a distance. Here
I paused to look back and listen, when distinctly came the sound of
footsteps, and the next moment I made out the vague form of an Indian
advancing at a rapid rate of speed and with his uplifted spear in his
hand. In the brief pause I had made he had advanced almost to within
hurling distance of me, and turning, I sped on again, throwing off my
cloak to ease my flight. The next time I looked back he was still in
sight, but not so near; he had stopped to pick up my cloak, which would
be his now, and this had given me a slight advantage. I fled on, and had
continued running for a distance perhaps of fifty yards when an object
rushed past me, tearing through the flesh of my left arm close to the
shoulder on its way; and not knowing that I was not badly wounded nor
how near my pursuer might be, I turned in desperation to meet him,
and saw him not above twenty-five yards away, running towards me with
something bright in his hand. It was Kua-ko, and after wounding me with
his spear he was about to finish me with his knife. O fortunate young
savage, after such a victory, and with that noble blue cloth cloak for
trophy and covering, what fame and happiness will be yours! A change
swift as lightning had come over me, a sudden exultation. I was wounded,
but my right hand was sound and clutched a knife as good as his, and
we were on an equality. I waited for him calmly. All weakness, grief,
despair had vanished, all feelings except a terrible raging desire to
spill his accursed blood; and my brain was clear and my nerves like
steel, and I remembered with something like laughter our old amusing
encounters with rapiers of wood. Ah, that was only making believe and
childish play; this was reality. Could any white man, deprived of his
treacherous, far-killing weapon, meet the resolute savage, face to face
and foot to foot, and equal him with the old primitive weapons? Poor
youth, this delusion will cost you dear! It was scarcely an equal
contest when he hurled himself against me, with only his savage strength
and courage to match my skill; in a few moments he was lying at my
feet, pouring out his life blood on that white thirsty plain. From his
prostrate form I turned, the wet, red knife in my hand, to meet the
others, still thinking that they were on the track and close at hand.
Why had he stooped to pick up the cloak if they were not following--if
he had not been afraid of losing it? I turned only to receive their
spears, to die with my face to them; nor was the thought of death
terrible to me; I could die calmly now after killing my first assailant.
But had I indeed killed him? I asked, hearing a sound like a groan
escape from his lips. Quickly stooping, I once more drove my weapon to
the hilt in his prostrate form, and when he exhaled a deep sigh, and his
frame quivered, and the blood spurted afresh, I experienced a feeling
of savage joy. And still no sound of hurrying footsteps came to my
listening ears and no vague forms appeared in the darkness. I concluded
that he had either left them sleeping or that they had not followed in
the right direction. Taking up the cloak, I was about to walk on, when
I noticed the spear he had thrown at me lying where it had fallen some
yards away, and picking that up also, I went on once more, still keeping
the guiding star before me. | Unlike Abel, Nuflo is not worried about Rima's return alone to the woodland because he has great confidence in her ability to survive in the jungle. Exhausted physically by the trip to Riolama and reassured by Nuflo, Abel rests for two days, but he then presses Nuflo to start back despite the latter's desire to relax longer here. The journey homeward requires twenty-three days because the weather is worse than the previous heavy period of rain. Food is short, and both men are already fatigued from the first trek. When they at last come to Nuflo's hut, the two men are very upset because the house has been burned to the ground. Nuflo, sure that Runi's people have committed this destruction, is fearful of the future; Abel, on the other hand, is concerned only about Rima. He enters the "green mansions" but senses that "a strange melancholy rested on the forest." Abel goes to familiar places such as the mora tree and soon, in desperation, softly calls for Rima. False notes of birds alert him to the presence of Indians, and he is startled to see Piake, the brother of Kua-ko, who takes him back as a prisoner to the village. Abel is very certain that something has happened to Rima because the Parahuaris have never dared to penetrate the forest due to their fear of her. Abel's inquiries, cautious and shrewd, produce no information about Rima except Piake's statement that the evil spirit is no longer in the woodland. Abel decides to try an escape after he has uncovered the facts about Rima's fate. Nuflo, consequently, will have to remain alone and take his chances against the marauding savages. He already vows vengeance against the Parahuaris if Rima has perished because of them. Abel's arrival in the village excites all the Indians, but they no longer look upon him as a friend. When Runi comes home, a trial takes place, and the chief bitterly accuses Abel of betraying the Indians who have sheltered him. Runi is especially afraid that Abel has visited the neighboring Managa and his tribe, who are enemies of the Parahuaris. These foes could use any information which Abel might give them to destroy Runi's people. Abel's defense is a mixture of truth and omission, and he carefully leaves out Rima's name in his arguments. He explains that he met an old man who claimed that there was gold at Riolama. Since he had lost all his fortune in a war, the only way to recoup his position in the civilized world is by gold. However, no gold was located at Riolama, so he returned trustingly to his friends, the Parahuaris. Abel asserts boldly that he will go elsewhere to look for better friends if the Indians do not believe him. Although Runi is not firmly convinced by Abel's speech, he is at least persuaded to allow the young man to remain without being harmed. The tribe slowly seems to forget the incident, but Abel only increases his bitterness and hatred toward the savages. Three days later, Kua-ko enters the encampment with important news which the Indians discuss in secret; Abel guesses from their preparations that a war party is in the making. He offers to accompany them and notices that Runi, with a bulge at his waist, is hiding the revolver. Abel hopes that the weapon will be returned to him during the expedition. When the war party camps at night, Abel determines to question Kua-ko about Rima. He traps the Indian by praising the courage the tribe shows in being willing to hunt in the woodland. Kua-ko narrates the whole story: The travelers met by Abel and the others on the way to Riolama reported the fact to Runi; thus the Parahuaris knew that the forest was safe for them to use for hunting. Admitting that Rima accompanied him to Riolama, Abel lies about her return by saying that she was frightened and stayed there. Kua-ko gleefully gives the response that Abel has been wanting when he brags that Rima did come back. The Indians saw Rima in the woodland and trapped her in a tree. They were, however, afraid to shoot arrows at her because of the past incident when she supposedly threw back an arrow at them. Fire was the only solution, so the whole tribe prepared a large fire around the tree. As the flames reached the top of the tree, Rima cried out like a bird, "Abel! Abel!" then plunged into the fire. Abel can barely restrain himself from killing Kua-ko because of his emotional anguish at the confirmation of Rima's horrible death. Pretending to go to sleep, Abel later escapes from the war party and heads for Managa's camp so that he can warn him about the planned attack. For further vengeance, Abel wants Managa to destroy all the Parahuaris. But Kua-ko is suspicious of Abel and stalks him on the trail. Abel, with only a knife for a weapon, is wounded by a spear thrown by Kua-ko, but he ferociously turns on the Indian and kills him. Although Abel fears that the other savages have also pursued him, he happily realizes that he is mistaken. He heads for Managa's village. |
IT was beyond the middle of August--nearly three weeks after the
birthday feast. The reaping of the wheat had begun in our north midland
county of Loamshire, but the harvest was likely still to be retarded
by the heavy rains, which were causing inundations and much damage
throughout the country. From this last trouble the Broxton and Hayslope
farmers, on their pleasant uplands and in their brook-watered
valleys, had not suffered, and as I cannot pretend that they were such
exceptional farmers as to love the general good better than their own,
you will infer that they were not in very low spirits about the rapid
rise in the price of bread, so long as there was hope of gathering in
their own corn undamaged; and occasional days of sunshine and drying
winds flattered this hope.
The eighteenth of August was one of these days when the sunshine looked
brighter in all eyes for the gloom that went before. Grand masses of
cloud were hurried across the blue, and the great round hills behind the
Chase seemed alive with their flying shadows; the sun was hidden for a
moment, and then shone out warm again like a recovered joy; the leaves,
still green, were tossed off the hedgerow trees by the wind; around the
farmhouses there was a sound of clapping doors; the apples fell in the
orchards; and the stray horses on the green sides of the lanes and on
the common had their manes blown about their faces. And yet the wind
seemed only part of the general gladness because the sun was shining. A
merry day for the children, who ran and shouted to see if they could
top the wind with their voices; and the grown-up people too were in
good spirits, inclined to believe in yet finer days, when the wind had
fallen. If only the corn were not ripe enough to be blown out of the
husk and scattered as untimely seed!
And yet a day on which a blighting sorrow may fall upon a man. For if it
be true that Nature at certain moments seems charged with a presentiment
of one individual lot must it not also be true that she seems unmindful
unconscious of another? For there is no hour that has not its births
of gladness and despair, no morning brightness that does not bring new
sickness to desolation as well as new forces to genius and love. There
are so many of us, and our lots are so different, what wonder that
Nature's mood is often in harsh contrast with the great crisis of
our lives? We are children of a large family, and must learn, as such
children do, not to expect that our hurts will be made much of--to be
content with little nurture and caressing, and help each other the more.
It was a busy day with Adam, who of late had done almost double work,
for he was continuing to act as foreman for Jonathan Burge, until some
satisfactory person could be found to supply his place, and Jonathan was
slow to find that person. But he had done the extra work cheerfully, for
his hopes were buoyant again about Hetty. Every time she had seen him
since the birthday, she had seemed to make an effort to behave all the
more kindly to him, that she might make him understand she had forgiven
his silence and coldness during the dance. He had never mentioned the
locket to her again; too happy that she smiled at him--still happier
because he observed in her a more subdued air, something that he
interpreted as the growth of womanly tenderness and seriousness. "Ah!"
he thought, again and again, "she's only seventeen; she'll be thoughtful
enough after a while. And her aunt allays says how clever she is at the
work. She'll make a wife as Mother'll have no occasion to grumble at,
after all." To be sure, he had only seen her at home twice since the
birthday; for one Sunday, when he was intending to go from church to the
Hall Farm, Hetty had joined the party of upper servants from the Chase
and had gone home with them--almost as if she were inclined to encourage
Mr. Craig. "She's takin' too much likin' to them folks i' the house
keeper's room," Mrs. Poyser remarked. "For my part, I was never overfond
o' gentlefolks's servants--they're mostly like the fine ladies' fat
dogs, nayther good for barking nor butcher's meat, but on'y for show."
And another evening she was gone to Treddleston to buy some things;
though, to his great surprise, as he was returning home, he saw her at
a distance getting over a stile quite out of the Treddleston road. But,
when he hastened to her, she was very kind, and asked him to go in again
when he had taken her to the yard gate. She had gone a little farther
into the fields after coming from Treddleston because she didn't want to
go in, she said: it was so nice to be out of doors, and her aunt always
made such a fuss about it if she wanted to go out. "Oh, do come in with
me!" she said, as he was going to shake hands with her at the gate, and
he could not resist that. So he went in, and Mrs. Poyser was contented
with only a slight remark on Hetty's being later than was expected;
while Hetty, who had looked out of spirits when he met her, smiled and
talked and waited on them all with unusual promptitude.
That was the last time he had seen her; but he meant to make leisure for
going to the Farm to-morrow. To-day, he knew, was her day for going to
the Chase to sew with the lady's maid, so he would get as much work done
as possible this evening, that the next might be clear.
One piece of work that Adam was superintending was some slight repairs
at the Chase Farm, which had been hitherto occupied by Satchell, as
bailiff, but which it was now rumoured that the old squire was going to
let to a smart man in top-boots, who had been seen to ride over it
one day. Nothing but the desire to get a tenant could account for the
squire's undertaking repairs, though the Saturday-evening party at Mr.
Casson's agreed over their pipes that no man in his senses would take
the Chase Farm unless there was a bit more ploughland laid to it.
However that might be, the repairs were ordered to be executed with all
dispatch, and Adam, acting for Mr. Burge, was carrying out the order
with his usual energy. But to-day, having been occupied elsewhere,
he had not been able to arrive at the Chase Farm till late in the
afternoon, and he then discovered that some old roofing, which he had
calculated on preserving, had given way. There was clearly no good to
be done with this part of the building without pulling it all down, and
Adam immediately saw in his mind a plan for building it up again, so as
to make the most convenient of cow-sheds and calf-pens, with a hovel for
implements; and all without any great expense for materials. So, when
the workmen were gone, he sat down, took out his pocket-book, and
busied himself with sketching a plan, and making a specification of the
expenses that he might show it to Burge the next morning, and set him
on persuading the squire to consent. To "make a good job" of anything,
however small, was always a pleasure to Adam, and he sat on a block,
with his book resting on a planing-table, whistling low every now and
then and turning his head on one side with a just perceptible smile of
gratification--of pride, too, for if Adam loved a bit of good work, he
loved also to think, "I did it!" And I believe the only people who are
free from that weakness are those who have no work to call their own. It
was nearly seven before he had finished and put on his jacket again; and
on giving a last look round, he observed that Seth, who had been working
here to-day, had left his basket of tools behind him. "Why, th' lad's
forgot his tools," thought Adam, "and he's got to work up at the shop
to-morrow. There never was such a chap for wool-gathering; he'd leave
his head behind him, if it was loose. However, it's lucky I've seen 'em;
I'll carry 'em home."
The buildings of the Chase Farm lay at one extremity of the Chase,
at about ten minutes' walking distance from the Abbey. Adam had come
thither on his pony, intending to ride to the stables and put up his nag
on his way home. At the stables he encountered Mr. Craig, who had come
to look at the captain's new horse, on which he was to ride away the day
after to-morrow; and Mr. Craig detained him to tell how all the servants
were to collect at the gate of the courtyard to wish the young squire
luck as he rode out; so that by the time Adam had got into the Chase,
and was striding along with the basket of tools over his shoulder, the
sun was on the point of setting, and was sending level crimson rays
among the great trunks of the old oaks, and touching every bare patch of
ground with a transient glory that made it look like a jewel dropt upon
the grass. The wind had fallen now, and there was only enough breeze to
stir the delicate-stemmed leaves. Any one who had been sitting in the
house all day would have been glad to walk now; but Adam had been quite
enough in the open air to wish to shorten his way home, and he bethought
himself that he might do so by striking across the Chase and going
through the Grove, where he had never been for years. He hurried on
across the Chase, stalking along the narrow paths between the fern, with
Gyp at his heels, not lingering to watch the magnificent changes of the
light--hardly once thinking of it--yet feeling its presence in a certain
calm happy awe which mingled itself with his busy working-day thoughts.
How could he help feeling it? The very deer felt it, and were more
timid.
Presently Adam's thoughts recurred to what Mr. Craig had said about
Arthur Donnithorne, and pictured his going away, and the changes
that might take place before he came back; then they travelled back
affectionately over the old scenes of boyish companionship, and dwelt
on Arthur's good qualities, which Adam had a pride in, as we all have in
the virtues of the superior who honours us. A nature like Adam's, with
a great need of love and reverence in it, depends for so much of its
happiness on what it can believe and feel about others! And he had no
ideal world of dead heroes; he knew little of the life of men in
the past; he must find the beings to whom he could cling with loving
admiration among those who came within speech of him. These pleasant
thoughts about Arthur brought a milder expression than usual into his
keen rough face: perhaps they were the reason why, when he opened the
old green gate leading into the Grove, he paused to pat Gyp and say a
kind word to him.
After that pause, he strode on again along the broad winding path
through the Grove. What grand beeches! Adam delighted in a fine tree of
all things; as the fisherman's sight is keenest on the sea, so Adam's
perceptions were more at home with trees than with other objects. He
kept them in his memory, as a painter does, with all the flecks and
knots in their bark, all the curves and angles of their boughs, and had
often calculated the height and contents of a trunk to a nicety, as he
stood looking at it. No wonder that, not-withstanding his desire to get
on, he could not help pausing to look at a curious large beech which
he had seen standing before him at a turning in the road, and convince
himself that it was not two trees wedded together, but only one. For the
rest of his life he remembered that moment when he was calmly examining
the beech, as a man remembers his last glimpse of the home where his
youth was passed, before the road turned, and he saw it no more. The
beech stood at the last turning before the Grove ended in an archway of
boughs that let in the eastern light; and as Adam stepped away from the
tree to continue his walk, his eyes fell on two figures about twenty
yards before him.
He remained as motionless as a statue, and turned almost as pale. The
two figures were standing opposite to each other, with clasped hands
about to part; and while they were bending to kiss, Gyp, who had been
running among the brushwood, came out, caught sight of them, and gave
a sharp bark. They separated with a start--one hurried through the gate
out of the Grove, and the other, turning round, walked slowly, with
a sort of saunter, towards Adam who still stood transfixed and pale,
clutching tighter the stick with which he held the basket of tools over
his shoulder, and looking at the approaching figure with eyes in which
amazement was fast turning to fierceness.
Arthur Donnithorne looked flushed and excited; he had tried to make
unpleasant feelings more bearable by drinking a little more wine than
usual at dinner to-day, and was still enough under its flattering
influence to think more lightly of this unwished-for rencontre with Adam
than he would otherwise have done. After all, Adam was the best person
who could have happened to see him and Hetty together--he was a sensible
fellow, and would not babble about it to other people. Arthur felt
confident that he could laugh the thing off and explain it away. And so
he sauntered forward with elaborate carelessness--his flushed face, his
evening dress of fine cloth and fine linen, his hands half-thrust into
his waistcoat pockets, all shone upon by the strange evening light which
the light clouds had caught up even to the zenith, and were now shedding
down between the topmost branches above him.
Adam was still motionless, looking at him as he came up. He understood
it all now--the locket and everything else that had been doubtful to
him: a terrible scorching light showed him the hidden letters that
changed the meaning of the past. If he had moved a muscle, he must
inevitably have sprung upon Arthur like a tiger; and in the conflicting
emotions that filled those long moments, he had told himself that he
would not give loose to passion, he would only speak the right thing.
He stood as if petrified by an unseen force, but the force was his own
strong will.
"Well, Adam," said Arthur, "you've been looking at the fine old beeches,
eh? They're not to be come near by the hatchet, though; this is a sacred
grove. I overtook pretty little Hetty Sorrel as I was coming to my
den--the Hermitage, there. She ought not to come home this way so late.
So I took care of her to the gate, and asked for a kiss for my pains.
But I must get back now, for this road is confoundedly damp. Good-night,
Adam. I shall see you to-morrow--to say good-bye, you know."
Arthur was too much preoccupied with the part he was playing himself to
be thoroughly aware of the expression in Adam's face. He did not look
directly at Adam, but glanced carelessly round at the trees and then
lifted up one foot to look at the sole of his boot. He cared to say no
more--he had thrown quite dust enough into honest Adam's eyes--and as he
spoke the last words, he walked on.
"Stop a bit, sir," said Adam, in a hard peremptory voice, without
turning round. "I've got a word to say to you."
Arthur paused in surprise. Susceptible persons are more affected by
a change of tone than by unexpected words, and Arthur had the
susceptibility of a nature at once affectionate and vain. He was still
more surprised when he saw that Adam had not moved, but stood with his
back to him, as if summoning him to return. What did he mean? He was
going to make a serious business of this affair. Arthur felt his temper
rising. A patronising disposition always has its meaner side, and in the
confusion of his irritation and alarm there entered the feeling that a
man to whom he had shown so much favour as to Adam was not in a position
to criticize his conduct. And yet he was dominated, as one who feels
himself in the wrong always is, by the man whose good opinion he cares
for. In spite of pride and temper, there was as much deprecation as
anger in his voice when he said, "What do you mean, Adam?"
"I mean, sir"--answered Adam, in the same harsh voice, still without
turning round--"I mean, sir, that you don't deceive me by your light
words. This is not the first time you've met Hetty Sorrel in this grove,
and this is not the first time you've kissed her."
Arthur felt a startled uncertainty how far Adam was speaking from
knowledge, and how far from mere inference. And this uncertainty,
which prevented him from contriving a prudent answer, heightened his
irritation. He said, in a high sharp tone, "Well, sir, what then?"
"Why, then, instead of acting like th' upright, honourable man we've
all believed you to be, you've been acting the part of a selfish
light-minded scoundrel. You know as well as I do what it's to lead to
when a gentleman like you kisses and makes love to a young woman like
Hetty, and gives her presents as she's frightened for other folks
to see. And I say it again, you're acting the part of a selfish
light-minded scoundrel though it cuts me to th' heart to say so, and I'd
rather ha' lost my right hand."
"Let me tell you, Adam," said Arthur, bridling his growing anger and
trying to recur to his careless tone, "you're not only devilishly
impertinent, but you're talking nonsense. Every pretty girl is not such
a fool as you, to suppose that when a gentleman admires her beauty and
pays her a little attention, he must mean something particular. Every
man likes to flirt with a pretty girl, and every pretty girl likes to be
flirted with. The wider the distance between them, the less harm there
is, for then she's not likely to deceive herself."
"I don't know what you mean by flirting," said Adam, "but if you mean
behaving to a woman as if you loved her, and yet not loving her all
the while, I say that's not th' action of an honest man, and what isn't
honest does come t' harm. I'm not a fool, and you're not a fool, and you
know better than what you're saying. You know it couldn't be made
public as you've behaved to Hetty as y' have done without her losing her
character and bringing shame and trouble on her and her relations. What
if you meant nothing by your kissing and your presents? Other folks
won't believe as you've meant nothing; and don't tell me about her not
deceiving herself. I tell you as you've filled her mind so with the
thought of you as it'll mayhap poison her life, and she'll never love
another man as 'ud make her a good husband."
Arthur had felt a sudden relief while Adam was speaking; he perceived
that Adam had no positive knowledge of the past, and that there was no
irrevocable damage done by this evening's unfortunate rencontre. Adam
could still be deceived. The candid Arthur had brought himself into a
position in which successful lying was his only hope. The hope allayed
his anger a little.
"Well, Adam," he said, in a tone of friendly concession, "you're perhaps
right. Perhaps I've gone a little too far in taking notice of the pretty
little thing and stealing a kiss now and then. You're such a grave,
steady fellow, you don't understand the temptation to such trifling.
I'm sure I wouldn't bring any trouble or annoyance on her and the good
Poysers on any account if I could help it. But I think you look a little
too seriously at it. You know I'm going away immediately, so I shan't
make any more mistakes of the kind. But let us say good-night"--Arthur
here turned round to walk on--"and talk no more about the matter. The
whole thing will soon be forgotten."
"No, by God!" Adam burst out with rage that could be controlled no
longer, throwing down the basket of tools and striding forward till he
was right in front of Arthur. All his jealousy and sense of personal
injury, which he had been hitherto trying to keep under, had leaped up
and mastered him. What man of us, in the first moments of a sharp
agony, could ever feel that the fellow-man who has been the medium of
inflicting it did not mean to hurt us? In our instinctive rebellion
against pain, we are children again, and demand an active will to wreak
our vengeance on. Adam at this moment could only feel that he had
been robbed of Hetty--robbed treacherously by the man in whom he had
trusted--and he stood close in front of Arthur, with fierce eyes glaring
at him, with pale lips and clenched hands, the hard tones in which he
had hitherto been constraining himself to express no more than a just
indignation giving way to a deep agitated voice that seemed to shake him
as he spoke.
"No, it'll not be soon forgot, as you've come in between her and me,
when she might ha' loved me--it'll not soon be forgot as you've robbed
me o' my happiness, while I thought you was my best friend, and a
noble-minded man, as I was proud to work for. And you've been kissing
her, and meaning nothing, have you? And I never kissed her i' my
life--but I'd ha' worked hard for years for the right to kiss her. And
you make light of it. You think little o' doing what may damage other
folks, so as you get your bit o' trifling, as means nothing. I throw
back your favours, for you're not the man I took you for. I'll never
count you my friend any more. I'd rather you'd act as my enemy, and
fight me where I stand--it's all th' amends you can make me."
Poor Adam, possessed by rage that could find no other vent, began to
throw off his coat and his cap, too blind with passion to notice the
change that had taken place in Arthur while he was speaking. Arthur's
lips were now as pale as Adam's; his heart was beating violently. The
discovery that Adam loved Hetty was a shock which made him for the
moment see himself in the light of Adam's indignation, and regard Adam's
suffering as not merely a consequence, but an element of his error.
The words of hatred and contempt--the first he had ever heard in his
life--seemed like scorching missiles that were making ineffaceable scars
on him. All screening self-excuse, which rarely falls quite away while
others respect us, forsook him for an instant, and he stood face to face
with the first great irrevocable evil he had ever committed. He was
only twenty-one, and three months ago--nay, much later--he had thought
proudly that no man should ever be able to reproach him justly. His
first impulse, if there had been time for it, would perhaps have been to
utter words of propitiation; but Adam had no sooner thrown off his
coat and cap than he became aware that Arthur was standing pale and
motionless, with his hands still thrust in his waistcoat pockets.
"What!" he said, "won't you fight me like a man? You know I won't strike
you while you stand so."
"Go away, Adam," said Arthur, "I don't want to fight you."
"No," said Adam, bitterly; "you don't want to fight me--you think I'm a
common man, as you can injure without answering for it."
"I never meant to injure you," said Arthur, with returning anger. "I
didn't know you loved her."
"But you've made her love you," said Adam. "You're a double-faced
man--I'll never believe a word you say again."
"Go away, I tell you," said Arthur, angrily, "or we shall both repent."
"No," said Adam, with a convulsed voice, "I swear I won't go away
without fighting you. Do you want provoking any more? I tell you you're
a coward and a scoundrel, and I despise you."
The colour had all rushed back to Arthur's face; in a moment his right
hand was clenched, and dealt a blow like lightning, which sent Adam
staggering backward. His blood was as thoroughly up as Adam's now, and
the two men, forgetting the emotions that had gone before, fought
with the instinctive fierceness of panthers in the deepening twilight
darkened by the trees. The delicate-handed gentleman was a match for the
workman in everything but strength, and Arthur's skill enabled him to
protract the struggle for some long moments. But between unarmed men the
battle is to the strong, where the strong is no blunderer, and Arthur
must sink under a well-planted blow of Adam's as a steel rod is broken
by an iron bar. The blow soon came, and Arthur fell, his head lying
concealed in a tuft of fern, so that Adam could only discern his darkly
clad body.
He stood still in the dim light waiting for Arthur to rise.
The blow had been given now, towards which he had been straining all the
force of nerve and muscle--and what was the good of it? What had he
done by fighting? Only satisfied his own passion, only wreaked his own
vengeance. He had not rescued Hetty, nor changed the past--there it was,
just as it had been, and he sickened at the vanity of his own rage.
But why did not Arthur rise? He was perfectly motionless, and the time
seemed long to Adam. Good God! had the blow been too much for him? Adam
shuddered at the thought of his own strength, as with the oncoming of
this dread he knelt down by Arthur's side and lifted his head from among
the fern. There was no sign of life: the eyes and teeth were set. The
horror that rushed over Adam completely mastered him, and forced upon
him its own belief. He could feel nothing but that death was in Arthur's
face, and that he was helpless before it. He made not a single movement,
but knelt like an image of despair gazing at an image of death. | Hetty has been kinder to Adam, making him believe that perhaps she is coming to love him. Adam is overseeing work for the Squire, and he must travel to the Squire's residence, where Captain Donnithorne is staying. One evening, the day before Captain Donnithorne is to leave to meet up with his regiment, Adam encounters Captain Donnithorne and Hetty kissing in the woods. Hetty runs off, and Captain Donnithorne walks by Adam. He stops to say that he ran into Hetty, walked her partway home, and asked her for a kiss for his effort. Adam is not fooled and says that he knows Captain Donnithorne has kissed Hetty more than once. Then Adam reveals that he himself loves her, and Captain Donnithorne is horrified for a moment. Adam tells Captain Donnithorne that he is a scoundrel, and Captain Donnithorne punches him. Adam is the stronger of the two, and he knocks Captain Donnithorne down. Adam immediately feels remorse and reaches down to help Captain Donnithorne up, but Adam believes that he is dead |
Though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy
with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the
effort, Jo still found time for literary labors. The purpose which now
took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl,
but the means she took to gain her end were not the best. She saw that
money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to
have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved
more than life. The dream of filling home with comforts, giving Beth
everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her
bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so
that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years
Jo's most cherished castle in the air.
The prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after
long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en
Espagne. But the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for
public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted Jacks on
bigger beanstalks than hers. Like that immortal hero, she reposed
awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the
least lovely of the giant's treasures, if I remember rightly. But the
'up again and take another' spirit was as strong in Jo as in Jack, so
she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but
nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.
She took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even
all-perfect America read rubbish. She told no one, but concocted a
'thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself to Mr. Dashwood, editor
of the Weekly Volcano. She had never read Sartor Resartus, but she had
a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over
many than the worth of character or the magic of manners. So she
dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she
was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and
dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar
smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels
rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them
took the trouble to remove on her appearance. Somewhat daunted by this
reception, Jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much
embarrassment...
"Excuse me, I was looking for the Weekly Volcano office. I wished to
see Mr. Dashwood."
Down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman,
and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced
with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep. Feeling
that she must get through the matter somehow, Jo produced her
manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence,
blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the
occasion.
"A friend of mine desired me to offer--a story--just as an
experiment--would like your opinion--be glad to write more if this
suits."
While she blushed and blundered, Mr. Dashwood had taken the manuscript,
and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers,
and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.
"Not a first attempt, I take it?" observing that the pages were
numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon--sure
sign of a novice.
"No, sir. She has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in
the _Blarneystone Banner_."
"Oh, did she?" and Mr. Dashwood gave Jo a quick look, which seemed to
take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the
buttons on her boots. "Well, you can leave it, if you like. We've
more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at
present, but I'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
Now, Jo did _not_ like to leave it, for Mr. Dashwood didn't suit her at
all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but
bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was
apt to do when nettled or abashed. Just then she was both, for it was
perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the
gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good
joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as
he closed the door, completed her discomfiture. Half resolving never
to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching
pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh
over the scene and long for next week.
When she went again, Mr. Dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced. Mr.
Dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and Mr.
Dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his
manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the
first.
"We'll take this (editors never say I), if you don't object to a few
alterations. It's too long, but omitting the passages I've marked will
make it just the right length," he said, in a businesslike tone.
Jo hardly knew her own MS. again, so crumpled and underscored were its
pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being
asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new
cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find
that all the moral reflections--which she had carefully put in as
ballast for much romance--had been stricken out.
"But, Sir, I thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so I
took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
Mr. Dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for Jo had
forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an author could.
"People want to be amused, not preached at, you know. Morals don't
sell nowadays." Which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.
"You think it would do with these alterations, then?"
"Yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up--language good, and so
on," was Mr. Dashwood's affable reply.
"What do you--that is, what compensation--" began Jo, not exactly
knowing how to express herself.
"Oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this
sort. Pay when it comes out," returned Mr. Dashwood, as if that point
had escaped him. Such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.
"Very well, you can have it," said Jo, handing back the story with a
satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five
seemed good pay.
"Shall I tell my friend you will take another if she has one better
than this?" asked Jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and
emboldened by her success.
"Well, we'll look at it. Can't promise to take it. Tell her to make
it short and spicy, and never mind the moral. What name would your
friend like to put on it?" in a careless tone.
"None at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and
has no nom de plume," said Jo, blushing in spite of herself.
"Just as she likes, of course. The tale will be out next week. Will
you call for the money, or shall I send it?" asked Mr. Dashwood, who
felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
"I'll call. Good morning, Sir."
As she departed, Mr. Dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful
remark, "Poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
Following Mr. Dashwood's directions, and making Mrs. Northbury her
model, Jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational
literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend,
she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.
Like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and
scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared
upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit
as could be expected. Her readers were not particular about such
trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and Mr. Dashwood
graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not
thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his
hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher
wages, had basely left him in the lurch.
She soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew
stout, and the little hoard she was making to take Beth to the
mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed. One
thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell
them at home. She had a feeling that Father and Mother would not
approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon
afterward. It was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with
her stories. Mr. Dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but
promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.
She thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write
nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of
conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show
her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
But Mr. Dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could
not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers,
history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and
lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose. Jo soon found
that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the
tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business
light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic
energy. Eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them
original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers
for accidents, incidents, and crimes. She excited the suspicions of
public librarians by asking for works on poisons. She studied faces in
the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.
She delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old
that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin,
and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed. She thought
she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to
desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character.
She was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its
influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on
dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent
bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side
of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.
She was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of
other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and
speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young
minds do not voluntarily indulge. Wrongdoing always brings its own
punishment, and when Jo most needed hers, she got it.
I don't know whether the study of Shakespeare helped her to read
character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest,
brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every
perfection under the sun, Jo was discovering a live hero, who
interested her in spite of many human imperfections. Mr. Bhaer, in one
of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and
lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a
writer. Jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and
studied him--a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he
known it, for the worthy Professor was very humble in his own conceit.
Why everybody liked him was what puzzled Jo, at first. He was neither
rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called
fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a
genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as
about a warm hearth. He was poor, yet always appeared to be giving
something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer
young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face
looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his
sake. Jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last
decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle. If he had
any sorrow, 'it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only
his sunny side to the world. There were lines upon his forehead, but
Time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to
others. The pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many
friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and
his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than
words.
His very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the
wearer. They looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him
comfortable. His capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart
underneath. His rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets
plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.
His very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy
like other people's.
"That's it!" said Jo to herself, when she at length discovered that
genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify
even a stout German teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own
socks, and was burdened with the name of Bhaer.
Jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine
respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the
Professor added much to her regard for him. He never spoke of himself,
and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much
honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came
to see him. He never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with Miss
Norton divulged the pleasing fact. From her Jo learned it, and liked
it all the better because Mr. Bhaer had never told it. She felt proud
to know that he was an honored Professor in Berlin, though only a poor
language-master in America, and his homely, hard-working life was much
beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
Another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most
unexpected manner. Miss Norton had the entree into most society, which
Jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her. The solitary woman
felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many
favors of this sort both on Jo and the Professor. She took them with
her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several
celebrities.
Jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had
worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off. But her reverence for
genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to
recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and
women after all. Imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid
admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on
'spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an
ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance. Turning as from a
fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her
romantic illusions. The great novelist vibrated between two decanters
with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly
with one of the Madame de Staels of the age, who looked daggers at
another Corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering
her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea
Johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady
rendering speech impossible. The scientific celebrities, forgetting
their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting
themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young
musician, who was charming the city like a second Orpheus, talked
horses; and the specimen of the British nobility present happened to be
the most ordinary man of the party.
Before the evening was half over, Jo felt so completely disillusioned,
that she sat down in a corner to recover herself. Mr. Bhaer soon joined
her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the
philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an
intellectual tournament in the recess. The conversations were miles
beyond Jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though Kant and Hegel
were unknown gods, the Subjective and Objective unintelligible terms,
and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad
headache after it was all over. It dawned upon her gradually that the
world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and,
according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before,
that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and
intellect was to be the only God. Jo knew nothing about philosophy or
metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable,
half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being
turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a
holiday.
She looked round to see how the Professor liked it, and found him
looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
He shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated
just then by the freedom of Speculative Philosophy, and kept her seat,
trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after
they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
Now, Mr. Bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions,
not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be
lightly spoken. As he glanced from Jo to several other young people,
attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit
his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul
would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over
that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.
He bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an
opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion
with all the eloquence of truth--an eloquence which made his broken
English musical and his plain face beautiful. He had a hard fight, for
the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and
stood to his colors like a man. Somehow, as he talked, the world got
right again to Jo. The old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed
better than the new. God was not a blind force, and immortality was
not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact. She felt as if she had solid
ground under her feet again, and when Mr. Bhaer paused, outtalked but
not one whit convinced, Jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
She did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the Professor
her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out
then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent.
She began to see that character is a better possession than money,
rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a
wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then
her friend Friedrich Bhaer was not only good, but great.
This belief strengthened daily. She valued his esteem, she coveted his
respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the
wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything. It all grew
out of a cocked hat, for one evening the Professor came in to give Jo
her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which Tina had put
there and he had forgotten to take off.
"It's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought
Jo, with a smile, as he said "Goot efening," and sat soberly down,
quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his
headgear, for he was going to read her the Death of Wallenstein.
She said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big,
hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover
it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a German
read Schiller is rather an absorbing occupation. After the reading
came the lesson, which was a lively one, for Jo was in a gay mood that
night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment. The
Professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask
with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible. . .
"Mees Marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face? Haf you no
respect for me, that you go on so bad?"
"How can I be respectful, Sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
said Jo.
Lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded Professor gravely felt
and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then
threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.
"Ah! I see him now, it is that imp Tina who makes me a fool with my
cap. Well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well,
you too shall wear him."
But the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because Mr. Bhaer
caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great
disgust, "I wish these papers did not come in the house. They are not
for children to see, nor young people to read. It is not well, and I
haf no patience with those who make this harm."
Jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a
lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper. She did not like it, but
the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but
fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the Volcano. It
was not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if
it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no
name to betray her. She had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a
blush, for though an absent man, the Professor saw a good deal more
than people fancied. He knew that Jo wrote, and had met her down among
the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he
asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work. Now it
occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it
troubled him. He did not say to himself, "It is none of my business.
I've no right to say anything," as many people would have done. He
only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from
mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an
impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out
his hand to save a baby from a puddle. All this flashed through his
mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by
the time the paper was turned, and Jo's needle threaded, he was ready
to say quite naturally, but very gravely...
"Yes, you are right to put it from you. I do not think that good young
girls should see such things. They are made pleasant to some, but I
would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad
trash."
"All may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for
it, I don't see any harm in supplying it. Many very respectable people
make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said
Jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits
followed her pin.
"There is a demand for whisky, but I think you and I do not care to
sell it. If the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would
not feel that the living was honest. They haf no right to put poison
in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it. No, they should think
a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."
Mr. Bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in
his hands. Jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for
her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and
gone harmlessly up the chimney.
"I should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the
Professor, coming back with a relieved air.
Jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her
hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
Then she thought consolingly to herself, "Mine are not like that, they
are only silly, never bad, so I won't be worried," and taking up her
book, she said, with a studious face, "Shall we go on, Sir? I'll be
very good and proper now."
"I shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she
imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the
words Weekly Volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.
As soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully
reread every one of her stories. Being a little shortsighted, Mr.
Bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and Jo had tried them once, smiling
to see how they magnified the fine print of her book. Now she seemed
to have on the Professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the
faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her
with dismay.
"They are trash, and will soon be worse trash if I go on, for each is
more sensational than the last. I've gone blindly on, hurting myself
and other people, for the sake of money. I know it's so, for I can't
read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it,
and what should I do if they were seen at home or Mr. Bhaer got hold of
them?"
Jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her
stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
"Yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense. I'd better
burn the house down, I suppose, than let other people blow themselves
up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the Demon of the Jura
whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
But when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap
of ashes and the money in her lap, Jo looked sober, as she sat on the
floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
"I think I haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my
time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "I almost
wish I hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient. If I didn't care
about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, I
should get on capitally. I can't help wishing sometimes, that Mother
and Father hadn't been so particular about such things."
Ah, Jo, instead of wishing that, thank God that 'Father and Mother were
particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians
to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to
impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build
character upon in womanhood.
Jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not
pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as
is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of Mrs.
Sherwood, Miss Edgeworth, and Hannah More, and then produced a tale
which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so
intensely moral was it. She had her doubts about it from the
beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease
in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and
cumbrous costume of the last century. She sent this didactic gem to
several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to
agree with Mr. Dashwood that morals didn't sell.
Then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of
if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it.
The only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try
juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to
convert all the world to his particular belief. But much as she liked
to write for children, Jo could not consent to depict all her naughty
boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did
not go to a particular Sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did
go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to
escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons
on their lisping tongues. So nothing came of these trials, and Jo
corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...
"I don't know anything. I'll wait until I do before I try again, and
meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if I can't do better, that's
honest, at least." Which decision proved that her second tumble down
the beanstalk had done her some good.
While these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had
been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked
serious or a little sad no one observed it but Professor Bhaer. He did
it so quietly that Jo never knew he was watching to see if she would
accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was
satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she
had given up writing. Not only did he guess it by the fact that the
second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her
evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and
studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on
occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.
He helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and Jo was
happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons
besides German, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her
own life.
It was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave Mrs.
Kirke till June. Everyone seemed sorry when the time came. The
children were inconsolable, and Mr. Bhaer's hair stuck straight up all
over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.
"Going home? Ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said,
when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner,
while she held a little levee on that last evening.
She was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when
his turn came, she said warmly, "Now, Sir, you won't forget to come and
see us, if you ever travel our way, will you? I'll never forgive you if
you do, for I want them all to know my friend."
"Do you? Shall I come?" he asked, looking down at her with an eager
expression which she did not see.
"Yes, come next month. Laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy
commencement as something new."
"That is your best friend, of whom you speak?" he said in an altered
tone.
"Yes, my boy Teddy. I'm very proud of him and should like you to see
him."
Jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure
in the prospect of showing them to one another. Something in Mr.
Bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find Laurie more
than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to
look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush,
and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew. If it had not been
for Tina on her knee. She didn't know what would have become of her.
Fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her
face an instant, hoping the Professor did not see it. But he did, and
his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual
expression, as he said cordially...
"I fear I shall not make the time for that, but I wish the friend much
success, and you all happiness. Gott bless you!" And with that, he
shook hands warmly, shouldered Tina, and went away.
But after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the
tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy
at his heart. Once, when he remembered Jo as she sat with the little
child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head
on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search
of something that he could not find.
"It is not for me, I must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a
sigh that was almost a groan. Then, as if reproaching himself for the
longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled
heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened
his Plato.
He did his best and did it manfully, but I don't think he found that a
pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine Plato, were very
satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.
Early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see Jo off, and
thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory
of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her
company, and best of all, the happy thought, "Well, the winter's gone,
and I've written no books, earned no fortune, but I've made a friend
worth having and I'll try to keep him all my life." | Jo wrote a story and took it to a newspaper called the Weekly Volcano. She left the story there, asking the man if he would look it over and consider publishing it. He told her to come back in a week and a week later when she did, he told her he would publish it if she cut out all of the moral lessons in it. Jo agreed and received twenty-five dollars for her work. After that she continued writing "sensation" stories, and became more swept up in the lives of her characters she had to research. During this time, she became a better friend with Professor Bhaer and one day as he was giving her a German lesson; Jo began laughing at him. Upon his head, Tina- one of the children in the house that adored Bhaer- had placed a paper cap on his head. When he discovered the paper, the professor laughed until he saw it was a sensation newspaper of which he did not approve. Professor Bhaer made Jo feel guilty about writing for the paper, although he did not know. What Jo did not know was that Professor Bhaer had guessed that she wrote for the papers. After that Jo tried to write tales with moral, then children's stories, but neither suited her and she gave up writing for a time. When June came along, it was time for Jo to go back to her family. She said goodbye to everyone, and she extended the invitation to Bhaer to come visit her and her family. Bhaer was going to miss her, and she him, and he told her that he would come. Jo was happy because she had made such a good friend |
|MRS. Rachel Lynde lived just where the Avonlea main road dipped down
into a little hollow, fringed with alders and ladies' eardrops and
traversed by a brook that had its source away back in the woods of the
old Cuthbert place; it was reputed to be an intricate, headlong brook
in its earlier course through those woods, with dark secrets of pool
and cascade; but by the time it reached Lynde's Hollow it was a quiet,
well-conducted little stream, for not even a brook could run past Mrs.
Rachel Lynde's door without due regard for decency and decorum; it
probably was conscious that Mrs. Rachel was sitting at her window,
keeping a sharp eye on everything that passed, from brooks and children
up, and that if she noticed anything odd or out of place she would never
rest until she had ferreted out the whys and wherefores thereof.
There are plenty of people in Avonlea and out of it, who can attend
closely to their neighbor's business by dint of neglecting their own;
but Mrs. Rachel Lynde was one of those capable creatures who can manage
their own concerns and those of other folks into the bargain. She was a
notable housewife; her work was always done and well done; she "ran" the
Sewing Circle, helped run the Sunday-school, and was the strongest prop
of the Church Aid Society and Foreign Missions Auxiliary. Yet with all
this Mrs. Rachel found abundant time to sit for hours at her kitchen
window, knitting "cotton warp" quilts--she had knitted sixteen of them,
as Avonlea housekeepers were wont to tell in awed voices--and keeping
a sharp eye on the main road that crossed the hollow and wound up
the steep red hill beyond. Since Avonlea occupied a little triangular
peninsula jutting out into the Gulf of St. Lawrence with water on two
sides of it, anybody who went out of it or into it had to pass over that
hill road and so run the unseen gauntlet of Mrs. Rachel's all-seeing
eye.
She was sitting there one afternoon in early June. The sun was coming in
at the window warm and bright; the orchard on the slope below the house
was in a bridal flush of pinky-white bloom, hummed over by a myriad of
bees. Thomas Lynde--a meek little man whom Avonlea people called "Rachel
Lynde's husband"--was sowing his late turnip seed on the hill field
beyond the barn; and Matthew Cuthbert ought to have been sowing his on
the big red brook field away over by Green Gables. Mrs. Rachel knew
that he ought because she had heard him tell Peter Morrison the evening
before in William J. Blair's store over at Carmody that he meant to sow
his turnip seed the next afternoon. Peter had asked him, of course, for
Matthew Cuthbert had never been known to volunteer information about
anything in his whole life.
And yet here was Matthew Cuthbert, at half-past three on the afternoon
of a busy day, placidly driving over the hollow and up the hill;
moreover, he wore a white collar and his best suit of clothes, which was
plain proof that he was going out of Avonlea; and he had the buggy
and the sorrel mare, which betokened that he was going a considerable
distance. Now, where was Matthew Cuthbert going and why was he going
there?
Had it been any other man in Avonlea, Mrs. Rachel, deftly putting this
and that together, might have given a pretty good guess as to both
questions. But Matthew so rarely went from home that it must be
something pressing and unusual which was taking him; he was the shyest
man alive and hated to have to go among strangers or to any place where
he might have to talk. Matthew, dressed up with a white collar and
driving in a buggy, was something that didn't happen often. Mrs. Rachel,
ponder as she might, could make nothing of it and her afternoon's
enjoyment was spoiled.
"I'll just step over to Green Gables after tea and find out from Marilla
where he's gone and why," the worthy woman finally concluded. "He
doesn't generally go to town this time of year and he _never_ visits; if
he'd run out of turnip seed he wouldn't dress up and take the buggy to
go for more; he wasn't driving fast enough to be going for a doctor.
Yet something must have happened since last night to start him off. I'm
clean puzzled, that's what, and I won't know a minute's peace of mind or
conscience until I know what has taken Matthew Cuthbert out of Avonlea
today."
Accordingly after tea Mrs. Rachel set out; she had not far to go; the
big, rambling, orchard-embowered house where the Cuthberts lived was a
scant quarter of a mile up the road from Lynde's Hollow. To be sure, the
long lane made it a good deal further. Matthew Cuthbert's father, as
shy and silent as his son after him, had got as far away as he possibly
could from his fellow men without actually retreating into the woods
when he founded his homestead. Green Gables was built at the furthest
edge of his cleared land and there it was to this day, barely visible
from the main road along which all the other Avonlea houses were so
sociably situated. Mrs. Rachel Lynde did not call living in such a place
_living_ at all.
"It's just _staying_, that's what," she said as she stepped along the
deep-rutted, grassy lane bordered with wild rose bushes. "It's no wonder
Matthew and Marilla are both a little odd, living away back here by
themselves. Trees aren't much company, though dear knows if they were
there'd be enough of them. I'd ruther look at people. To be sure, they
seem contented enough; but then, I suppose, they're used to it. A body
can get used to anything, even to being hanged, as the Irishman said."
With this Mrs. Rachel stepped out of the lane into the backyard of Green
Gables. Very green and neat and precise was that yard, set about on one
side with great patriarchal willows and the other with prim Lombardies.
Not a stray stick nor stone was to be seen, for Mrs. Rachel would have
seen it if there had been. Privately she was of the opinion that Marilla
Cuthbert swept that yard over as often as she swept her house. One could
have eaten a meal off the ground without over-brimming the proverbial
peck of dirt.
Mrs. Rachel rapped smartly at the kitchen door and stepped in
when bidden to do so. The kitchen at Green Gables was a cheerful
apartment--or would have been cheerful if it had not been so painfully
clean as to give it something of the appearance of an unused parlor. Its
windows looked east and west; through the west one, looking out on
the back yard, came a flood of mellow June sunlight; but the east one,
whence you got a glimpse of the bloom white cherry-trees in the left
orchard and nodding, slender birches down in the hollow by the brook,
was greened over by a tangle of vines. Here sat Marilla Cuthbert, when
she sat at all, always slightly distrustful of sunshine, which seemed to
her too dancing and irresponsible a thing for a world which was meant to
be taken seriously; and here she sat now, knitting, and the table behind
her was laid for supper.
Mrs. Rachel, before she had fairly closed the door, had taken a mental
note of everything that was on that table. There were three plates laid,
so that Marilla must be expecting some one home with Matthew to tea; but
the dishes were everyday dishes and there was only crab-apple preserves
and one kind of cake, so that the expected company could not be any
particular company. Yet what of Matthew's white collar and the sorrel
mare? Mrs. Rachel was getting fairly dizzy with this unusual mystery
about quiet, unmysterious Green Gables.
"Good evening, Rachel," Marilla said briskly. "This is a real fine
evening, isn't it? Won't you sit down? How are all your folks?"
Something that for lack of any other name might be called friendship
existed and always had existed between Marilla Cuthbert and Mrs. Rachel,
in spite of--or perhaps because of--their dissimilarity.
Marilla was a tall, thin woman, with angles and without curves; her dark
hair showed some gray streaks and was always twisted up in a hard little
knot behind with two wire hairpins stuck aggressively through it. She
looked like a woman of narrow experience and rigid conscience, which she
was; but there was a saving something about her mouth which, if it had
been ever so slightly developed, might have been considered indicative
of a sense of humor.
"We're all pretty well," said Mrs. Rachel. "I was kind of afraid _you_
weren't, though, when I saw Matthew starting off today. I thought maybe
he was going to the doctor's."
Marilla's lips twitched understandingly. She had expected Mrs.
Rachel up; she had known that the sight of Matthew jaunting off so
unaccountably would be too much for her neighbor's curiosity.
"Oh, no, I'm quite well although I had a bad headache yesterday," she
said. "Matthew went to Bright River. We're getting a little boy from an
orphan asylum in Nova Scotia and he's coming on the train tonight."
If Marilla had said that Matthew had gone to Bright River to meet a
kangaroo from Australia Mrs. Rachel could not have been more astonished.
She was actually stricken dumb for five seconds. It was unsupposable
that Marilla was making fun of her, but Mrs. Rachel was almost forced to
suppose it.
"Are you in earnest, Marilla?" she demanded when voice returned to her.
"Yes, of course," said Marilla, as if getting boys from orphan asylums
in Nova Scotia were part of the usual spring work on any well-regulated
Avonlea farm instead of being an unheard of innovation.
Mrs. Rachel felt that she had received a severe mental jolt. She thought
in exclamation points. A boy! Marilla and Matthew Cuthbert of all people
adopting a boy! From an orphan asylum! Well, the world was certainly
turning upside down! She would be surprised at nothing after this!
Nothing!
"What on earth put such a notion into your head?" she demanded
disapprovingly.
This had been done without her advice being asked, and must perforce be
disapproved.
"Well, we've been thinking about it for some time--all winter in fact,"
returned Marilla. "Mrs. Alexander Spencer was up here one day before
Christmas and she said she was going to get a little girl from the
asylum over in Hopeton in the spring. Her cousin lives there and Mrs.
Spencer has visited here and knows all about it. So Matthew and I have
talked it over off and on ever since. We thought we'd get a boy. Matthew
is getting up in years, you know--he's sixty--and he isn't so spry as he
once was. His heart troubles him a good deal. And you know how desperate
hard it's got to be to get hired help. There's never anybody to be had
but those stupid, half-grown little French boys; and as soon as you do
get one broke into your ways and taught something he's up and off to the
lobster canneries or the States. At first Matthew suggested getting a
Home boy. But I said 'no' flat to that. 'They may be all right--I'm not
saying they're not--but no London street Arabs for me,' I said. 'Give
me a native born at least. There'll be a risk, no matter who we get. But
I'll feel easier in my mind and sleep sounder at nights if we get a born
Canadian.' So in the end we decided to ask Mrs. Spencer to pick us out
one when she went over to get her little girl. We heard last week she
was going, so we sent her word by Richard Spencer's folks at Carmody
to bring us a smart, likely boy of about ten or eleven. We decided that
would be the best age--old enough to be of some use in doing chores
right off and young enough to be trained up proper. We mean to give him
a good home and schooling. We had a telegram from Mrs. Alexander Spencer
today--the mail-man brought it from the station--saying they were coming
on the five-thirty train tonight. So Matthew went to Bright River to
meet him. Mrs. Spencer will drop him off there. Of course she goes on to
White Sands station herself."
Mrs. Rachel prided herself on always speaking her mind; she proceeded to
speak it now, having adjusted her mental attitude to this amazing piece
of news.
"Well, Marilla, I'll just tell you plain that I think you're doing a
mighty foolish thing--a risky thing, that's what. You don't know what
you're getting. You're bringing a strange child into your house and home
and you don't know a single thing about him nor what his disposition is
like nor what sort of parents he had nor how he's likely to turn out.
Why, it was only last week I read in the paper how a man and his wife up
west of the Island took a boy out of an orphan asylum and he set fire to
the house at night--set it _on purpose_, Marilla--and nearly burnt them to
a crisp in their beds. And I know another case where an adopted boy used
to suck the eggs--they couldn't break him of it. If you had asked my
advice in the matter--which you didn't do, Marilla--I'd have said for
mercy's sake not to think of such a thing, that's what."
This Job's comforting seemed neither to offend nor to alarm Marilla. She
knitted steadily on.
"I don't deny there's something in what you say, Rachel. I've had some
qualms myself. But Matthew was terrible set on it. I could see that, so
I gave in. It's so seldom Matthew sets his mind on anything that when he
does I always feel it's my duty to give in. And as for the risk, there's
risks in pretty near everything a body does in this world. There's risks
in people's having children of their own if it comes to that--they don't
always turn out well. And then Nova Scotia is right close to the Island.
It isn't as if we were getting him from England or the States. He can't
be much different from ourselves."
"Well, I hope it will turn out all right," said Mrs. Rachel in a tone
that plainly indicated her painful doubts. "Only don't say I didn't
warn you if he burns Green Gables down or puts strychnine in the well--I
heard of a case over in New Brunswick where an orphan asylum child did
that and the whole family died in fearful agonies. Only, it was a girl
in that instance."
"Well, we're not getting a girl," said Marilla, as if poisoning wells
were a purely feminine accomplishment and not to be dreaded in the case
of a boy. "I'd never dream of taking a girl to bring up. I wonder at
Mrs. Alexander Spencer for doing it. But there, _she_ wouldn't shrink
from adopting a whole orphan asylum if she took it into her head."
Mrs. Rachel would have liked to stay until Matthew came home with his
imported orphan. But reflecting that it would be a good two hours at
least before his arrival she concluded to go up the road to Robert
Bell's and tell the news. It would certainly make a sensation second
to none, and Mrs. Rachel dearly loved to make a sensation. So she took
herself away, somewhat to Marilla's relief, for the latter felt
her doubts and fears reviving under the influence of Mrs. Rachel's
pessimism.
"Well, of all things that ever were or will be!" ejaculated Mrs. Rachel
when she was safely out in the lane. "It does really seem as if I must
be dreaming. Well, I'm sorry for that poor young one and no mistake.
Matthew and Marilla don't know anything about children and they'll
expect him to be wiser and steadier that his own grandfather, if so be's
he ever had a grandfather, which is doubtful. It seems uncanny to think
of a child at Green Gables somehow; there's never been one there, for
Matthew and Marilla were grown up when the new house was built--if they
ever _were_ children, which is hard to believe when one looks at them.
I wouldn't be in that orphan's shoes for anything. My, but I pity him,
that's what."
So said Mrs. Rachel to the wild rose bushes out of the fulness of her
heart; but if she could have seen the child who was waiting patiently
at the Bright River station at that very moment her pity would have been
still deeper and more profound. | Mrs. Rachel Lynde Is Surprised Isn't it splendid to think of all the things there are to find out about. It just makes me feel glad to be alive. Mrs. Rachel Lynde, the town busybody, lives with her meek husband on the main road of Avonlea, a small rural town in Prince Edward Island in Canada. Mrs. Rachel, as she is known, sits on her porch one afternoon in early June. She sees her neighbor, Matthew Cuthbert, leaving his home. This activity is surprising, since the painfully shy Matthew is known as a bit of a recluse. Even more surprising is that fact that he is wearing his best suit and driving his buggy, evidence that an important errand calls him away. Mrs. Rachel, her mind abuzz with questions, goes to the Cuthbert house to seek an explanation. Matthew and Marilla Cuthbert live tucked away on a farm called Green Gables. Marilla, though more talkative than Matthew, is severe and private. Her house and her appearance reflect this severity: the immaculate house seems too sterile for comfort, and Marilla has an angular face and tightly knotted hair. Despite her stiffness, however, something about her mouth suggests a natural, if undeveloped, sense of humor. When Mrs. Rachel asks about Matthew's errand, Marilla informs her that he is on his way to pick up the Cuthberts' new orphan from the train station. With Matthew getting older--he is sixty--they realized they needed help around the farm and decided to adopt a boy from the orphanage. This news shocks Mrs. Rachel, who launches into a monologue about the horror stories she has heard about orphans--a boy who set fire to his new home, another who used to suck eggs, and a girl who put strychnine in the well. Marilla acknowledges her concerns about bringing a stranger into the house, but she comforts herself with the knowledge that the boy will at least be Canadian and thus not too different from themselves. Marilla wonders why anyone would adopt a girl, since girls cannot work on farms |
Chapter II. The Old Buffoon
They entered the room almost at the same moment that the elder came in
from his bedroom. There were already in the cell, awaiting the elder, two
monks of the hermitage, one the Father Librarian, and the other Father
Paissy, a very learned man, so they said, in delicate health, though not
old. There was also a tall young man, who looked about two and twenty,
standing in the corner throughout the interview. He had a broad, fresh
face, and clever, observant, narrow brown eyes, and was wearing ordinary
dress. He was a divinity student, living under the protection of the
monastery. His expression was one of unquestioning, but self-respecting,
reverence. Being in a subordinate and dependent position, and so not on an
equality with the guests, he did not greet them with a bow.
Father Zossima was accompanied by a novice, and by Alyosha. The two monks
rose and greeted him with a very deep bow, touching the ground with their
fingers; then kissed his hand. Blessing them, the elder replied with as
deep a reverence to them, and asked their blessing. The whole ceremony was
performed very seriously and with an appearance of feeling, not like an
everyday rite. But Miuesov fancied that it was all done with intentional
impressiveness. He stood in front of the other visitors. He ought--he had
reflected upon it the evening before--from simple politeness, since it was
the custom here, to have gone up to receive the elder's blessing, even if
he did not kiss his hand. But when he saw all this bowing and kissing on
the part of the monks he instantly changed his mind. With dignified
gravity he made a rather deep, conventional bow, and moved away to a
chair. Fyodor Pavlovitch did the same, mimicking Miuesov like an ape. Ivan
bowed with great dignity and courtesy, but he too kept his hands at his
sides, while Kalganov was so confused that he did not bow at all. The
elder let fall the hand raised to bless them, and bowing to them again,
asked them all to sit down. The blood rushed to Alyosha's cheeks. He was
ashamed. His forebodings were coming true.
Father Zossima sat down on a very old-fashioned mahogany sofa, covered
with leather, and made his visitors sit down in a row along the opposite
wall on four mahogany chairs, covered with shabby black leather. The monks
sat, one at the door and the other at the window. The divinity student,
the novice, and Alyosha remained standing. The cell was not very large and
had a faded look. It contained nothing but the most necessary furniture,
of coarse and poor quality. There were two pots of flowers in the window,
and a number of holy pictures in the corner. Before one huge ancient ikon
of the Virgin a lamp was burning. Near it were two other holy pictures in
shining settings, and, next them, carved cherubims, china eggs, a Catholic
cross of ivory, with a Mater Dolorosa embracing it, and several foreign
engravings from the great Italian artists of past centuries. Next to these
costly and artistic engravings were several of the roughest Russian prints
of saints and martyrs, such as are sold for a few farthings at all the
fairs. On the other walls were portraits of Russian bishops, past and
present.
Miuesov took a cursory glance at all these "conventional" surroundings and
bent an intent look upon the elder. He had a high opinion of his own
insight, a weakness excusable in him as he was fifty, an age at which a
clever man of the world of established position can hardly help taking
himself rather seriously. At the first moment he did not like Zossima.
There was, indeed, something in the elder's face which many people besides
Miuesov might not have liked. He was a short, bent, little man, with very
weak legs, and though he was only sixty-five, he looked at least ten years
older. His face was very thin and covered with a network of fine wrinkles,
particularly numerous about his eyes, which were small, light-colored,
quick, and shining like two bright points. He had a sprinkling of gray
hair about his temples. His pointed beard was small and scanty, and his
lips, which smiled frequently, were as thin as two threads. His nose was
not long, but sharp, like a bird's beak.
"To all appearances a malicious soul, full of petty pride," thought
Miuesov. He felt altogether dissatisfied with his position.
A cheap little clock on the wall struck twelve hurriedly, and served to
begin the conversation.
"Precisely to our time," cried Fyodor Pavlovitch, "but no sign of my son,
Dmitri. I apologize for him, sacred elder!" (Alyosha shuddered all over at
"sacred elder.") "I am always punctual myself, minute for minute,
remembering that punctuality is the courtesy of kings...."
"But you are not a king, anyway," Miuesov muttered, losing his self-
restraint at once.
"Yes; that's true. I'm not a king, and, would you believe it, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, I was aware of that myself. But, there! I always say the
wrong thing. Your reverence," he cried, with sudden pathos, "you behold
before you a buffoon in earnest! I introduce myself as such. It's an old
habit, alas! And if I sometimes talk nonsense out of place it's with an
object, with the object of amusing people and making myself agreeable. One
must be agreeable, mustn't one? I was seven years ago in a little town
where I had business, and I made friends with some merchants there. We
went to the captain of police because we had to see him about something,
and to ask him to dine with us. He was a tall, fat, fair, sulky man, the
most dangerous type in such cases. It's their liver. I went straight up to
him, and with the ease of a man of the world, you know, 'Mr. Ispravnik,'
said I, 'be our Napravnik.' 'What do you mean by Napravnik?' said he. I
saw, at the first half-second, that it had missed fire. He stood there so
glum. 'I wanted to make a joke,' said I, 'for the general diversion, as
Mr. Napravnik is our well-known Russian orchestra conductor and what we
need for the harmony of our undertaking is some one of that sort.' And I
explained my comparison very reasonably, didn't I? 'Excuse me,' said he,
'I am an Ispravnik, and I do not allow puns to be made on my calling.' He
turned and walked away. I followed him, shouting, 'Yes, yes, you are an
Ispravnik, not a Napravnik.' 'No,' he said, 'since you called me a
Napravnik I am one.' And would you believe it, it ruined our business! And
I'm always like that, always like that. Always injuring myself with my
politeness. Once, many years ago, I said to an influential person: 'Your
wife is a ticklish lady,' in an honorable sense, of the moral qualities,
so to speak. But he asked me, 'Why, have you tickled her?' I thought I'd
be polite, so I couldn't help saying, 'Yes,' and he gave me a fine
tickling on the spot. Only that happened long ago, so I'm not ashamed to
tell the story. I'm always injuring myself like that."
"You're doing it now," muttered Miuesov, with disgust.
Father Zossima scrutinized them both in silence.
"Am I? Would you believe it, I was aware of that, too, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, and let me tell you, indeed, I foresaw I should as soon as
I began to speak. And do you know I foresaw, too, that you'd be the first
to remark on it. The minute I see my joke isn't coming off, your
reverence, both my cheeks feel as though they were drawn down to the lower
jaw and there is almost a spasm in them. That's been so since I was young,
when I had to make jokes for my living in noblemen's families. I am an
inveterate buffoon, and have been from birth up, your reverence, it's as
though it were a craze in me. I dare say it's a devil within me. But only
a little one. A more serious one would have chosen another lodging. But
not your soul, Pyotr Alexandrovitch; you're not a lodging worth having
either. But I do believe--I believe in God, though I have had doubts of
late. But now I sit and await words of wisdom. I'm like the philosopher,
Diderot, your reverence. Did you ever hear, most Holy Father, how Diderot
went to see the Metropolitan Platon, in the time of the Empress Catherine?
He went in and said straight out, 'There is no God.' To which the great
bishop lifted up his finger and answered, 'The fool hath said in his heart
there is no God.' And he fell down at his feet on the spot. 'I believe,'
he cried, 'and will be christened.' And so he was. Princess Dashkov was
his godmother, and Potyomkin his godfather."
"Fyodor Pavlovitch, this is unbearable! You know you're telling lies and
that that stupid anecdote isn't true. Why are you playing the fool?" cried
Miuesov in a shaking voice.
"I suspected all my life that it wasn't true," Fyodor Pavlovitch cried
with conviction. "But I'll tell you the whole truth, gentlemen. Great
elder! Forgive me, the last thing about Diderot's christening I made up
just now. I never thought of it before. I made it up to add piquancy. I
play the fool, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, to make myself agreeable. Though I
really don't know myself, sometimes, what I do it for. And as for Diderot,
I heard as far as 'the fool hath said in his heart' twenty times from the
gentry about here when I was young. I heard your aunt, Pyotr
Alexandrovitch, tell the story. They all believe to this day that the
infidel Diderot came to dispute about God with the Metropolitan
Platon...."
Miuesov got up, forgetting himself in his impatience. He was furious, and
conscious of being ridiculous.
What was taking place in the cell was really incredible. For forty or
fifty years past, from the times of former elders, no visitors had entered
that cell without feelings of the profoundest veneration. Almost every one
admitted to the cell felt that a great favor was being shown him. Many
remained kneeling during the whole visit. Of those visitors, many had been
men of high rank and learning, some even freethinkers, attracted by
curiosity, but all without exception had shown the profoundest reverence
and delicacy, for here there was no question of money, but only, on the
one side love and kindness, and on the other penitence and eager desire to
decide some spiritual problem or crisis. So that such buffoonery amazed
and bewildered the spectators, or at least some of them. The monks, with
unchanged countenances, waited, with earnest attention, to hear what the
elder would say, but seemed on the point of standing up, like Miuesov.
Alyosha stood, with hanging head, on the verge of tears. What seemed to
him strangest of all was that his brother Ivan, on whom alone he had
rested his hopes, and who alone had such influence on his father that he
could have stopped him, sat now quite unmoved, with downcast eyes,
apparently waiting with interest to see how it would end, as though he had
nothing to do with it. Alyosha did not dare to look at Rakitin, the
divinity student, whom he knew almost intimately. He alone in the
monastery knew Rakitin's thoughts.
"Forgive me," began Miuesov, addressing Father Zossima, "for perhaps I seem
to be taking part in this shameful foolery. I made a mistake in believing
that even a man like Fyodor Pavlovitch would understand what was due on a
visit to so honored a personage. I did not suppose I should have to
apologize simply for having come with him...."
Pyotr Alexandrovitch could say no more, and was about to leave the room,
overwhelmed with confusion.
"Don't distress yourself, I beg." The elder got on to his feeble legs, and
taking Pyotr Alexandrovitch by both hands, made him sit down again. "I beg
you not to disturb yourself. I particularly beg you to be my guest." And
with a bow he went back and sat down again on his little sofa.
"Great elder, speak! Do I annoy you by my vivacity?" Fyodor Pavlovitch
cried suddenly, clutching the arms of his chair in both hands, as though
ready to leap up from it if the answer were unfavorable.
"I earnestly beg you, too, not to disturb yourself, and not to be uneasy,"
the elder said impressively. "Do not trouble. Make yourself quite at home.
And, above all, do not be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root
of it all."
"Quite at home? To be my natural self? Oh, that is much too much, but I
accept it with grateful joy. Do you know, blessed Father, you'd better not
invite me to be my natural self. Don't risk it.... I will not go so far as
that myself. I warn you for your own sake. Well, the rest is still plunged
in the mists of uncertainty, though there are people who'd be pleased to
describe me for you. I mean that for you, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. But as for
you, holy being, let me tell you, I am brimming over with ecstasy."
He got up, and throwing up his hands, declaimed, "Blessed be the womb that
bare thee, and the paps that gave thee suck--the paps especially. When you
said just now, 'Don't be so ashamed of yourself, for that is at the root
of it all,' you pierced right through me by that remark, and read me to
the core. Indeed, 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 really
play the buffoon. I am not afraid of your opinion, for you are every one
of you worse than I am.' That is why I am a buffoon. It is from shame,
great elder, from shame; it's simply over-sensitiveness that makes me
rowdy. If I had only been sure that every one would accept me as the
kindest and wisest of men, oh, Lord, what a good man I should have been
then! Teacher!" he fell suddenly on his knees, "what must I do to gain
eternal life?"
It was difficult even now to decide whether he was joking or really moved.
Father Zossima, lifting his eyes, looked at him, and said with a smile:
"You have known for a long time what you must do. You have sense enough:
don't give way to drunkenness and incontinence of speech; don't give way
to sensual lust; and, above all, to the love of money. And close your
taverns. If you can't close all, at least two or three. And, above
all--don't lie."
"You mean about Diderot?"
"No, not about Diderot. Above all, don't lie to yourself. The man who lies
to himself and listens to his own lie comes to such a pass that he cannot
distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect
for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love, and
in order to occupy and distract himself without love he gives way to
passions and coarse pleasures, and sinks to bestiality in his vices, all
from continual lying to other men and to himself. The man who lies to
himself can be more easily offended than any one. You know it is sometimes
very pleasant to take offense, isn't it? A man may know that nobody has
insulted him, but that he has invented the insult for himself, has lied
and exaggerated to make it picturesque, has caught at a word and made a
mountain out of a molehill--he knows that himself, yet he will be the first
to take offense, and will revel in his resentment till he feels great
pleasure in it, and so pass to genuine vindictiveness. But get up, sit
down, I beg you. All this, too, is deceitful posturing...."
"Blessed man! Give me your hand to kiss."
Fyodor Pavlovitch skipped up, and imprinted a rapid kiss on the elder's
thin hand. "It is, it is pleasant to take offense. You said that so well,
as I never heard it before. Yes, I have been all my life taking offense,
to please myself, taking offense on esthetic grounds, for it is not so
much pleasant as distinguished sometimes to be insulted--that you had
forgotten, great elder, it is distinguished! I shall make a note of that.
But I have been lying, lying positively my whole life long, every day and
hour of it. Of a truth, I am a lie, and the father of lies. Though I
believe I am not the father of lies. I am getting mixed in my texts. Say,
the son of lies, and that will be enough. Only ... my angel ... I may
sometimes talk about Diderot! Diderot will do no harm, though sometimes a
word will do harm. Great elder, by the way, I was forgetting, though I had
been meaning for the last two years to come here on purpose to ask and to
find out something. Only do tell Pyotr Alexandrovitch not to interrupt me.
Here is my question: Is it true, great Father, that the story is told
somewhere in the _Lives of the Saints_ of a holy saint martyred for his
faith who, when his head was cut off at last, stood up, picked up his
head, and, 'courteously kissing it,' walked a long way, carrying it in his
hands. Is that true or not, honored Father?"
"No, it is untrue," said the elder.
"There is nothing of the kind in all the lives of the saints. What saint
do you say the story is told of?" asked the Father Librarian.
"I do not know what saint. I do not know, and can't tell. I was deceived.
I was told the story. I had heard it, and do you know who told it? Pyotr
Alexandrovitch Miuesov here, who was so angry just now about Diderot. He it
was who told the story."
"I have never told it you, I never speak to you at all."
"It is true you did not tell me, but you told it when I was present. It
was three years ago. I mentioned it because by that ridiculous story you
shook my faith, Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You knew nothing of it, but I went
home with my faith shaken, and I have been getting more and more shaken
ever since. Yes, Pyotr Alexandrovitch, you were the cause of a great fall.
That was not a Diderot!"
Fyodor Pavlovitch got excited and pathetic, though it was perfectly clear
to every one by now that he was playing a part again. Yet Miuesov was stung
by his words.
"What nonsense, and it is all nonsense," he muttered. "I may really have
told it, some time or other ... but not to you. I was told it myself. I
heard it in Paris from a Frenchman. He told me it was read at our mass
from the _Lives of the Saints_ ... he was a very learned man who had made
a special study of Russian statistics and had lived a long time in
Russia.... I have not read the _Lives of the Saints_ myself, and I am not
going to read them ... all sorts of things are said at dinner--we were
dining then."
"Yes, you were dining then, and so I lost my faith!" said Fyodor
Pavlovitch, mimicking him.
"What do I care for your faith?" Miuesov was on the point of shouting, but
he suddenly checked himself, and said with contempt, "You defile
everything you touch."
The elder suddenly rose from his seat. "Excuse me, gentlemen, for leaving
you a few minutes," he said, addressing all his guests. "I have visitors
awaiting me who arrived before you. But don't you tell lies all the same,"
he added, turning to Fyodor Pavlovitch with a good-humored face. He went
out of the cell. Alyosha and the novice flew to escort him down the steps.
Alyosha was breathless: he was glad to get away, but he was glad, too,
that the elder was good-humored and not offended. Father Zossima was going
towards the portico to bless the people waiting for him there. But Fyodor
Pavlovitch persisted in stopping him at the door of the cell.
"Blessed man!" he cried, with feeling. "Allow me to kiss your hand once
more. Yes, with you I could still talk, I could still get on. Do you think
I always lie and play the fool like this? Believe me, I have been acting
like this all the time on purpose to try you. I have been testing you all
the time to see whether I could get on with you. Is there room for my
humility beside your pride? I am ready to give you a testimonial that one
can get on with you! But now, I'll be quiet; I will keep quiet all the
time. I'll sit in a chair and hold my tongue. Now it is for you to speak,
Pyotr Alexandrovitch. You are the principal person left now--for ten
minutes." | The Old Buffoon The men enter Zosima's room just as Zosima himself arrives there, accompanied by Alyosha and a small group of monks. The monks kiss Zosima's hand in deference and ask for his blessing, but the other men decline to do so and merely bow to him somewhat stiffly. Alyosha is embarrassed by this awkward display of disrespect, but Zosima gives no sign of being troubled. Fyodor Pavlovich apologizes melodramatically for Dmitri's lateness and fills the awkward silence in the room with his chatter. Under the pretense of being apologetic for his uncontrollably -buffoonish behavior, Fyodor Pavlovich indulges in a series of increasingly sacrilegious witticisms and stories, well aware that in doing so, he is embarrassing and irritating the other men, especially Miusov, whom he relentlessly teases. Alyosha is mortified by his father's behavior, but Zosima does not seem to mind it. When Fyodor begins to play the supplicant and asks Zosima for spiritual advice, Alyosha is even more humiliated. But Zosima merely tells him that, if he wants to attain eternal life, he must stop telling lies, especially to himself. Surprisingly, Zosima attributes Fyodor Pavlovich's clownish behavior to the fact that Fyodor Pavlovich is embarrassed and ashamed of himself, and Zosima earnestly tries to make him more comfortable |
The Insufficiency of the Present Confederation to Preserve the Union
For the Independent Journal. Saturday, December 1, 1787
HAMILTON
To the People of the State of New York.
IN THE course of the preceding papers, I have endeavored, my fellow
citizens, to place before you, in a clear and convincing light, the
importance of Union to your political safety and happiness. I have
unfolded to you a complication of dangers to which you would be exposed,
should you permit that sacred knot which binds the people of America
together be severed or dissolved by ambition or by avarice, by jealousy
or by misrepresentation. In the sequel of the inquiry through which
I propose to accompany you, the truths intended to be inculcated
will receive further confirmation from facts and arguments hitherto
unnoticed. If the road over which you will still have to pass should in
some places appear to you tedious or irksome, you will recollect that
you are in quest of information on a subject the most momentous which
can engage the attention of a free people, that the field through which
you have to travel is in itself spacious, and that the difficulties of
the journey have been unnecessarily increased by the mazes with which
sophistry has beset the way. It will be my aim to remove the obstacles
from your progress in as compendious a manner as it can be done, without
sacrificing utility to despatch.
In pursuance of the plan which I have laid down for the discussion
of the subject, the point next in order to be examined is the
"insufficiency of the present Confederation to the preservation of the
Union." It may perhaps be asked what need there is of reasoning or proof
to illustrate a position which is not either controverted or doubted, to
which the understandings and feelings of all classes of men assent,
and which in substance is admitted by the opponents as well as by the
friends of the new Constitution. It must in truth be acknowledged that,
however these may differ in other respects, they in general appear
to harmonize in this sentiment, at least, that there are material
imperfections in our national system, and that something is necessary to
be done to rescue us from impending anarchy. The facts that support
this opinion are no longer objects of speculation. They have forced
themselves upon the sensibility of the people at large, and have at
length extorted from those, whose mistaken policy has had the principal
share in precipitating the extremity at which we are arrived, a
reluctant confession of the reality of those defects in the scheme of
our federal government, which have been long pointed out and regretted
by the intelligent friends of the Union.
We may indeed with propriety be said to have reached almost the last
stage of national humiliation. There is scarcely anything that can wound
the pride or degrade the character of an independent nation which we do
not experience. Are there engagements to the performance of which we
are held by every tie respectable among men? These are the subjects of
constant and unblushing violation. Do we owe debts to foreigners and
to our own citizens contracted in a time of imminent peril for the
preservation of our political existence? These remain without any
proper or satisfactory provision for their discharge. Have we valuable
territories and important posts in the possession of a foreign
power which, by express stipulations, ought long since to have
been surrendered? These are still retained, to the prejudice of our
interests, not less than of our rights. Are we in a condition to resent
or to repel the aggression? We have neither troops, nor treasury, nor
government.(1) Are we even in a condition to remonstrate with dignity?
The just imputations on our own faith, in respect to the same treaty,
ought first to be removed. Are we entitled by nature and compact to a
free participation in the navigation of the Mississippi? Spain excludes
us from it. Is public credit an indispensable resource in time of
public danger? We seem to have abandoned its cause as desperate and
irretrievable. Is commerce of importance to national wealth? Ours is at
the lowest point of declension. Is respectability in the eyes of foreign
powers a safeguard against foreign encroachments? The imbecility of our
government even forbids them to treat with us. Our ambassadors abroad
are the mere pageants of mimic sovereignty. Is a violent and unnatural
decrease in the value of land a symptom of national distress? The price
of improved land in most parts of the country is much lower than can be
accounted for by the quantity of waste land at market, and can only be
fully explained by that want of private and public confidence, which
are so alarmingly prevalent among all ranks, and which have a direct
tendency to depreciate property of every kind. Is private credit the
friend and patron of industry? That most useful kind which relates to
borrowing and lending is reduced within the narrowest limits, and this
still more from an opinion of insecurity than from the scarcity of
money. To shorten an enumeration of particulars which can afford neither
pleasure nor instruction, it may in general be demanded, what indication
is there of national disorder, poverty, and insignificance that could
befall a community so peculiarly blessed with natural advantages as
we are, which does not form a part of the dark catalogue of our public
misfortunes?
This is the melancholy situation to which we have been brought by those
very maxims and councils which would now deter us from adopting the
proposed Constitution; and which, not content with having conducted us
to the brink of a precipice, seem resolved to plunge us into the abyss
that awaits us below. Here, my countrymen, impelled by every motive that
ought to influence an enlightened people, let us make a firm stand for
our safety, our tranquillity, our dignity, our reputation. Let us at
last break the fatal charm which has too long seduced us from the paths
of felicity and prosperity.
It is true, as has been before observed that facts, too stubborn to
be resisted, have produced a species of general assent to the abstract
proposition that there exist material defects in our national system;
but the usefulness of the concession, on the part of the old adversaries
of federal measures, is destroyed by a strenuous opposition to a remedy,
upon the only principles that can give it a chance of success. While
they admit that the government of the United States is destitute of
energy, they contend against conferring upon it those powers which
are requisite to supply that energy. They seem still to aim at things
repugnant and irreconcilable; at an augmentation of federal authority,
without a diminution of State authority; at sovereignty in the Union,
and complete independence in the members. They still, in fine, seem
to cherish with blind devotion the political monster of an imperium in
imperio. This renders a full display of the principal defects of the
Confederation necessary, in order to show that the evils we experience
do not proceed from minute or partial imperfections, but from
fundamental errors in the structure of the building, which cannot be
amended otherwise than by an alteration in the first principles and main
pillars of the fabric.
The great and radical vice in the construction of the existing
Confederation is in the principle of LEGISLATION for STATES or
GOVERNMENTS, in their CORPORATE or COLLECTIVE CAPACITIES, and as
contradistinguished from the INDIVIDUALS of which they consist. Though
this principle does not run through all the powers delegated to the
Union, yet it pervades and governs those on which the efficacy of the
rest depends. Except as to the rule of appointment, the United States
has an indefinite discretion to make requisitions for men and money; but
they have no authority to raise either, by regulations extending to the
individual citizens of America. The consequence of this is, that
though in theory their resolutions concerning those objects are laws,
constitutionally binding on the members of the Union, yet in practice
they are mere recommendations which the States observe or disregard at
their option.
It is a singular instance of the capriciousness of the human mind, that
after all the admonitions we have had from experience on this head,
there should still be found men who object to the new Constitution, for
deviating from a principle which has been found the bane of the old, and
which is in itself evidently incompatible with the idea of GOVERNMENT;
a principle, in short, which, if it is to be executed at all, must
substitute the violent and sanguinary agency of the sword to the mild
influence of the magistracy.
There is nothing absurd or impracticable in the idea of a league or
alliance between independent nations for certain defined purposes
precisely stated in a treaty regulating all the details of time, place,
circumstance, and quantity; leaving nothing to future discretion; and
depending for its execution on the good faith of the parties. Compacts
of this kind exist among all civilized nations, subject to the usual
vicissitudes of peace and war, of observance and non-observance, as the
interests or passions of the contracting powers dictate. In the early
part of the present century there was an epidemical rage in Europe for
this species of compacts, from which the politicians of the times
fondly hoped for benefits which were never realized. With a view to
establishing the equilibrium of power and the peace of that part of the
world, all the resources of negotiation were exhausted, and triple and
quadruple alliances were formed; but they were scarcely formed before
they were broken, giving an instructive but afflicting lesson to
mankind, how little dependence is to be placed on treaties which have
no other sanction than the obligations of good faith, and which oppose
general considerations of peace and justice to the impulse of any
immediate interest or passion.
If the particular States in this country are disposed to stand in a
similar relation to each other, and to drop the project of a general
DISCRETIONARY SUPERINTENDENCE, the scheme would indeed be pernicious,
and would entail upon us all the mischiefs which have been enumerated
under the first head; but it would have the merit of being, at least,
consistent and practicable Abandoning all views towards a confederate
government, this would bring us to a simple alliance offensive and
defensive; and would place us in a situation to be alternate friends
and enemies of each other, as our mutual jealousies and rivalships,
nourished by the intrigues of foreign nations, should prescribe to us.
But if we are unwilling to be placed in this perilous situation; if we
still will adhere to the design of a national government, or, which
is the same thing, of a superintending power, under the direction of
a common council, we must resolve to incorporate into our plan those
ingredients which may be considered as forming the characteristic
difference between a league and a government; we must extend the
authority of the Union to the persons of the citizens,--the only proper
objects of government.
Government implies the power of making laws. It is essential to the idea
of a law, that it be attended with a sanction; or, in other words, a
penalty or punishment for disobedience. If there be no penalty annexed
to disobedience, the resolutions or commands which pretend to be laws
will, in fact, amount to nothing more than advice or recommendation.
This penalty, whatever it may be, can only be inflicted in two ways: by
the agency of the courts and ministers of justice, or by military force;
by the COERCION of the magistracy, or by the COERCION of arms. The first
kind can evidently apply only to men; the last kind must of necessity,
be employed against bodies politic, or communities, or States. It is
evident that there is no process of a court by which the observance
of the laws can, in the last resort, be enforced. Sentences may be
denounced against them for violations of their duty; but these sentences
can only be carried into execution by the sword. In an association
where the general authority is confined to the collective bodies of the
communities, that compose it, every breach of the laws must involve a
state of war; and military execution must become the only instrument of
civil obedience. Such a state of things can certainly not deserve the
name of government, nor would any prudent man choose to commit his
happiness to it.
There was a time when we were told that breaches, by the States, of the
regulations of the federal authority were not to be expected; that
a sense of common interest would preside over the conduct of the
respective members, and would beget a full compliance with all the
constitutional requisitions of the Union. This language, at the present
day, would appear as wild as a great part of what we now hear from
the same quarter will be thought, when we shall have received further
lessons from that best oracle of wisdom, experience. It at all times
betrayed an ignorance of the true springs by which human conduct is
actuated, and belied the original inducements to the establishment of
civil power. Why has government been instituted at all? Because the
passions of men will not conform to the dictates of reason and justice,
without constraint. Has it been found that bodies of men act with more
rectitude or greater disinterestedness than individuals? The contrary
of this has been inferred by all accurate observers of the conduct of
mankind; and the inference is founded upon obvious reasons. Regard to
reputation has a less active influence, when the infamy of a bad action
is to be divided among a number than when it is to fall singly upon
one. A spirit of faction, which is apt to mingle its poison in the
deliberations of all bodies of men, will often hurry the persons of whom
they are composed into improprieties and excesses, for which they would
blush in a private capacity.
In addition to all this, there is, in the nature of sovereign power,
an impatience of control, that disposes those who are invested with the
exercise of it, to look with an evil eye upon all external attempts to
restrain or direct its operations. From this spirit it happens, that
in every political association which is formed upon the principle of
uniting in a common interest a number of lesser sovereignties, there
will be found a kind of eccentric tendency in the subordinate or
inferior orbs, by the operation of which there will be a perpetual
effort in each to fly off from the common centre. This tendency is not
difficult to be accounted for. It has its origin in the love of power.
Power controlled or abridged is almost always the rival and enemy
of that power by which it is controlled or abridged. This simple
proposition will teach us how little reason there is to expect, that
the persons intrusted with the administration of the affairs of the
particular members of a confederacy will at all times be ready, with
perfect good-humor, and an unbiased regard to the public weal, to
execute the resolutions or decrees of the general authority. The reverse
of this results from the constitution of human nature.
If, therefore, the measures of the Confederacy cannot be executed
without the intervention of the particular administrations, there will
be little prospect of their being executed at all. The rulers of the
respective members, whether they have a constitutional right to do it
or not, will undertake to judge of the propriety of the measures
themselves. They will consider the conformity of the thing proposed
or required to their immediate interests or aims; the momentary
conveniences or inconveniences that would attend its adoption. All this
will be done; and in a spirit of interested and suspicious scrutiny,
without that knowledge of national circumstances and reasons of
state, which is essential to a right judgment, and with that strong
predilection in favor of local objects, which can hardly fail to mislead
the decision. The same process must be repeated in every member of which
the body is constituted; and the execution of the plans, framed by the
councils of the whole, will always fluctuate on the discretion of the
ill-informed and prejudiced opinion of every part. Those who have been
conversant in the proceedings of popular assemblies; who have seen
how difficult it often is, where there is no exterior pressure of
circumstances, to bring them to harmonious resolutions on important
points, will readily conceive how impossible it must be to induce a
number of such assemblies, deliberating at a distance from each other,
at different times, and under different impressions, long to co-operate
in the same views and pursuits.
In our case, the concurrence of thirteen distinct sovereign wills is
requisite, under the Confederation, to the complete execution of every
important measure that proceeds from the Union. It has happened as was
to have been foreseen. The measures of the Union have not been executed;
the delinquencies of the States have, step by step, matured themselves
to an extreme, which has, at length, arrested all the wheels of the
national government, and brought them to an awful stand. Congress
at this time scarcely possess the means of keeping up the forms of
administration, till the States can have time to agree upon a more
substantial substitute for the present shadow of a federal government.
Things did not come to this desperate extremity at once. The
causes which have been specified produced at first only unequal and
disproportionate degrees of compliance with the requisitions of the
Union. The greater deficiencies of some States furnished the pretext of
example and the temptation of interest to the complying, or to the least
delinquent States. Why should we do more in proportion than those who
are embarked with us in the same political voyage? Why should we consent
to bear more than our proper share of the common burden? These were
suggestions which human selfishness could not withstand, and which even
speculative men, who looked forward to remote consequences, could not,
without hesitation, combat. Each State, yielding to the persuasive voice
of immediate interest or convenience, has successively withdrawn its
support, till the frail and tottering edifice seems ready to fall upon
our heads, and to crush us beneath its ruins.
PUBLIUS
1. "I mean for the Union." | Hamilton begins by telling the people that in the previous papers he has tried to convince them of the importance of the Union to "political safety and happiness." In this essay, he changes the theme to the "insufficiency of the present confederation to the preservation of the union." He argues that the majority of the people agree that the present form of government will eventually lead to "impending anarchy." He continues that the United States has reached the "last stage of national humiliation," because of large debts, territories in the possession of a foreign power, a lack of military, a lack of money, inability to navigate on the Mississippi River, lack of commerce, lack of respect by foreign powers, decrease in value of property, and unavailability of credit. In sum, because of "national disorder, poverty, and insignificance." Hamilton urges that the country must firmly stand for safety, tranquility, dignity, and reputation. He attacks the supporters of the Articles of Confederation, claiming that though they admit that the government is destitute of energy, they stand against "conferring upon it those powers which are requisite to supply that energy," wanting instead, something that is impossible, the augmentation of federal powers without decreasing the powers of the states. To Hamilton, the biggest problem in the existing government is the principle of legislation for states in a collective manner, which creates multiple sovereigns. Under this situation, the laws of the nation, though constitutionally binding, become merely suggestions that the states can choose to follow or not follow. While he sees nothing wrong with compacts between states, like such treaties that exist throughout the world, from experience he believes that little dependence can be placed on such agreements. He believes that the states of the country could stand in similar relation to each other, and it would not be ideal but would be "consistent and practicable." But if there is still some desire for a national government, it must take on different characteristics from a league of governments: we must extend "the authority of the union to the persons of the citizens, the only proper objects of government." The very idea of a government implies the power of making laws and those laws must contain a consequence, a penalty, applied by the military or the court. Because no system exists under the Articles of Confederation that properly carries out the law , the government is useless. For Hamilton, government was created because the passions of men do not conform to the "dictates of reason and justice" and groups of men act with greater intelligence than individuals alone. Hamilton supposes that this is because reputation has a less active influence. In addition, he believes that because of the nature of sovereign power, people become obsessed with their own power. A meeting of many sovereign powers, then, like the Articles of Confederation, creates problems because a love of power means that people fail to compromise. The business of the government, therefore, cannot be carried out under this system and national interests become subservient to individual desires and wishes. Alexander Hamilton, finally, specifically attacks the Articles of Confederation as failing because the system was destined to fail. It did not happen all at once, but instead, gradually, progressing to the point that things have become a "stand-all," with everyone "yielding to the persuasive voice of immediate interest and convenience, till the frail and tottering edifice seems ready to fall upon our heads and to crush us beneath its ruins." |
A very few days had passed after this adventure, when Harriet came one
morning to Emma with a small parcel in her hand, and after sitting down
and hesitating, thus began:
"Miss Woodhouse--if you are at leisure--I have something that I should
like to tell you--a sort of confession to make--and then, you know, it
will be over."
Emma was a good deal surprized; but begged her to speak. There was a
seriousness in Harriet's manner which prepared her, quite as much as her
words, for something more than ordinary.
"It is my duty, and I am sure it is my wish," she continued, "to have
no reserves with you on this subject. As I am happily quite an altered
creature in _one_ _respect_, it is very fit that you should have
the satisfaction of knowing it. I do not want to say more than is
necessary--I am too much ashamed of having given way as I have done, and
I dare say you understand me."
"Yes," said Emma, "I hope I do."
"How I could so long a time be fancying myself!..." cried Harriet,
warmly. "It seems like madness! I can see nothing at all extraordinary
in him now.--I do not care whether I meet him or not--except that of the
two I had rather not see him--and indeed I would go any distance round
to avoid him--but I do not envy his wife in the least; I neither admire
her nor envy her, as I have done: she is very charming, I dare say, and
all that, but I think her very ill-tempered and disagreeable--I shall
never forget her look the other night!--However, I assure you, Miss
Woodhouse, I wish her no evil.--No, let them be ever so happy together,
it will not give me another moment's pang: and to convince you that I
have been speaking truth, I am now going to destroy--what I ought to
have destroyed long ago--what I ought never to have kept--I know that
very well (blushing as she spoke).--However, now I will destroy it
all--and it is my particular wish to do it in your presence, that you
may see how rational I am grown. Cannot you guess what this parcel
holds?" said she, with a conscious look.
"Not the least in the world.--Did he ever give you any thing?"
"No--I cannot call them gifts; but they are things that I have valued
very much."
She held the parcel towards her, and Emma read the words _Most_
_precious_ _treasures_ on the top. Her curiosity was greatly excited.
Harriet unfolded the parcel, and she looked on with impatience. Within
abundance of silver paper was a pretty little Tunbridge-ware box,
which Harriet opened: it was well lined with the softest cotton; but,
excepting the cotton, Emma saw only a small piece of court-plaister.
"Now," said Harriet, "you _must_ recollect."
"No, indeed I do not."
"Dear me! I should not have thought it possible you could forget what
passed in this very room about court-plaister, one of the very last
times we ever met in it!--It was but a very few days before I had my
sore throat--just before Mr. and Mrs. John Knightley came--I think the
very evening.--Do not you remember his cutting his finger with your new
penknife, and your recommending court-plaister?--But, as you had none
about you, and knew I had, you desired me to supply him; and so I took
mine out and cut him a piece; but it was a great deal too large, and he
cut it smaller, and kept playing some time with what was left, before he
gave it back to me. And so then, in my nonsense, I could not help making
a treasure of it--so I put it by never to be used, and looked at it now
and then as a great treat."
"My dearest Harriet!" cried Emma, putting her hand before her face,
and jumping up, "you make me more ashamed of myself than I can bear.
Remember it? Aye, I remember it all now; all, except your saving this
relic--I knew nothing of that till this moment--but the cutting the
finger, and my recommending court-plaister, and saying I had none
about me!--Oh! my sins, my sins!--And I had plenty all the while in my
pocket!--One of my senseless tricks!--I deserve to be under a continual
blush all the rest of my life.--Well--(sitting down again)--go on--what
else?"
"And had you really some at hand yourself? I am sure I never suspected
it, you did it so naturally."
"And so you actually put this piece of court-plaister by for his sake!"
said Emma, recovering from her state of shame and feeling divided
between wonder and amusement. And secretly she added to herself, "Lord
bless me! when should I ever have thought of putting by in cotton a
piece of court-plaister that Frank Churchill had been pulling about! I
never was equal to this."
"Here," resumed Harriet, turning to her box again, "here is something
still more valuable, I mean that _has_ _been_ more valuable, because
this is what did really once belong to him, which the court-plaister
never did."
Emma was quite eager to see this superior treasure. It was the end of an
old pencil,--the part without any lead.
"This was really his," said Harriet.--"Do not you remember one
morning?--no, I dare say you do not. But one morning--I forget exactly
the day--but perhaps it was the Tuesday or Wednesday before _that_
_evening_, he wanted to make a memorandum in his pocket-book; it was
about spruce-beer. Mr. Knightley had been telling him something about
brewing spruce-beer, and he wanted to put it down; but when he took out
his pencil, there was so little lead that he soon cut it all away, and
it would not do, so you lent him another, and this was left upon the
table as good for nothing. But I kept my eye on it; and, as soon as I
dared, caught it up, and never parted with it again from that moment."
"I do remember it," cried Emma; "I perfectly remember it.--Talking
about spruce-beer.--Oh! yes--Mr. Knightley and I both saying we
liked it, and Mr. Elton's seeming resolved to learn to like it too. I
perfectly remember it.--Stop; Mr. Knightley was standing just here, was
not he? I have an idea he was standing just here."
"Ah! I do not know. I cannot recollect.--It is very odd, but I cannot
recollect.--Mr. Elton was sitting here, I remember, much about where I
am now."--
"Well, go on."
"Oh! that's all. I have nothing more to shew you, or to say--except that
I am now going to throw them both behind the fire, and I wish you to see
me do it."
"My poor dear Harriet! and have you actually found happiness in
treasuring up these things?"
"Yes, simpleton as I was!--but I am quite ashamed of it now, and wish I
could forget as easily as I can burn them. It was very wrong of me, you
know, to keep any remembrances, after he was married. I knew it was--but
had not resolution enough to part with them."
"But, Harriet, is it necessary to burn the court-plaister?--I have not
a word to say for the bit of old pencil, but the court-plaister might be
useful."
"I shall be happier to burn it," replied Harriet. "It has a disagreeable
look to me. I must get rid of every thing.--There it goes, and there is
an end, thank Heaven! of Mr. Elton."
"And when," thought Emma, "will there be a beginning of Mr. Churchill?"
She had soon afterwards reason to believe that the beginning was already
made, and could not but hope that the gipsy, though she had _told_ no
fortune, might be proved to have made Harriet's.--About a fortnight
after the alarm, they came to a sufficient explanation, and quite
undesignedly. Emma was not thinking of it at the moment, which made the
information she received more valuable. She merely said, in the course
of some trivial chat, "Well, Harriet, whenever you marry I would advise
you to do so and so"--and thought no more of it, till after a minute's
silence she heard Harriet say in a very serious tone, "I shall never
marry."
Emma then looked up, and immediately saw how it was; and after a
moment's debate, as to whether it should pass unnoticed or not, replied,
"Never marry!--This is a new resolution."
"It is one that I shall never change, however."
After another short hesitation, "I hope it does not proceed from--I hope
it is not in compliment to Mr. Elton?"
"Mr. Elton indeed!" cried Harriet indignantly.--"Oh! no"--and Emma could
just catch the words, "so superior to Mr. Elton!"
She then took a longer time for consideration. Should she proceed no
farther?--should she let it pass, and seem to suspect nothing?--Perhaps
Harriet might think her cold or angry if she did; or perhaps if she were
totally silent, it might only drive Harriet into asking her to hear too
much; and against any thing like such an unreserve as had been, such
an open and frequent discussion of hopes and chances, she was perfectly
resolved.--She believed it would be wiser for her to say and know at
once, all that she meant to say and know. Plain dealing was always
best. She had previously determined how far she would proceed, on any
application of the sort; and it would be safer for both, to have the
judicious law of her own brain laid down with speed.--She was decided,
and thus spoke--
"Harriet, I will not affect to be in doubt of your meaning. Your
resolution, or rather your expectation of never marrying, results from
an idea that the person whom you might prefer, would be too greatly your
superior in situation to think of you. Is not it so?"
"Oh! Miss Woodhouse, believe me I have not the presumption to suppose--
Indeed I am not so mad.--But it is a pleasure to me to admire him at a
distance--and to think of his infinite superiority to all the rest of
the world, with the gratitude, wonder, and veneration, which are so
proper, in me especially."
"I am not at all surprized at you, Harriet. The service he rendered you
was enough to warm your heart."
"Service! oh! it was such an inexpressible obligation!--The very
recollection of it, and all that I felt at the time--when I saw him
coming--his noble look--and my wretchedness before. Such a change! In
one moment such a change! From perfect misery to perfect happiness!"
"It is very natural. It is natural, and it is honourable.--Yes,
honourable, I think, to chuse so well and so gratefully.--But that
it will be a fortunate preference is more than I can promise. I do not
advise you to give way to it, Harriet. I do not by any means engage
for its being returned. Consider what you are about. Perhaps it will be
wisest in you to check your feelings while you can: at any rate do not
let them carry you far, unless you are persuaded of his liking you. Be
observant of him. Let his behaviour be the guide of your sensations. I
give you this caution now, because I shall never speak to you again on
the subject. I am determined against all interference. Henceforward I
know nothing of the matter. Let no name ever pass our lips. We were very
wrong before; we will be cautious now.--He is your superior, no doubt,
and there do seem objections and obstacles of a very serious nature; but
yet, Harriet, more wonderful things have taken place, there have been
matches of greater disparity. But take care of yourself. I would not
have you too sanguine; though, however it may end, be assured your
raising your thoughts to _him_, is a mark of good taste which I shall
always know how to value."
Harriet kissed her hand in silent and submissive gratitude. Emma was
very decided in thinking such an attachment no bad thing for her friend.
Its tendency would be to raise and refine her mind--and it must be
saving her from the danger of degradation. | Harriet visits Emma several days later to make a confession. She has a parcel with items that remindher of Mr. Elton, including a small box with a court plaster that was used to cover a small cut that Mr. Elton had. Harriet claims that she is now done obsessing over Mr. Elton and vows never to marry, for the person she prefers is too great her superior. Emma gives Harriet some hope that she might be able to marry this unnamed man. |
The daylight came. I rose at dawn. I busied myself for an hour or two
with arranging my things in my chamber, drawers, and wardrobe, in the
order wherein I should wish to leave them during a brief absence.
Meantime, I heard St. John quit his room. He stopped at my door: I
feared he would knock--no, but a slip of paper was passed under the door.
I took it up. It bore these words--
"You left me too suddenly last night. Had you stayed but a little
longer, you would have laid your hand on the Christian's cross and the
angel's crown. I shall expect your clear decision when I return this day
fortnight. Meantime, watch and pray that you enter not into temptation:
the spirit, I trust, is willing, but the flesh, I see, is weak. I shall
pray for you hourly.--Yours, ST. JOHN."
"My spirit," I answered mentally, "is willing to do what is right; and my
flesh, I hope, is strong enough to accomplish the will of Heaven, when
once that will is distinctly known to me. At any rate, it shall be
strong enough to search--inquire--to grope an outlet from this cloud of
doubt, and find the open day of certainty."
It was the first of June; yet the morning was overcast and chilly: rain
beat fast on my casement. I heard the front-door open, and St. John pass
out. Looking through the window, I saw him traverse the garden. He took
the way over the misty moors in the direction of Whitcross--there he
would meet the coach.
"In a few more hours I shall succeed you in that track, cousin," thought
I: "I too have a coach to meet at Whitcross. I too have some to see and
ask after in England, before I depart for ever."
It wanted yet two hours of breakfast-time. I filled the interval in
walking softly about my room, and pondering the visitation which had
given my plans their present bent. I recalled that inward sensation I
had experienced: for I could recall it, with all its unspeakable
strangeness. I recalled the voice I had heard; again I questioned whence
it came, as vainly as before: it seemed in _me_--not in the external
world. I asked was it a mere nervous impression--a delusion? I could
not conceive or believe: it was more like an inspiration. The wondrous
shock of feeling had come like the earthquake which shook the foundations
of Paul and Silas's prison; it had opened the doors of the soul's cell
and loosed its bands--it had wakened it out of its sleep, whence it
sprang trembling, listening, aghast; then vibrated thrice a cry on my
startled ear, and in my quaking heart and through my spirit, which
neither feared nor shook, but exulted as if in joy over the success of
one effort it had been privileged to make, independent of the cumbrous
body.
"Ere many days," I said, as I terminated my musings, "I will know
something of him whose voice seemed last night to summon me. Letters
have proved of no avail--personal inquiry shall replace them."
At breakfast I announced to Diana and Mary that I was going a journey,
and should be absent at least four days.
"Alone, Jane?" they asked.
"Yes; it was to see or hear news of a friend about whom I had for some
time been uneasy."
They might have said, as I have no doubt they thought, that they had
believed me to be without any friends save them: for, indeed, I had often
said so; but, with their true natural delicacy, they abstained from
comment, except that Diana asked me if I was sure I was well enough to
travel. I looked very pale, she observed. I replied, that nothing ailed
me save anxiety of mind, which I hoped soon to alleviate.
It was easy to make my further arrangements; for I was troubled with no
inquiries--no surmises. Having once explained to them that I could not
now be explicit about my plans, they kindly and wisely acquiesced in the
silence with which I pursued them, according to me the privilege of free
action I should under similar circumstances have accorded them.
I left Moor House at three o'clock p.m., and soon after four I stood at
the foot of the sign-post of Whitcross, waiting the arrival of the coach
which was to take me to distant Thornfield. Amidst the silence of those
solitary roads and desert hills, I heard it approach from a great
distance. It was the same vehicle whence, a year ago, I had alighted one
summer evening on this very spot--how desolate, and hopeless, and
objectless! It stopped as I beckoned. I entered--not now obliged to
part with my whole fortune as the price of its accommodation. Once more
on the road to Thornfield, I felt like the messenger-pigeon flying home.
It was a journey of six-and-thirty hours. I had set out from Whitcross
on a Tuesday afternoon, and early on the succeeding Thursday morning the
coach stopped to water the horses at a wayside inn, situated in the midst
of scenery whose green hedges and large fields and low pastoral hills
(how mild of feature and verdant of hue compared with the stern North-
Midland moors of Morton!) met my eye like the lineaments of a once
familiar face. Yes, I knew the character of this landscape: I was sure
we were near my bourne.
"How far is Thornfield Hall from here?" I asked of the ostler.
"Just two miles, ma'am, across the fields."
"My journey is closed," I thought to myself. I got out of the coach,
gave a box I had into the ostler's charge, to be kept till I called for
it; paid my fare; satisfied the coachman, and was going: the brightening
day gleamed on the sign of the inn, and I read in gilt letters, "The
Rochester Arms." My heart leapt up: I was already on my master's very
lands. It fell again: the thought struck it:--
"Your master himself may be beyond the British Channel, for aught you
know: and then, if he is at Thornfield Hall, towards which you hasten,
who besides him is there? His lunatic wife: and you have nothing to do
with him: you dare not speak to him or seek his presence. You have lost
your labour--you had better go no farther," urged the monitor. "Ask
information of the people at the inn; they can give you all you seek:
they can solve your doubts at once. Go up to that man, and inquire if
Mr. Rochester be at home."
The suggestion was sensible, and yet I could not force myself to act on
it. I so dreaded a reply that would crush me with despair. To prolong
doubt was to prolong hope. I might yet once more see the Hall under the
ray of her star. There was the stile before me--the very fields through
which I had hurried, blind, deaf, distracted with a revengeful fury
tracking and scourging me, on the morning I fled from Thornfield: ere I
well knew what course I had resolved to take, I was in the midst of them.
How fast I walked! How I ran sometimes! How I looked forward to catch
the first view of the well-known woods! With what feelings I welcomed
single trees I knew, and familiar glimpses of meadow and hill between
them!
At last the woods rose; the rookery clustered dark; a loud cawing broke
the morning stillness. Strange delight inspired me: on I hastened.
Another field crossed--a lane threaded--and there were the courtyard
walls--the back offices: the house itself, the rookery still hid. "My
first view of it shall be in front," I determined, "where its bold
battlements will strike the eye nobly at once, and where I can single out
my master's very window: perhaps he will be standing at it--he rises
early: perhaps he is now walking in the orchard, or on the pavement in
front. Could I but see him!--but a moment! Surely, in that case, I
should not be so mad as to run to him? I cannot tell--I am not certain.
And if I did--what then? God bless him! What then? Who would be hurt
by my once more tasting the life his glance can give me? I rave: perhaps
at this moment he is watching the sun rise over the Pyrenees, or on the
tideless sea of the south."
I had coasted along the lower wall of the orchard--turned its angle:
there was a gate just there, opening into the meadow, between two stone
pillars crowned by stone balls. From behind one pillar I could peep
round quietly at the full front of the mansion. I advanced my head with
precaution, desirous to ascertain if any bedroom window-blinds were yet
drawn up: battlements, windows, long front--all from this sheltered
station were at my command.
The crows sailing overhead perhaps watched me while I took this survey. I
wonder what they thought. They must have considered I was very careful
and timid at first, and that gradually I grew very bold and reckless. A
peep, and then a long stare; and then a departure from my niche and a
straying out into the meadow; and a sudden stop full in front of the
great mansion, and a protracted, hardy gaze towards it. "What
affectation of diffidence was this at first?" they might have demanded;
"what stupid regardlessness now?"
Hear an illustration, reader.
A lover finds his mistress asleep on a mossy bank; he wishes to catch a
glimpse of her fair face without waking her. He steals softly over the
grass, careful to make no sound; he pauses--fancying she has stirred: he
withdraws: not for worlds would he be seen. All is still: he again
advances: he bends above her; a light veil rests on her features: he
lifts it, bends lower; now his eyes anticipate the vision of beauty--warm,
and blooming, and lovely, in rest. How hurried was their first glance!
But how they fix! How he starts! How he suddenly and vehemently clasps
in both arms the form he dared not, a moment since, touch with his
finger! How he calls aloud a name, and drops his burden, and gazes on it
wildly! He thus grasps and cries, and gazes, because he no longer fears
to waken by any sound he can utter--by any movement he can make. He
thought his love slept sweetly: he finds she is stone dead.
I looked with timorous joy towards a stately house: I saw a blackened
ruin.
No need to cower behind a gate-post, indeed!--to peep up at chamber
lattices, fearing life was astir behind them! No need to listen for
doors opening--to fancy steps on the pavement or the gravel-walk! The
lawn, the grounds were trodden and waste: the portal yawned void. The
front was, as I had once seen it in a dream, but a well-like wall, very
high and very fragile-looking, perforated with paneless windows: no roof,
no battlements, no chimneys--all had crashed in.
And there was the silence of death about it: the solitude of a lonesome
wild. No wonder that letters addressed to people here had never received
an answer: as well despatch epistles to a vault in a church aisle. The
grim blackness of the stones told by what fate the Hall had fallen--by
conflagration: but how kindled? What story belonged to this disaster?
What loss, besides mortar and marble and wood-work had followed upon it?
Had life been wrecked as well as property? If so, whose? Dreadful
question: there was no one here to answer it--not even dumb sign, mute
token.
In wandering round the shattered walls and through the devastated
interior, I gathered evidence that the calamity was not of late
occurrence. Winter snows, I thought, had drifted through that void arch,
winter rains beaten in at those hollow casements; for, amidst the
drenched piles of rubbish, spring had cherished vegetation: grass and
weed grew here and there between the stones and fallen rafters. And oh!
where meantime was the hapless owner of this wreck? In what land? Under
what auspices? My eye involuntarily wandered to the grey church tower
near the gates, and I asked, "Is he with Damer de Rochester, sharing the
shelter of his narrow marble house?"
Some answer must be had to these questions. I could find it nowhere but
at the inn, and thither, ere long, I returned. The host himself brought
my breakfast into the parlour. I requested him to shut the door and sit
down: I had some questions to ask him. But when he complied, I scarcely
knew how to begin; such horror had I of the possible answers. And yet
the spectacle of desolation I had just left prepared me in a measure for
a tale of misery. The host was a respectable-looking, middle-aged man.
"You know Thornfield Hall, of course?" I managed to say at last.
"Yes, ma'am; I lived there once."
"Did you?" Not in my time, I thought: you are a stranger to me.
"I was the late Mr. Rochester's butler," he added.
The late! I seem to have received, with full force, the blow I had been
trying to evade.
"The late!" I gasped. "Is he dead?"
"I mean the present gentleman, Mr. Edward's father," he explained. I
breathed again: my blood resumed its flow. Fully assured by these words
that Mr. Edward--_my_ Mr. Rochester (God bless him, wherever he was!)--was
at least alive: was, in short, "the present gentleman." Gladdening
words! It seemed I could hear all that was to come--whatever the
disclosures might be--with comparative tranquillity. Since he was not in
the grave, I could bear, I thought, to learn that he was at the
Antipodes.
"Is Mr. Rochester living at Thornfield Hall now?" I asked, knowing, of
course, what the answer would be, but yet desirous of deferring the
direct question as to where he really was.
"No, ma'am--oh, no! No one is living there. I suppose you are a
stranger in these parts, or you would have heard what happened last
autumn,--Thornfield Hall is quite a ruin: it was burnt down just about
harvest-time. A dreadful calamity! such an immense quantity of valuable
property destroyed: hardly any of the furniture could be saved. The fire
broke out at dead of night, and before the engines arrived from Millcote,
the building was one mass of flame. It was a terrible spectacle: I
witnessed it myself."
"At dead of night!" I muttered. Yes, that was ever the hour of fatality
at Thornfield. "Was it known how it originated?" I demanded.
"They guessed, ma'am: they guessed. Indeed, I should say it was
ascertained beyond a doubt. You are not perhaps aware," he continued,
edging his chair a little nearer the table, and speaking low, "that there
was a lady--a--a lunatic, kept in the house?"
"I have heard something of it."
"She was kept in very close confinement, ma'am: people even for some
years was not absolutely certain of her existence. No one saw her: they
only knew by rumour that such a person was at the Hall; and who or what
she was it was difficult to conjecture. They said Mr. Edward had brought
her from abroad, and some believed she had been his mistress. But a
queer thing happened a year since--a very queer thing."
I feared now to hear my own story. I endeavoured to recall him to the
main fact.
"And this lady?"
"This lady, ma'am," he answered, "turned out to be Mr. Rochester's wife!
The discovery was brought about in the strangest way. There was a young
lady, a governess at the Hall, that Mr. Rochester fell in--"
"But the fire," I suggested.
"I'm coming to that, ma'am--that Mr. Edward fell in love with. The
servants say they never saw anybody so much in love as he was: he was
after her continually. They used to watch him--servants will, you know,
ma'am--and he set store on her past everything: for all, nobody but him
thought her so very handsome. She was a little small thing, they say,
almost like a child. I never saw her myself; but I've heard Leah, the
house-maid, tell of her. Leah liked her well enough. Mr. Rochester was
about forty, and this governess not twenty; and you see, when gentlemen
of his age fall in love with girls, they are often like as if they were
bewitched. Well, he would marry her."
"You shall tell me this part of the story another time," I said; "but now
I have a particular reason for wishing to hear all about the fire. Was
it suspected that this lunatic, Mrs. Rochester, had any hand in it?"
"You've hit it, ma'am: it's quite certain that it was her, and nobody but
her, that set it going. She had a woman to take care of her called Mrs.
Poole--an able woman in her line, and very trustworthy, but for one
fault--a fault common to a deal of them nurses and matrons--she _kept a
private bottle of gin by her_, and now and then took a drop over-much. It
is excusable, for she had a hard life of it: but still it was dangerous;
for when Mrs. Poole was fast asleep after the gin and water, the mad
lady, who was as cunning as a witch, would take the keys out of her
pocket, let herself out of her chamber, and go roaming about the house,
doing any wild mischief that came into her head. They say she had nearly
burnt her husband in his bed once: but I don't know about that. However,
on this night, she set fire first to the hangings of the room next her
own, and then she got down to a lower storey, and made her way to the
chamber that had been the governess's--(she was like as if she knew
somehow how matters had gone on, and had a spite at her)--and she kindled
the bed there; but there was nobody sleeping in it, fortunately. The
governess had run away two months before; and for all Mr. Rochester
sought her as if she had been the most precious thing he had in the
world, he never could hear a word of her; and he grew savage--quite
savage on his disappointment: he never was a wild man, but he got
dangerous after he lost her. He would be alone, too. He sent Mrs.
Fairfax, the housekeeper, away to her friends at a distance; but he did
it handsomely, for he settled an annuity on her for life: and she
deserved it--she was a very good woman. Miss Adele, a ward he had, was
put to school. He broke off acquaintance with all the gentry, and shut
himself up like a hermit at the Hall."
"What! did he not leave England?"
"Leave England? Bless you, no! He would not cross the door-stones of
the house, except at night, when he walked just like a ghost about the
grounds and in the orchard as if he had lost his senses--which it is my
opinion he had; for a more spirited, bolder, keener gentleman than he was
before that midge of a governess crossed him, you never saw, ma'am. He
was not a man given to wine, or cards, or racing, as some are, and he was
not so very handsome; but he had a courage and a will of his own, if ever
man had. I knew him from a boy, you see: and for my part, I have often
wished that Miss Eyre had been sunk in the sea before she came to
Thornfield Hall."
"Then Mr. Rochester was at home when the fire broke out?"
"Yes, indeed was he; and he went up to the attics when all was burning
above and below, and got the servants out of their beds and helped them
down himself, and went back to get his mad wife out of her cell. And
then they called out to him that she was on the roof, where she was
standing, waving her arms, above the battlements, and shouting out till
they could hear her a mile off: I saw her and heard her with my own eyes.
She was a big woman, and had long black hair: we could see it streaming
against the flames as she stood. I witnessed, and several more
witnessed, Mr. Rochester ascend through the sky-light on to the roof; we
heard him call 'Bertha!' We saw him approach her; and then, ma'am, she
yelled and gave a spring, and the next minute she lay smashed on the
pavement."
{The next minute she lay smashed on the pavement: p413.jpg}
"Dead?"
"Dead! Ay, dead as the stones on which her brains and blood were
scattered."
"Good God!"
"You may well say so, ma'am: it was frightful!"
He shuddered.
"And afterwards?" I urged.
"Well, ma'am, afterwards the house was burnt to the ground: there are
only some bits of walls standing now."
"Were any other lives lost?"
"No--perhaps it would have been better if there had."
"What do you mean?"
"Poor Mr. Edward!" he ejaculated, "I little thought ever to have seen it!
Some say it was a just judgment on him for keeping his first marriage
secret, and wanting to take another wife while he had one living: but I
pity him, for my part."
"You said he was alive?" I exclaimed.
"Yes, yes: he is alive; but many think he had better be dead."
"Why? How?" My blood was again running cold. "Where is he?" I
demanded. "Is he in England?"
"Ay--ay--he's in England; he can't get out of England, I fancy--he's a
fixture now."
What agony was this! And the man seemed resolved to protract it.
"He is stone-blind," he said at last. "Yes, he is stone-blind, is Mr.
Edward."
I had dreaded worse. I had dreaded he was mad. I summoned strength to
ask what had caused this calamity.
"It was all his own courage, and a body may say, his kindness, in a way,
ma'am: he wouldn't leave the house till every one else was out before
him. As he came down the great staircase at last, after Mrs. Rochester
had flung herself from the battlements, there was a great crash--all
fell. He was taken out from under the ruins, alive, but sadly hurt: a
beam had fallen in such a way as to protect him partly; but one eye was
knocked out, and one hand so crushed that Mr. Carter, the surgeon, had to
amputate it directly. The other eye inflamed: he lost the sight of that
also. He is now helpless, indeed--blind and a cripple."
"Where is he? Where does he now live?"
"At Ferndean, a manor-house on a farm he has, about thirty miles off:
quite a desolate spot."
"Who is with him?"
"Old John and his wife: he would have none else. He is quite broken
down, they say."
"Have you any sort of conveyance?"
"We have a chaise, ma'am, a very handsome chaise."
"Let it be got ready instantly; and if your post-boy can drive me to
Ferndean before dark this day, I'll pay both you and him twice the hire
you usually demand." | At dawn the next morning, Jane rises. St. John slides a note under Jane's door, reminding her to resist temptation. It is the first of June, yet the day is chilly and overcast. Jane wanders the house, thinking about the previous night's visitation: Was it a delusion? It seemed to come from her, not from the external world. At breakfast, she tells Diana and Mary she'll be away at least four days. She catches a coach at Whitcross, the same one she road from Thornfield a year earlier. Alighting from the coach, Jane finds herself again on Rochester's lands. She is anxious to see him again and hurries the two miles from the coach stop to the house, worrying that he may be in Europe. Like a lover who wishes to catch a glimpse of his lover's face without waking her, then finds she is "stone dead," Jane is appalled by the sight that awaits her: Thornfield is a blackened ruin. What is the story behind this disaster, Jane wonders? Jane returns to the inn near the coach station, the Rochester Arms, to find an answer. She discovers that Bertha Mason set the house on fire last autumn. Before this happened, Rochester had shut himself up like a hermit in the house, as if he had gone mad. When the fire broke out, Rochester saved the servants, then tried to save Bertha, but she jumped from Thornfield's roof. Rochester has lost his sight and one of his hands in the fire. He now lives in Ferndean with two old servants, John and Mary. |
SCENE IV.
Another part of the forest
Enter the Empress' sons, DEMETRIUS and CHIRON, with LAVINIA,
her hands cut off, and her tongue cut out, and ravish'd
DEMETRIUS. So, now go tell, an if thy tongue can speak,
Who 'twas that cut thy tongue and ravish'd thee.
CHIRON. Write down thy mind, bewray thy meaning so,
An if thy stumps will let thee play the scribe.
DEMETRIUS. See how with signs and tokens she can scrowl.
CHIRON. Go home, call for sweet water, wash thy hands.
DEMETRIUS. She hath no tongue to call, nor hands to wash;
And so let's leave her to her silent walks.
CHIRON. An 'twere my cause, I should go hang myself.
DEMETRIUS. If thou hadst hands to help thee knit the cord.
Exeunt DEMETRIUS and CHIRON
Wind horns. Enter MARCUS, from hunting
MARCUS. Who is this?- my niece, that flies away so fast?
Cousin, a word: where is your husband?
If I do dream, would all my wealth would wake me!
If I do wake, some planet strike me down,
That I may slumber an eternal sleep!
Speak, gentle niece. What stern ungentle hands
Hath lopp'd, and hew'd, and made thy body bare
Of her two branches- those sweet ornaments
Whose circling shadows kings have sought to sleep in,
And might not gain so great a happiness
As half thy love? Why dost not speak to me?
Alas, a crimson river of warm blood,
Like to a bubbling fountain stirr'd with wind,
Doth rise and fall between thy rosed lips,
Coming and going with thy honey breath.
But sure some Tereus hath deflowered thee,
And, lest thou shouldst detect him, cut thy tongue.
Ah, now thou turn'st away thy face for shame!
And notwithstanding all this loss of blood-
As from a conduit with three issuing spouts-
Yet do thy cheeks look red as Titan's face
Blushing to be encount'red with a cloud.
Shall I speak for thee? Shall I say 'tis so?
O, that I knew thy heart, and knew the beast,
That I might rail at him to ease my mind!
Sorrow concealed, like an oven stopp'd,
Doth burn the heart to cinders where it is.
Fair Philomel, why she but lost her tongue,
And in a tedious sampler sew'd her mind;
But, lovely niece, that mean is cut from thee.
A craftier Tereus, cousin, hast thou met,
And he hath cut those pretty fingers off
That could have better sew'd than Philomel.
O, had the monster seen those lily hands
Tremble like aspen leaves upon a lute
And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,
He would not then have touch'd them for his life!
Or had he heard the heavenly harmony
Which that sweet tongue hath made,
He would have dropp'd his knife, and fell asleep,
As Cerberus at the Thracian poet's feet.
Come, let us go, and make thy father blind,
For such a sight will blind a father's eye;
One hour's storm will drown the fragrant meads,
What will whole months of tears thy father's eyes?
Do not draw back, for we will mourn with thee;
O, could our mourning case thy misery! Exeunt | Chiron and Demetrius enter with a ravished Lavinia, whose hands and tongue they have cut off in order to prevent her from revealing the perpetrators of the crime. They insult her before they leave her alone in the wilderness. The wretched girl is discovered by Marcus, who is moved by the sight of the suffering Lavinia to make a long poetic tirade in which the depth of his sympathy is signaled by the length and complex figurativeness of his language. Lavinia tries to flee in shame from her uncle, but he stops her and decides to bring her to her father even though he is sure that such a sight will blind Titus. |
It was some two months later in the year, and the pair had met
constantly during the interval. Arabella seemed dissatisfied; she
was always imagining, and waiting, and wondering.
One day she met the itinerant Vilbert. She, like all the cottagers
thereabout, knew the quack well, and she began telling him of her
experiences. Arabella had been gloomy, but before he left her she
had grown brighter. That evening she kept an appointment with Jude,
who seemed sad.
"I am going away," he said to her. "I think I ought to go. I think
it will be better both for you and for me. I wish some things had
never begun! I was much to blame, I know. But it is never too late
to mend."
Arabella began to cry. "How do you know it is not too late?" she
said. "That's all very well to say! I haven't told you yet!" and
she looked into his face with streaming eyes.
"What?" he asked, turning pale. "Not...?"
"Yes! And what shall I do if you desert me?"
"Oh, Arabella--how can you say that, my dear! You KNOW I wouldn't
desert you!"
"Well then--"
"I have next to no wages as yet, you know; or perhaps I should have
thought of this before... But, of course if that's the case, we must
marry! What other thing do you think I could dream of doing?"
"I thought--I thought, deary, perhaps you would go away all the more
for that, and leave me to face it alone!"
"You knew better! Of course I never dreamt six months ago, or even
three, of marrying. It is a complete smashing up of my plans--I mean
my plans before I knew you, my dear. But what are they, after all!
Dreams about books, and degrees, and impossible fellowships, and all
that. Certainly we'll marry: we must!"
That night he went out alone, and walked in the dark self-communing.
He knew well, too well, in the secret centre of his brain, that
Arabella was not worth a great deal as a specimen of womankind.
Yet, such being the custom of the rural districts among honourable
young men who had drifted so far into intimacy with a woman as he
unfortunately had done, he was ready to abide by what he had said,
and take the consequences. For his own soothing he kept up a
factitious belief in her. His idea of her was the thing of most
consequence, not Arabella herself, he sometimes said laconically.
The banns were put in and published the very next Sunday. The people
of the parish all said what a simple fool young Fawley was. All his
reading had only come to this, that he would have to sell his books
to buy saucepans. Those who guessed the probable state of affairs,
Arabella's parents being among them, declared that it was the sort of
conduct they would have expected of such an honest young man as Jude
in reparation of the wrong he had done his innocent sweetheart. The
parson who married them seemed to think it satisfactory too. And so,
standing before the aforesaid officiator, the two swore that at every
other time of their lives till death took them, they would assuredly
believe, feel, and desire precisely as they had believed, felt, and
desired during the few preceding weeks. What was as remarkable
as the undertaking itself was the fact that nobody seemed at all
surprised at what they swore.
Fawley's aunt being a baker she made him a bride-cake, saying
bitterly that it was the last thing she could do for him, poor silly
fellow; and that it would have been far better if, instead of his
living to trouble her, he had gone underground years before with his
father and mother. Of this cake Arabella took some slices, wrapped
them up in white note-paper, and sent them to her companions in the
pork-dressing business, Anny and Sarah, labelling each packet "_In
remembrance of good advice_."
The prospects of the newly married couple were certainly not very
brilliant even to the most sanguine mind. He, a stone-mason's
apprentice, nineteen years of age, was working for half wages till
he should be out of his time. His wife was absolutely useless in a
town-lodging, where he at first had considered it would be necessary
for them to live. But the urgent need of adding to income in ever so
little a degree caused him to take a lonely roadside cottage between
the Brown House and Marygreen, that he might have the profits of a
vegetable garden, and utilize her past experiences by letting her
keep a pig. But it was not the sort of life he had bargained for,
and it was a long way to walk to and from Alfredston every day.
Arabella, however, felt that all these make-shifts were temporary;
she had gained a husband; that was the thing--a husband with a lot
of earning power in him for buying her frocks and hats when he should
begin to get frightened a bit, and stick to his trade, and throw
aside those stupid books for practical undertakings.
So to the cottage he took her on the evening of the marriage, giving
up his old room at his aunt's--where so much of the hard labour at
Greek and Latin had been carried on.
A little chill overspread him at her first unrobing. A long tail of
hair, which Arabella wore twisted up in an enormous knob at the back
of her head, was deliberately unfastened, stroked out, and hung upon
the looking-glass which he had bought her.
"What--it wasn't your own?" he said, with a sudden distaste for her.
"Oh no--it never is nowadays with the better class."
"Nonsense! Perhaps not in towns. But in the country it is supposed
to be different. Besides, you've enough of your own, surely?"
"Yes, enough as country notions go. But in town the men expect more,
and when I was barmaid at Aldbrickham--"
"Barmaid at Aldbrickham?"
"Well, not exactly barmaid--I used to draw the drink at a
public-house there--just for a little time; that was all. Some
people put me up to getting this, and I bought it just for a fancy.
The more you have the better in Aldbrickham, which is a finer town
than all your Christminsters. Every lady of position wears false
hair--the barber's assistant told me so."
Jude thought with a feeling of sickness that though this might be
true to some extent, for all that he knew, many unsophisticated girls
would and did go to towns and remain there for years without losing
their simplicity of life and embellishments. Others, alas, had an
instinct towards artificiality in their very blood, and became adepts
in counterfeiting at the first glimpse of it. However, perhaps there
was no great sin in a woman adding to her hair, and he resolved to
think no more of it.
A new-made wife can usually manage to excite interest for a few
weeks, even though the prospects of the household ways and means
are cloudy. There is a certain piquancy about her situation, and
her manner to her acquaintance at the sense of it, which carries off
the gloom of facts, and renders even the humblest bride independent
awhile of the real. Mrs. Jude Fawley was walking in the streets of
Alfredston one market-day with this quality in her carriage when she
met Anny her former friend, whom she had not seen since the wedding.
As usual they laughed before talking; the world seemed funny to them
without saying it.
"So it turned out a good plan, you see!" remarked the girl to the
wife. "I knew it would with such as him. He's a dear good fellow,
and you ought to be proud of un."
"I am," said Mrs. Fawley quietly.
"And when do you expect?"
"Ssh! Not at all."
"What!"
"I was mistaken."
"Oh, Arabella, Arabella; you be a deep one! Mistaken! well, that's
clever--it's a real stroke of genius! It is a thing I never thought
o', wi' all my experience! I never thought beyond bringing about the
real thing--not that one could sham it!"
"Don't you be too quick to cry sham! 'Twasn't sham. I didn't know."
"My word--won't he be in a taking! He'll give it to 'ee o' Saturday
nights! Whatever it was, he'll say it was a trick--a double one, by
the Lord!"
"I'll own to the first, but not to the second... Pooh--he won't
care! He'll be glad I was wrong in what I said. He'll shake down,
bless 'ee--men always do. What can 'em do otherwise? Married is
married."
Nevertheless it was with a little uneasiness that Arabella approached
the time when in the natural course of things she would have to
reveal that the alarm she had raised had been without foundation.
The occasion was one evening at bedtime, and they were in their
chamber in the lonely cottage by the wayside to which Jude walked
home from his work every day. He had worked hard the whole twelve
hours, and had retired to rest before his wife. When she came into
the room he was between sleeping and waking, and was barely conscious
of her undressing before the little looking-glass as he lay.
One action of hers, however, brought him to full cognition. Her face
being reflected towards him as she sat, he could perceive that she
was amusing herself by artificially producing in each cheek the
dimple before alluded to, a curious accomplishment of which she was
mistress, effecting it by a momentary suction. It seemed to him for
the first time that the dimples were far oftener absent from her face
during his intercourse with her nowadays than they had been in the
earlier weeks of their acquaintance.
"Don't do that, Arabella!" he said suddenly. "There is no harm in
it, but--I don't like to see you."
She turned and laughed. "Lord, I didn't know you were awake!" she
said. "How countrified you are! That's nothing."
"Where did you learn it?"
"Nowhere that I know of. They used to stay without any trouble when
I was at the public-house; but now they won't. My face was fatter
then."
"I don't care about dimples. I don't think they improve a
woman--particularly a married woman, and of full-sized figure like
you."
"Most men think otherwise."
"I don't care what most men think, if they do. How do you know?"
"I used to be told so when I was serving in the tap-room."
"Ah--that public-house experience accounts for your knowing about
the adulteration of the ale when we went and had some that Sunday
evening. I thought when I married you that you had always lived in
your father's house."
"You ought to have known better than that, and seen I was a little
more finished than I could have been by staying where I was born.
There was not much to do at home, and I was eating my head off, so I
went away for three months."
"You'll soon have plenty to do now, dear, won't you?"
"How do you mean?"
"Why, of course--little things to make."
"Oh."
"When will it be? Can't you tell me exactly, instead of in such
general terms as you have used?"
"Tell you?"
"Yes--the date."
"There's nothing to tell. I made a mistake."
"What?"
"It was a mistake."
He sat bolt upright in bed and looked at her. "How can that be?"
"Women fancy wrong things sometimes."
"But--! Why, of course, so unprepared as I was, without a stick of
furniture, and hardly a shilling, I shouldn't have hurried on our
affair, and brought you to a half-furnished hut before I was ready,
if it had not been for the news you gave me, which made it necessary
to save you, ready or no... Good God!"
"Don't take on, dear. What's done can't be undone."
"I have no more to say!"
He gave the answer simply, and lay down; and there was silence
between them.
When Jude awoke the next morning he seemed to see the world with a
different eye. As to the point in question he was compelled to
accept her word; in the circumstances he could not have acted
otherwise while ordinary notions prevailed. But how came they to
prevail?
There seemed to him, vaguely and dimly, something wrong in a social
ritual which made necessary a cancelling of well-formed schemes
involving years of thought and labour, of foregoing a man's one
opportunity of showing himself superior to the lower animals, and of
contributing his units of work to the general progress of his
generation, because of a momentary surprise by a new and transitory
instinct which had nothing in it of the nature of vice, and could be
only at the most called weakness. He was inclined to inquire what he
had done, or she lost, for that matter, that he deserved to be caught
in a gin which would cripple him, if not her also, for the rest of a
lifetime? There was perhaps something fortunate in the fact that the
immediate reason of his marriage had proved to be non-existent. But
the marriage remained. | Two months later Jude tells Arabella that he plans to go away to Christminster. He wants to break off his relationship with her. But Arabella bursts into tears and tells Jude she is pregnant with his child. Jude is stunned at this news. He becomes aware of how his cherished plans of pursuing a university education will have to be forgotten. Being an honorable man, he agrees to a quick marriage. Jude takes his bride to a small cottage on the downs. Jude gradually discovers that Arabella is not the simple country girl he had assumed her to be. Her abundant brown hair is false, as are her dimples, and she has even served as a barmaid at Aldbrickham. Arabella later tells one of her friends that she has only pretended pregnancy and jokes about it. Later, Arabella confesses to Jude that she had been mistaken about the pregnancy. Jude is dumbstruck with surprise. It is only then that he realizes how he has been tricked into an unnecessary marriage. |
THE ABYSS OF IGNORANCE (1902)
THE years hurried past, and gave hardly time to note their
work. Three or four months, though big with change, come to an end
before the mind can catch up with it. Winter vanished; spring burst
into flower; and again Paris opened its arms, though not for long. Mr.
Cameron came over, and took the castle of Inverlochy for three months,
which he summoned his friends to garrison. Lochaber seldom laughs,
except for its children, such as Camerons, McDonalds, Campbells and
other products of the mist; but in the summer of 1902 Scotland put on
fewer airs of coquetry than usual. Since the terrible harvest of 1879
which one had watched sprouting on its stalks on the Shropshire
hillsides, nothing had equalled the gloom. Even when the victims fled
to Switzerland, they found the Lake of Geneva and the Rhine not much
gayer, and Carlsruhe no more restful than Paris; until at last, in
desperation, one drifted back to the Avenue of the Bois de Boulogne,
and, like the Cuckoo, dropped into the nest of a better citizen.
Diplomacy has its uses. Reynolds Hitt, transferred to Berlin, abandoned
his attic to Adams, and there, for long summers to come, he hid in
ignorance and silence.
Life at last managed of its own accord to settle itself into a
working arrangement. After so many years of effort to find one's drift,
the drift found the seeker, and slowly swept him forward and back, with
a steady progress oceanwards. Such lessons as summer taught, winter
tested, and one had only to watch the apparent movement of the stars in
order to guess one's declination. The process is possible only for men
who have exhausted auto-motion. Adams never knew why, knowing nothing
of Faraday, he began to mimic Faraday's trick of seeing lines of force
all about him, where he had always seen lines of will. Perhaps the
effect of knowing no mathematics is to leave the mind to imagine
figures--images--phantoms; one's mind is a watery mirror at best; but,
once conceived, the image became rapidly simple, and the lines of force
presented themselves as lines of attraction. Repulsions counted only as
battle of attractions. By this path, the mind stepped into the
mechanical theory of the universe before knowing it, and entered a
distinct new phase of education.
This was the work of the dynamo and the Virgin of Chartres.
Like his masters, since thought began, he was handicapped by the
eternal mystery of Force--the sink of all science. For thousands of
years in history, he found that Force had been felt as occult
attraction--love of God and lust for power in a future life. After
1500, when this attraction began to decline, philosophers fell back on
some vis a tergo--instinct of danger from behind, like Darwin's
survival of the fittest; and one of the greatest minds, between
Descartes and Newton--Pascal--saw the master-motor of man in ennui,
which was also scientific: "I have often said that all the troubles of
man come from his not knowing how to sit still." Mere restlessness
forces action. "So passes the whole of life. We combat obstacles in
order to get repose, and, when got, the repose is insupportable; for we
think either of the troubles we have, or of those that threaten us; and
even if we felt safe on every side, ennui would of its own accord
spring up from the depths of the heart where it is rooted by nature,
and would fill the mind with its venom."
"If goodness lead him not, yet weariness
May toss him to My breast."
Ennui, like Natural Selection, accounted for change, but failed
to account for direction of change. For that, an attractive force was
essential; a force from outside; a shaping influence. Pascal and all
the old philosophies called this outside force God or Gods. Caring but
little for the name, and fixed only on tracing the Force, Adams had
gone straight to the Virgin at Chartres, and asked her to show him God,
face to face, as she did for St. Bernard. She replied, kindly as ever,
as though she were still the young mother of to-day, with a sort of
patient pity for masculine dulness: "My dear outcast, what is it you
seek? This is the Church of Christ! If you seek him through me, you are
welcome, sinner or saint; but he and I are one. We are Love! We have
little or nothing to do with God's other energies which are infinite,
and concern us the less because our interest is only in man, and the
infinite is not knowable to man. Yet if you are troubled by your
ignorance, you see how I am surrounded by the masters of the schools!
Ask them!"
The answer sounded singularly like the usual answer of British
science which had repeated since Bacon that one must not try to know
the unknowable, though one was quite powerless to ignore it; but the
Virgin carried more conviction, for her feminine lack of interest in
all perfections except her own was honester than the formal phrase of
science; since nothing was easier than to follow her advice, and turn
to Thomas Aquinas, who, unlike modern physicists, answered at once and
plainly: "To me," said St. Thomas, "Christ and the Mother are one
Force--Love--simple, single, and sufficient for all human wants; but
Love is a human interest which acts even on man so partially that you
and I, as philosophers, need expect no share in it. Therefore we turn
to Christ and the Schools who represent all other Force. We deal with
Multiplicity and call it God. After the Virgin has redeemed by her
personal Force as Love all that is redeemable in man, the Schools
embrace the rest, and give it Form, Unity, and Motive."
This chart of Force was more easily studied than any other
possible scheme, for one had but to do what the Church was always
promising to do--abolish in one flash of lightning not only man, but
also the Church itself, the earth, the other planets, and the sun, in
order to clear the air; without affecting mediaeval science. The
student felt warranted in doing what the Church threatened--abolishing
his solar system altogether--in order to look at God as actual;
continuous movement, universal cause, and interchangeable force. This
was pantheism, but the Schools were pantheist; at least as pantheistic
as the Energetik of the Germans; and their deity was the ultimate
energy, whose thought and act were one.
Rid of man and his mind, the universe of Thomas Aquinas seemed
rather more scientific than that of Haeckel or Ernst Mach.
Contradiction for contradiction, Attraction for attraction, Energy for
energy, St. Thomas's idea of God had merits. Modern science offered not
a vestige of proof, or a theory of connection between its forces, or
any scheme of reconciliation between thought and mechanics; while St.
Thomas at least linked together the joints of his machine. As far as a
superficial student could follow, the thirteenth century supposed mind
to be a mode of force directly derived from the intelligent prime
motor, and the cause of all form and sequence in the
universe--therefore the only proof of unity. Without thought in the
unit, there could be no unity; without unity no orderly sequence or
ordered society. Thought alone was Form. Mind and Unity flourished or
perished together.
This education startled even a man who had dabbled in fifty
educations all over the world; for, if he were obliged to insist on a
Universe, he seemed driven to the Church. Modern science guaranteed no
unity. The student seemed to feel himself, like all his predecessors,
caught, trapped, meshed in this eternal drag-net of religion.
In practice the student escapes this dilemma in two ways: the
first is that of ignoring it, as one escapes most dilemmas; the second
is that the Church rejects pantheism as worse than atheism, and will
have nothing to do with the pantheist at any price. In wandering
through the forests of ignorance, one necessarily fell upon the famous
old bear that scared children at play; but, even had the animal shown
more logic than its victim, one had learned from Socrates to distrust,
above all other traps, the trap of logic--the mirror of the mind. Yet
the search for a unit of force led into catacombs of thought where
hundreds of thousands of educations had found their end. Generation
after generation of painful and honest-minded scholars had been content
to stay in these labyrinths forever, pursuing ignorance in silence, in
company with the most famous teachers of all time. Not one of them had
ever found a logical highroad of escape.
Adams cared little whether he escaped or not, but he felt clear
that he could not stop there, even to enjoy the society of Spinoza and
Thomas Aquinas. True, the Church alone had asserted unity with any
conviction, and the historian alone knew what oceans of blood and
treasure the assertion had cost; but the only honest alternative to
affirming unity was to deny it; and the denial would require a new
education. At sixty-five years old a new education promised hardly more
than the old. Possibly the modern legislator or magistrate might no
longer know enough to treat as the Church did the man who denied unity,
unless the denial took the form of a bomb; but no teacher would know
how to explain what he thought he meant by denying unity. Society would
certainly punish the denial if ever any one learned enough to
understand it. Philosophers, as a rule, cared little what principles
society affirmed or denied, since the philosopher commonly held that
though he might sometimes be right by good luck on some one point, no
complex of individual opinions could possibly be anything but wrong;
yet, supposing society to be ignored, the philosopher was no further
forward. Nihilism had no bottom. For thousands of years every
philosopher had stood on the shore of this sunless sea, diving for
pearls and never finding them. All had seen that, since they could not
find bottom, they must assume it. The Church claimed to have found it,
but, since 1450, motives for agreeing on some new assumption of Unity,
broader and deeper than that of the Church, had doubled in force until
even the universities and schools, like the Church and State, seemed
about to be driven into an attempt to educate, though specially
forbidden to do it.
Like most of his generation, Adams had taken the word of
science that the new unit was as good as found. It would not be an
intelligence--probably not even a consciousness--but it would serve. He
passed sixty years waiting for it, and at the end of that time, on
reviewing the ground, he was led to think that the final synthesis of
science and its ultimate triumph was the kinetic theory of gases; which
seemed to cover all motion in space, and to furnish the measure of
time. So far as he understood it, the theory asserted that any portion
of space is occupied by molecules of gas, flying in right lines at
velocities varying up to a mile in a second, and colliding with each
other at intervals varying up to 17,750,000 times in a second. To this
analysis--if one understood it right--all matter whatever was
reducible, and the only difference of opinion in science regarded the
doubt whether a still deeper analysis would reduce the atom of gas to
pure motion.
Thus, unless one mistook the meaning of motion, which might
well be, the scientific synthesis commonly called Unity was the
scientific analysis commonly called Multiplicity. The two things were
the same, all forms being shifting phases of motion. Granting this
ocean of colliding atoms, the last hope of humanity, what happened if
one dropped the sounder into the abyss--let it go--frankly gave up
Unity altogether? What was Unity? Why was one to be forced to affirm it?
Here everybody flatly refused help. Science seemed content with
its old phrase of "larger synthesis," which was well enough for
science, but meant chaos for man. One would have been glad to stop and
ask no more, but the anarchist bomb bade one go on, and the bomb is a
powerful persuader. One could not stop, even to enjoy the charms of a
perfect gas colliding seventeen million times in a second, much like an
automobile in Paris. Science itself had been crowded so close to the
edge of the abyss that its attempts to escape were as metaphysical as
the leap, while an ignorant old man felt no motive for trying to
escape, seeing that the only escape possible lay in the form of vis a
tergo commonly called Death. He got out his Descartes again; dipped
into his Hume and Berkeley; wrestled anew with his Kant; pondered
solemnly over his Hegel and Schopenhauer and Hartmann; strayed gaily
away with his Greeks--all merely to ask what Unity meant, and what
happened when one denied it.
Apparently one never denied it. Every philosopher, whether sane
or insane, naturally affirmed it. The utmost flight of anarchy seemed
to have stopped with the assertion of two principles, and even these
fitted into each other, like good and evil, light and darkness.
Pessimism itself, black as it might be painted, had been content to
turn the universe of contradictions into the human thought as one Will,
and treat it as representation. Metaphysics insisted on treating the
universe as one thought or treating thought as one universe; and
philosophers agreed, like a kinetic gas, that the universe could be
known only as motion of mind, and therefore as unity. One could know it
only as one's self; it was psychology.
Of all forms of pessimism, the metaphysical form was, for a
historian, the least enticing. Of all studies, the one he would rather
have avoided was that of his own mind. He knew no tragedy so
heartrending as introspection, and the more, because--as Mephistopheles
said of Marguerite--he was not the first. Nearly all the highest
intelligence known to history had drowned itself in the reflection of
its own thought, and the bovine survivors had rudely told the truth
about it, without affecting the intelligent. One's own time had not
been exempt. Even since 1870 friends by scores had fallen victims to
it. Within five-and-twenty years, a new library had grown out of it.
Harvard College was a focus of the study; France supported hospitals
for it; England published magazines of it. Nothing was easier than to
take one's mind in one's hand, and ask one's psychological friends what
they made of it, and the more because it mattered so little to either
party, since their minds, whatever they were, had pretty nearly ceased
to reflect, and let them do what they liked with the small remnant,
they could scarcely do anything very new with it. All one asked was to
learn what they hoped to do.
Unfortunately the pursuit of ignorance in silence had, by this
time, led the weary pilgrim into such mountains of ignorance that he
could no longer see any path whatever, and could not even understand a
signpost. He failed to fathom the depths of the new psychology, which
proved to him that, on that side as on the mathematical side, his power
of thought was atrophied, if, indeed, it ever existed. Since he could
not fathom the science, he could only ask the simplest of questions:
Did the new psychology hold that the IvXn--soul or mind--was or was not
a unit? He gathered from the books that the psychologists had, in a few
cases, distinguished several personalities in the same mind, each
conscious and constant, individual and exclusive. The fact seemed
scarcely surprising, since it had been a habit of mind from earliest
recorded time, and equally familiar to the last acquaintance who had
taken a drug or caught a fever, or eaten a Welsh rarebit before bed;
for surely no one could follow the action of a vivid dream, and still
need to be told that the actors evoked by his mind were not himself,
but quite unknown to all he had ever recognized as self. The new
psychology went further, and seemed convinced that it had actually
split personality not only into dualism, but also into complex groups,
like telephonic centres and systems, that might be isolated and called
up at will, and whose physical action might be occult in the sense of
strangeness to any known form of force. Dualism seemed to have become
as common as binary stars. Alternating personalities turned up
constantly, even among one's friends. The facts seemed certain, or at
least as certain as other facts; all they needed was explanation.
This was not the business of the searcher of ignorance, who
felt himself in no way responsible for causes. To his mind, the
compound IvXn took at once the form of a bicycle-rider, mechanically
balancing himself by inhibiting all his inferior personalities, and
sure to fall into the sub-conscious chaos below, if one of his inferior
personalities got on top. The only absolute truth was the sub-conscious
chaos below, which every one could feel when he sought it.
Whether the psychologists admitted it or not, mattered little
to the student who, by the law of his profession, was engaged in
studying his own mind. On him, the effect was surprising. He woke up
with a shudder as though he had himself fallen off his bicycle. If his
mind were really this sort of magnet, mechanically dispersing its lines
of force when it went to sleep, and mechanically orienting them when it
woke up--which was normal, the dispersion or orientation? The mind,
like the body, kept its unity unless it happened to lose balance, but
the professor of physics, who slipped on a pavement and hurt himself,
knew no more than an idiot what knocked him down, though he did
know--what the idiot could hardly do--that his normal condition was
idiocy, or want of balance, and that his sanity was unstable artifice.
His normal thought was dispersion, sleep, dream, inconsequence; the
simultaneous action of different thought-centres without central
control. His artificial balance was acquired habit. He was an acrobat,
with a dwarf on his back, crossing a chasm on a slack-rope, and
commonly breaking his neck.
By that path of newest science, one saw no unity ahead--nothing but a
dissolving mind--and the historian felt himself driven back on thought
as one continuous Force, without Race, Sex, School, Country, or Church.
This has been always the fate of rigorous thinkers, and has always
succeeded in making them famous, as it did Gibbon, Buckle, and Auguste
Comte. Their method made what progress the science of history knew,
which was little enough, but they did at last fix the law that, if
history ever meant to correct the errors she made in detail, she must
agree on a scale for the whole. Every local historian might defy this
law till history ended, but its necessity would be the same for man as
for space or time or force, and without it the historian would always
remain a child in science.
Any schoolboy could see that man as a force must be measured by
motion, from a fixed point. Psychology helped here by suggesting a
unit--the point of history when man held the highest idea of himself as
a unit in a unified universe. Eight or ten years of study had led Adams
to think he might use the century 1150-1250, expressed in Amiens
Cathedral and the Works of Thomas Aquinas, as the unit from which he
might measure motion down to his own time, without assuming anything as
true or untrue, except relation. The movement might be studied at once
in philosophy and mechanics. Setting himself to the task, he began a
volume which he mentally knew as "Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres: a
Study of Thirteenth-Century Unity." From that point he proposed to fix
a position for himself, which he could label: "The Education of Henry
Adams: a Study of Twentieth-Century Multiplicity." With the help of
these two points of relation, he hoped to project his lines forward and
backward indefinitely, subject to correction from any one who should
know better. Thereupon, he sailed for home. | Henry continues to struggle toward a scientific understanding of history. He now sees lines of force in the actions of mankind where he once saw lines of will. Henry reconsiders the concepts of unity and multiplicity and wonders if these apparent opposites may not be the same thing. He studies this possibility within the concept of the kinetic theory of gases with startling results. Placing a great deal of importance on unity and multiplicity, he begins to write his Mont-Saint-Michel and Chartres ; he will ultimately think of The Education of Henry Adams as its companion piece. |
_11 October, Evening._--Jonathan Harker has asked me to note this, as he
says he is hardly equal to the task, and he wants an exact record kept.
I think that none of us were surprised when we were asked to see Mrs.
Harker a little before the time of sunset. We have of late come to
understand that sunrise and sunset are to her times of peculiar freedom;
when her old self can be manifest without any controlling force subduing
or restraining her, or inciting her to action. This mood or condition
begins some half hour or more before actual sunrise or sunset, and lasts
till either the sun is high, or whilst the clouds are still aglow with
the rays streaming above the horizon. At first there is a sort of
negative condition, as if some tie were loosened, and then the absolute
freedom quickly follows; when, however, the freedom ceases the
change-back or relapse comes quickly, preceded only by a spell of
warning silence.
To-night, when we met, she was somewhat constrained, and bore all the
signs of an internal struggle. I put it down myself to her making a
violent effort at the earliest instant she could do so. A very few
minutes, however, gave her complete control of herself; then, motioning
her husband to sit beside her on the sofa where she was half reclining,
she made the rest of us bring chairs up close. Taking her husband's hand
in hers began:--
"We are all here together in freedom, for perhaps the last time! I know,
dear; I know that you will always be with me to the end." This was to
her husband whose hand had, as we could see, tightened upon hers. "In
the morning we go out upon our task, and God alone knows what may be in
store for any of us. You are going to be so good to me as to take me
with you. I know that all that brave earnest men can do for a poor weak
woman, whose soul perhaps is lost--no, no, not yet, but is at any rate
at stake--you will do. But you must remember that I am not as you are.
There is a poison in my blood, in my soul, which may destroy me; which
must destroy me, unless some relief comes to us. Oh, my friends, you
know as well as I do, that my soul is at stake; and though I know there
is one way out for me, you must not and I must not take it!" She looked
appealingly to us all in turn, beginning and ending with her husband.
"What is that way?" asked Van Helsing in a hoarse voice. "What is that
way, which we must not--may not--take?"
"That I may die now, either by my own hand or that of another, before
the greater evil is entirely wrought. I know, and you know, that were I
once dead you could and would set free my immortal spirit, even as you
did my poor Lucy's. Were death, or the fear of death, the only thing
that stood in the way I would not shrink to die here, now, amidst the
friends who love me. But death is not all. I cannot believe that to die
in such a case, when there is hope before us and a bitter task to be
done, is God's will. Therefore, I, on my part, give up here the
certainty of eternal rest, and go out into the dark where may be the
blackest things that the world or the nether world holds!" We were all
silent, for we knew instinctively that this was only a prelude. The
faces of the others were set and Harker's grew ashen grey; perhaps he
guessed better than any of us what was coming. She continued:--
"This is what I can give into the hotch-pot." I could not but note the
quaint legal phrase which she used in such a place, and with all
seriousness. "What will each of you give? Your lives I know," she went
on quickly, "that is easy for brave men. Your lives are God's, and you
can give them back to Him; but what will you give to me?" She looked
again questioningly, but this time avoided her husband's face. Quincey
seemed to understand; he nodded, and her face lit up. "Then I shall tell
you plainly what I want, for there must be no doubtful matter in this
connection between us now. You must promise me, one and all--even you,
my beloved husband--that, should the time come, you will kill me."
"What is that time?" The voice was Quincey's, but it was low and
strained.
"When you shall be convinced that I am so changed that it is better that
I die that I may live. When I am thus dead in the flesh, then you will,
without a moment's delay, drive a stake through me and cut off my head;
or do whatever else may be wanting to give me rest!"
Quincey was the first to rise after the pause. He knelt down before her
and taking her hand in his said solemnly:--
"I'm only a rough fellow, who hasn't, perhaps, lived as a man should to
win such a distinction, but I swear to you by all that I hold sacred and
dear that, should the time ever come, I shall not flinch from the duty
that you have set us. And I promise you, too, that I shall make all
certain, for if I am only doubtful I shall take it that the time has
come!"
"My true friend!" was all she could say amid her fast-falling tears, as,
bending over, she kissed his hand.
"I swear the same, my dear Madam Mina!" said Van Helsing.
"And I!" said Lord Godalming, each of them in turn kneeling to her to
take the oath. I followed, myself. Then her husband turned to her
wan-eyed and with a greenish pallor which subdued the snowy whiteness of
his hair, and asked:--
"And must I, too, make such a promise, oh, my wife?"
"You too, my dearest," she said, with infinite yearning of pity in her
voice and eyes. "You must not shrink. You are nearest and dearest and
all the world to me; our souls are knit into one, for all life and all
time. Think, dear, that there have been times when brave men have killed
their wives and their womenkind, to keep them from falling into the
hands of the enemy. Their hands did not falter any the more because
those that they loved implored them to slay them. It is men's duty
towards those whom they love, in such times of sore trial! And oh, my
dear, if it is to be that I must meet death at any hand, let it be at
the hand of him that loves me best. Dr. Van Helsing, I have not
forgotten your mercy in poor Lucy's case to him who loved"--she stopped
with a flying blush, and changed her phrase--"to him who had best right
to give her peace. If that time shall come again, I look to you to make
it a happy memory of my husband's life that it was his loving hand which
set me free from the awful thrall upon me."
"Again I swear!" came the Professor's resonant voice. Mrs. Harker
smiled, positively smiled, as with a sigh of relief she leaned back and
said:--
"And now one word of warning, a warning which you must never forget:
this time, if it ever come, may come quickly and unexpectedly, and in
such case you must lose no time in using your opportunity. At such a
time I myself might be--nay! if the time ever comes, _shall be_--leagued
with your enemy against you."
"One more request;" she became very solemn as she said this, "it is not
vital and necessary like the other, but I want you to do one thing for
me, if you will." We all acquiesced, but no one spoke; there was no need
to speak:--
"I want you to read the Burial Service." She was interrupted by a deep
groan from her husband; taking his hand in hers, she held it over her
heart, and continued: "You must read it over me some day. Whatever may
be the issue of all this fearful state of things, it will be a sweet
thought to all or some of us. You, my dearest, will I hope read it, for
then it will be in your voice in my memory for ever--come what may!"
"But oh, my dear one," he pleaded, "death is afar off from you."
"Nay," she said, holding up a warning hand. "I am deeper in death at
this moment than if the weight of an earthly grave lay heavy upon me!"
"Oh, my wife, must I read it?" he said, before he began.
"It would comfort me, my husband!" was all she said; and he began to
read when she had got the book ready.
"How can I--how could any one--tell of that strange scene, its
solemnity, its gloom, its sadness, its horror; and, withal, its
sweetness. Even a sceptic, who can see nothing but a travesty of bitter
truth in anything holy or emotional, would have been melted to the heart
had he seen that little group of loving and devoted friends kneeling
round that stricken and sorrowing lady; or heard the tender passion of
her husband's voice, as in tones so broken with emotion that often he
had to pause, he read the simple and beautiful service from the Burial
of the Dead. I--I cannot go on--words--and--v-voice--f-fail m-me!"
* * * * *
She was right in her instinct. Strange as it all was, bizarre as it may
hereafter seem even to us who felt its potent influence at the time, it
comforted us much; and the silence, which showed Mrs. Harker's coming
relapse from her freedom of soul, did not seem so full of despair to any
of us as we had dreaded.
_Jonathan Harker's Journal._
_15 October, Varna._--We left Charing Cross on the morning of the 12th,
got to Paris the same night, and took the places secured for us in the
Orient Express. We travelled night and day, arriving here at about five
o'clock. Lord Godalming went to the Consulate to see if any telegram had
arrived for him, whilst the rest of us came on to this hotel--"the
Odessus." The journey may have had incidents; I was, however, too eager
to get on, to care for them. Until the _Czarina Catherine_ comes into
port there will be no interest for me in anything in the wide world.
Thank God! Mina is well, and looks to be getting stronger; her colour is
coming back. She sleeps a great deal; throughout the journey she slept
nearly all the time. Before sunrise and sunset, however, she is very
wakeful and alert; and it has become a habit for Van Helsing to
hypnotise her at such times. At first, some effort was needed, and he
had to make many passes; but now, she seems to yield at once, as if by
habit, and scarcely any action is needed. He seems to have power at
these particular moments to simply will, and her thoughts obey him. He
always asks her what she can see and hear. She answers to the first:--
"Nothing; all is dark." And to the second:--
"I can hear the waves lapping against the ship, and the water rushing
by. Canvas and cordage strain and masts and yards creak. The wind is
high--I can hear it in the shrouds, and the bow throws back the foam."
It is evident that the _Czarina Catherine_ is still at sea, hastening on
her way to Varna. Lord Godalming has just returned. He had four
telegrams, one each day since we started, and all to the same effect:
that the _Czarina Catherine_ had not been reported to Lloyd's from
anywhere. He had arranged before leaving London that his agent should
send him every day a telegram saying if the ship had been reported. He
was to have a message even if she were not reported, so that he might be
sure that there was a watch being kept at the other end of the wire.
We had dinner and went to bed early. To-morrow we are to see the
Vice-Consul, and to arrange, if we can, about getting on board the ship
as soon as she arrives. Van Helsing says that our chance will be to get
on the boat between sunrise and sunset. The Count, even if he takes the
form of a bat, cannot cross the running water of his own volition, and
so cannot leave the ship. As he dare not change to man's form without
suspicion--which he evidently wishes to avoid--he must remain in the
box. If, then, we can come on board after sunrise, he is at our mercy;
for we can open the box and make sure of him, as we did of poor Lucy,
before he wakes. What mercy he shall get from us will not count for
much. We think that we shall not have much trouble with officials or the
seamen. Thank God! this is the country where bribery can do anything,
and we are well supplied with money. We have only to make sure that the
ship cannot come into port between sunset and sunrise without our being
warned, and we shall be safe. Judge Moneybag will settle this case, I
think!
* * * * *
_16 October._--Mina's report still the same: lapping waves and rushing
water, darkness and favouring winds. We are evidently in good time, and
when we hear of the _Czarina Catherine_ we shall be ready. As she must
pass the Dardanelles we are sure to have some report.
* * * * *
_17 October._--Everything is pretty well fixed now, I think, to welcome
the Count on his return from his tour. Godalming told the shippers that
he fancied that the box sent aboard might contain something stolen from
a friend of his, and got a half consent that he might open it at his own
risk. The owner gave him a paper telling the Captain to give him every
facility in doing whatever he chose on board the ship, and also a
similar authorisation to his agent at Varna. We have seen the agent, who
was much impressed with Godalming's kindly manner to him, and we are all
satisfied that whatever he can do to aid our wishes will be done. We
have already arranged what to do in case we get the box open. If the
Count is there, Van Helsing and Seward will cut off his head at once and
drive a stake through his heart. Morris and Godalming and I shall
prevent interference, even if we have to use the arms which we shall
have ready. The Professor says that if we can so treat the Count's body,
it will soon after fall into dust. In such case there would be no
evidence against us, in case any suspicion of murder were aroused. But
even if it were not, we should stand or fall by our act, and perhaps
some day this very script may be evidence to come between some of us and
a rope. For myself, I should take the chance only too thankfully if it
were to come. We mean to leave no stone unturned to carry out our
intent. We have arranged with certain officials that the instant the
_Czarina Catherine_ is seen, we are to be informed by a special
messenger.
* * * * *
_24 October._--A whole week of waiting. Daily telegrams to Godalming,
but only the same story: "Not yet reported." Mina's morning and evening
hypnotic answer is unvaried: lapping waves, rushing water, and creaking
masts.
_Telegram, October 24th._
_Rufus Smith, Lloyd's, London, to Lord Godalming, care of H. B. M.
Vice-Consul, Varna._
"_Czarina Catherine_ reported this morning from Dardanelles."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_25 October._--How I miss my phonograph! To write diary with a pen is
irksome to me; but Van Helsing says I must. We were all wild with
excitement yesterday when Godalming got his telegram from Lloyd's. I
know now what men feel in battle when the call to action is heard. Mrs.
Harker, alone of our party, did not show any signs of emotion. After
all, it is not strange that she did not; for we took special care not to
let her know anything about it, and we all tried not to show any
excitement when we were in her presence. In old days she would, I am
sure, have noticed, no matter how we might have tried to conceal it; but
in this way she is greatly changed during the past three weeks. The
lethargy grows upon her, and though she seems strong and well, and is
getting back some of her colour, Van Helsing and I are not satisfied. We
talk of her often; we have not, however, said a word to the others. It
would break poor Harker's heart--certainly his nerve--if he knew that we
had even a suspicion on the subject. Van Helsing examines, he tells me,
her teeth very carefully, whilst she is in the hypnotic condition, for
he says that so long as they do not begin to sharpen there is no active
danger of a change in her. If this change should come, it would be
necessary to take steps!... We both know what those steps would have to
be, though we do not mention our thoughts to each other. We should
neither of us shrink from the task--awful though it be to contemplate.
"Euthanasia" is an excellent and a comforting word! I am grateful to
whoever invented it.
It is only about 24 hours' sail from the Dardanelles to here, at the
rate the _Czarina Catherine_ has come from London. She should therefore
arrive some time in the morning; but as she cannot possibly get in
before then, we are all about to retire early. We shall get up at one
o'clock, so as to be ready.
* * * * *
_25 October, Noon_.--No news yet of the ship's arrival. Mrs. Harker's
hypnotic report this morning was the same as usual, so it is possible
that we may get news at any moment. We men are all in a fever of
excitement, except Harker, who is calm; his hands are cold as ice, and
an hour ago I found him whetting the edge of the great Ghoorka knife
which he now always carries with him. It will be a bad lookout for the
Count if the edge of that "Kukri" ever touches his throat, driven by
that stern, ice-cold hand!
Van Helsing and I were a little alarmed about Mrs. Harker to-day. About
noon she got into a sort of lethargy which we did not like; although we
kept silence to the others, we were neither of us happy about it. She
had been restless all the morning, so that we were at first glad to know
that she was sleeping. When, however, her husband mentioned casually
that she was sleeping so soundly that he could not wake her, we went to
her room to see for ourselves. She was breathing naturally and looked so
well and peaceful that we agreed that the sleep was better for her than
anything else. Poor girl, she has so much to forget that it is no wonder
that sleep, if it brings oblivion to her, does her good.
* * * * *
_Later._--Our opinion was justified, for when after a refreshing sleep
of some hours she woke up, she seemed brighter and better than she had
been for days. At sunset she made the usual hypnotic report. Wherever he
may be in the Black Sea, the Count is hurrying to his destination. To
his doom, I trust!
* * * * *
_26 October._--Another day and no tidings of the _Czarina Catherine_.
She ought to be here by now. That she is still journeying _somewhere_ is
apparent, for Mrs. Harker's hypnotic report at sunrise was still the
same. It is possible that the vessel may be lying by, at times, for fog;
some of the steamers which came in last evening reported patches of fog
both to north and south of the port. We must continue our watching, as
the ship may now be signalled any moment.
* * * * *
_27 October, Noon._--Most strange; no news yet of the ship we wait for.
Mrs. Harker reported last night and this morning as usual: "lapping
waves and rushing water," though she added that "the waves were very
faint." The telegrams from London have been the same: "no further
report." Van Helsing is terribly anxious, and told me just now that he
fears the Count is escaping us. He added significantly:--
"I did not like that lethargy of Madam Mina's. Souls and memories can do
strange things during trance." I was about to ask him more, but Harker
just then came in, and he held up a warning hand. We must try to-night
at sunset to make her speak more fully when in her hypnotic state.
* * * * *
_28 October._--Telegram. _Rufus Smith, London, to Lord Godalming,
care H. B. M. Vice Consul, Varna._
"_Czarina Catherine_ reported entering Galatz at one o'clock
to-day."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_28 October._--When the telegram came announcing the arrival in Galatz I
do not think it was such a shock to any of us as might have been
expected. True, we did not know whence, or how, or when, the bolt would
come; but I think we all expected that something strange would happen.
The delay of arrival at Varna made us individually satisfied that things
would not be just as we had expected; we only waited to learn where the
change would occur. None the less, however, was it a surprise. I suppose
that nature works on such a hopeful basis that we believe against
ourselves that things will be as they ought to be, not as we should know
that they will be. Transcendentalism is a beacon to the angels, even if
it be a will-o'-the-wisp to man. It was an odd experience and we all
took it differently. Van Helsing raised his hand over his head for a
moment, as though in remonstrance with the Almighty; but he said not a
word, and in a few seconds stood up with his face sternly set. Lord
Godalming grew very pale, and sat breathing heavily. I was myself half
stunned and looked in wonder at one after another. Quincey Morris
tightened his belt with that quick movement which I knew so well; in our
old wandering days it meant "action." Mrs. Harker grew ghastly white, so
that the scar on her forehead seemed to burn, but she folded her hands
meekly and looked up in prayer. Harker smiled--actually smiled--the
dark, bitter smile of one who is without hope; but at the same time his
action belied his words, for his hands instinctively sought the hilt of
the great Kukri knife and rested there. "When does the next train start
for Galatz?" said Van Helsing to us generally.
"At 6:30 to-morrow morning!" We all started, for the answer came from
Mrs. Harker.
"How on earth do you know?" said Art.
"You forget--or perhaps you do not know, though Jonathan does and so
does Dr. Van Helsing--that I am the train fiend. At home in Exeter I
always used to make up the time-tables, so as to be helpful to my
husband. I found it so useful sometimes, that I always make a study of
the time-tables now. I knew that if anything were to take us to Castle
Dracula we should go by Galatz, or at any rate through Bucharest, so I
learned the times very carefully. Unhappily there are not many to learn,
as the only train to-morrow leaves as I say."
"Wonderful woman!" murmured the Professor.
"Can't we get a special?" asked Lord Godalming. Van Helsing shook his
head: "I fear not. This land is very different from yours or mine; even
if we did have a special, it would probably not arrive as soon as our
regular train. Moreover, we have something to prepare. We must think.
Now let us organize. You, friend Arthur, go to the train and get the
tickets and arrange that all be ready for us to go in the morning. Do
you, friend Jonathan, go to the agent of the ship and get from him
letters to the agent in Galatz, with authority to make search the ship
just as it was here. Morris Quincey, you see the Vice-Consul, and get
his aid with his fellow in Galatz and all he can do to make our way
smooth, so that no times be lost when over the Danube. John will stay
with Madam Mina and me, and we shall consult. For so if time be long you
may be delayed; and it will not matter when the sun set, since I am here
with Madam to make report."
"And I," said Mrs. Harker brightly, and more like her old self than she
had been for many a long day, "shall try to be of use in all ways, and
shall think and write for you as I used to do. Something is shifting
from me in some strange way, and I feel freer than I have been of late!"
The three younger men looked happier at the moment as they seemed to
realise the significance of her words; but Van Helsing and I, turning to
each other, met each a grave and troubled glance. We said nothing at the
time, however.
When the three men had gone out to their tasks Van Helsing asked Mrs.
Harker to look up the copy of the diaries and find him the part of
Harker's journal at the Castle. She went away to get it; when the door
was shut upon her he said to me:--
"We mean the same! speak out!"
"There is some change. It is a hope that makes me sick, for it may
deceive us."
"Quite so. Do you know why I asked her to get the manuscript?"
"No!" said I, "unless it was to get an opportunity of seeing me alone."
"You are in part right, friend John, but only in part. I want to tell
you something. And oh, my friend, I am taking a great--a terrible--risk;
but I believe it is right. In the moment when Madam Mina said those
words that arrest both our understanding, an inspiration came to me. In
the trance of three days ago the Count sent her his spirit to read her
mind; or more like he took her to see him in his earth-box in the ship
with water rushing, just as it go free at rise and set of sun. He learn
then that we are here; for she have more to tell in her open life with
eyes to see and ears to hear than he, shut, as he is, in his coffin-box.
Now he make his most effort to escape us. At present he want her not.
"He is sure with his so great knowledge that she will come at his call;
but he cut her off--take her, as he can do, out of his own power, that
so she come not to him. Ah! there I have hope that our man-brains that
have been of man so long and that have not lost the grace of God, will
come higher than his child-brain that lie in his tomb for centuries,
that grow not yet to our stature, and that do only work selfish and
therefore small. Here comes Madam Mina; not a word to her of her trance!
She know it not; and it would overwhelm her and make despair just when
we want all her hope, all her courage; when most we want all her great
brain which is trained like man's brain, but is of sweet woman and have
a special power which the Count give her, and which he may not take away
altogether--though he think not so. Hush! let me speak, and you shall
learn. Oh, John, my friend, we are in awful straits. I fear, as I never
feared before. We can only trust the good God. Silence! here she comes!"
I thought that the Professor was going to break down and have hysterics,
just as he had when Lucy died, but with a great effort he controlled
himself and was at perfect nervous poise when Mrs. Harker tripped into
the room, bright and happy-looking and, in the doing of work, seemingly
forgetful of her misery. As she came in, she handed a number of sheets
of typewriting to Van Helsing. He looked over them gravely, his face
brightening up as he read. Then holding the pages between his finger and
thumb he said:--
"Friend John, to you with so much of experience already--and you, too,
dear Madam Mina, that are young--here is a lesson: do not fear ever to
think. A half-thought has been buzzing often in my brain, but I fear to
let him loose his wings. Here now, with more knowledge, I go back to
where that half-thought come from and I find that he be no half-thought
at all; that be a whole thought, though so young that he is not yet
strong to use his little wings. Nay, like the "Ugly Duck" of my friend
Hans Andersen, he be no duck-thought at all, but a big swan-thought that
sail nobly on big wings, when the time come for him to try them. See I
read here what Jonathan have written:--
"That other of his race who, in a later age, again and again, brought
his forces over The Great River into Turkey Land; who, when he was
beaten back, came again, and again, and again, though he had to come
alone from the bloody field where his troops were being slaughtered,
since he knew that he alone could ultimately triumph."
"What does this tell us? Not much? no! The Count's child-thought see
nothing; therefore he speak so free. Your man-thought see nothing; my
man-thought see nothing, till just now. No! But there comes another word
from some one who speak without thought because she, too, know not what
it mean--what it _might_ mean. Just as there are elements which rest,
yet when in nature's course they move on their way and they touch--then
pouf! and there comes a flash of light, heaven wide, that blind and kill
and destroy some; but that show up all earth below for leagues and
leagues. Is it not so? Well, I shall explain. To begin, have you ever
study the philosophy of crime? 'Yes' and 'No.' You, John, yes; for it is
a study of insanity. You, no, Madam Mina; for crime touch you not--not
but once. Still, your mind works true, and argues not _a particulari ad
universale_. There is this peculiarity in criminals. It is so constant,
in all countries and at all times, that even police, who know not much
from philosophy, come to know it empirically, that _it is_. That is to
be empiric. The criminal always work at one crime--that is the true
criminal who seems predestinate to crime, and who will of none other.
This criminal has not full man-brain. He is clever and cunning and
resourceful; but he be not of man-stature as to brain. He be of
child-brain in much. Now this criminal of ours is predestinate to crime
also; he, too, have child-brain, and it is of the child to do what he
have done. The little bird, the little fish, the little animal learn not
by principle, but empirically; and when he learn to do, then there is to
him the ground to start from to do more. '_Dos pou sto_,' said
Archimedes. 'Give me a fulcrum, and I shall move the world!' To do once,
is the fulcrum whereby child-brain become man-brain; and until he have
the purpose to do more, he continue to do the same again every time,
just as he have done before! Oh, my dear, I see that your eyes are
opened, and that to you the lightning flash show all the leagues," for
Mrs. Harker began to clap her hands and her eyes sparkled. He went on:--
"Now you shall speak. Tell us two dry men of science what you see with
those so bright eyes." He took her hand and held it whilst she spoke.
His finger and thumb closed on her pulse, as I thought instinctively and
unconsciously, as she spoke:--
"The Count is a criminal and of criminal type. Nordau and Lombroso would
so classify him, and _qua_ criminal he is of imperfectly formed mind.
Thus, in a difficulty he has to seek resource in habit. His past is a
clue, and the one page of it that we know--and that from his own
lips--tells that once before, when in what Mr. Morris would call a
'tight place,' he went back to his own country from the land he had
tried to invade, and thence, without losing purpose, prepared himself
for a new effort. He came again better equipped for his work; and won.
So he came to London to invade a new land. He was beaten, and when all
hope of success was lost, and his existence in danger, he fled back over
the sea to his home; just as formerly he had fled back over the Danube
from Turkey Land."
"Good, good! oh, you so clever lady!" said Van Helsing,
enthusiastically, as he stooped and kissed her hand. A moment later he
said to me, as calmly as though we had been having a sick-room
consultation:--
"Seventy-two only; and in all this excitement. I have hope." Turning to
her again, he said with keen expectation:--
"But go on. Go on! there is more to tell if you will. Be not afraid;
John and I know. I do in any case, and shall tell you if you are right.
Speak, without fear!"
"I will try to; but you will forgive me if I seem egotistical."
"Nay! fear not, you must be egotist, for it is of you that we think."
"Then, as he is criminal he is selfish; and as his intellect is small
and his action is based on selfishness, he confines himself to one
purpose. That purpose is remorseless. As he fled back over the Danube,
leaving his forces to be cut to pieces, so now he is intent on being
safe, careless of all. So his own selfishness frees my soul somewhat
from the terrible power which he acquired over me on that dreadful
night. I felt it! Oh, I felt it! Thank God, for His great mercy! My soul
is freer than it has been since that awful hour; and all that haunts me
is a fear lest in some trance or dream he may have used my knowledge for
his ends." The Professor stood up:--
"He has so used your mind; and by it he has left us here in Varna,
whilst the ship that carried him rushed through enveloping fog up to
Galatz, where, doubtless, he had made preparation for escaping from us.
But his child-mind only saw so far; and it may be that, as ever is in
God's Providence, the very thing that the evil-doer most reckoned on for
his selfish good, turns out to be his chiefest harm. The hunter is taken
in his own snare, as the great Psalmist says. For now that he think he
is free from every trace of us all, and that he has escaped us with so
many hours to him, then his selfish child-brain will whisper him to
sleep. He think, too, that as he cut himself off from knowing your mind,
there can be no knowledge of him to you; there is where he fail! That
terrible baptism of blood which he give you makes you free to go to him
in spirit, as you have as yet done in your times of freedom, when the
sun rise and set. At such times you go by my volition and not by his;
and this power to good of you and others, as you have won from your
suffering at his hands. This is now all the more precious that he know
it not, and to guard himself have even cut himself off from his
knowledge of our where. We, however, are not selfish, and we believe
that God is with us through all this blackness, and these many dark
hours. We shall follow him; and we shall not flinch; even if we peril
ourselves that we become like him. Friend John, this has been a great
hour; and it have done much to advance us on our way. You must be scribe
and write him all down, so that when the others return from their work
you can give it to them; then they shall know as we do."
And so I have written it whilst we wait their return, and Mrs. Harker
has written with her typewriter all since she brought the MS. to us. | On 11th of October, according to Dr. Sewards Diary, Jonathan asks Dr. Seward to check Minas health. Mina begs them to destroy her if by chance she changes totally. Filled with emotion, yet touched by her bravery, the men agree. On 15th of October, according to Jonathans journal, they leave Charring Cross on the 12 th , get to Paris in the night, board the Orient Express and reach Varna. Mina is hypnotized. Dracula is still on the sea. The men are preparing all their weapons specially Jonathan, who is sharpening his Kukri knife. Draculas ship is late. The men sit down discussing Draculas psyche. |
Every year on the fifteenth of October Fifth Avenue opened its
shutters, unrolled its carpets and hung up its triple layer of
window-curtains.
By the first of November this household ritual was over, and society
had begun to look about and take stock of itself. By the fifteenth the
season was in full blast, Opera and theatres were putting forth their
new attractions, dinner-engagements were accumulating, and dates for
dances being fixed. And punctually at about this time Mrs. Archer
always said that New York was very much changed.
Observing it from the lofty stand-point of a non-participant, she was
able, with the help of Mr. Sillerton Jackson and Miss Sophy, to trace
each new crack in its surface, and all the strange weeds pushing up
between the ordered rows of social vegetables. It had been one of the
amusements of Archer's youth to wait for this annual pronouncement of
his mother's, and to hear her enumerate the minute signs of
disintegration that his careless gaze had overlooked. For New York, to
Mrs. Archer's mind, never changed without changing for the worse; and
in this view Miss Sophy Jackson heartily concurred.
Mr. Sillerton Jackson, as became a man of the world, suspended his
judgment and listened with an amused impartiality to the lamentations
of the ladies. But even he never denied that New York had changed; and
Newland Archer, in the winter of the second year of his marriage, was
himself obliged to admit that if it had not actually changed it was
certainly changing.
These points had been raised, as usual, at Mrs. Archer's Thanksgiving
dinner. At the date when she was officially enjoined to give thanks
for the blessings of the year it was her habit to take a mournful
though not embittered stock of her world, and wonder what there was to
be thankful for. At any rate, not the state of society; society, if it
could be said to exist, was rather a spectacle on which to call down
Biblical imprecations--and in fact, every one knew what the Reverend
Dr. Ashmore meant when he chose a text from Jeremiah (chap. ii., verse
25) for his Thanksgiving sermon. Dr. Ashmore, the new Rector of St.
Matthew's, had been chosen because he was very "advanced": his sermons
were considered bold in thought and novel in language. When he
fulminated against fashionable society he always spoke of its "trend";
and to Mrs. Archer it was terrifying and yet fascinating to feel
herself part of a community that was trending.
"There's no doubt that Dr. Ashmore is right: there IS a marked trend,"
she said, as if it were something visible and measurable, like a crack
in a house.
"It was odd, though, to preach about it on Thanksgiving," Miss Jackson
opined; and her hostess drily rejoined: "Oh, he means us to give
thanks for what's left."
Archer had been wont to smile at these annual vaticinations of his
mother's; but this year even he was obliged to acknowledge, as he
listened to an enumeration of the changes, that the "trend" was visible.
"The extravagance in dress--" Miss Jackson began. "Sillerton took me
to the first night of the Opera, and I can only tell you that Jane
Merry's dress was the only one I recognised from last year; and even
that had had the front panel changed. Yet I know she got it out from
Worth only two years ago, because my seamstress always goes in to make
over her Paris dresses before she wears them."
"Ah, Jane Merry is one of US," said Mrs. Archer sighing, as if it were
not such an enviable thing to be in an age when ladies were beginning
to flaunt abroad their Paris dresses as soon as they were out of the
Custom House, instead of letting them mellow under lock and key, in the
manner of Mrs. Archer's contemporaries.
"Yes; she's one of the few. In my youth," Miss Jackson rejoined, "it
was considered vulgar to dress in the newest fashions; and Amy
Sillerton has always told me that in Boston the rule was to put away
one's Paris dresses for two years. Old Mrs. Baxter Pennilow, who did
everything handsomely, used to import twelve a year, two velvet, two
satin, two silk, and the other six of poplin and the finest cashmere.
It was a standing order, and as she was ill for two years before she
died they found forty-eight Worth dresses that had never been taken out
of tissue paper; and when the girls left off their mourning they were
able to wear the first lot at the Symphony concerts without looking in
advance of the fashion."
"Ah, well, Boston is more conservative than New York; but I always
think it's a safe rule for a lady to lay aside her French dresses for
one season," Mrs. Archer conceded.
"It was Beaufort who started the new fashion by making his wife clap
her new clothes on her back as soon as they arrived: I must say at
times it takes all Regina's distinction not to look like ... like ..."
Miss Jackson glanced around the table, caught Janey's bulging gaze, and
took refuge in an unintelligible murmur.
"Like her rivals," said Mr. Sillerton Jackson, with the air of
producing an epigram.
"Oh,--" the ladies murmured; and Mrs. Archer added, partly to distract
her daughter's attention from forbidden topics: "Poor Regina! Her
Thanksgiving hasn't been a very cheerful one, I'm afraid. Have you
heard the rumours about Beaufort's speculations, Sillerton?"
Mr. Jackson nodded carelessly. Every one had heard the rumours in
question, and he scorned to confirm a tale that was already common
property.
A gloomy silence fell upon the party. No one really liked Beaufort,
and it was not wholly unpleasant to think the worst of his private
life; but the idea of his having brought financial dishonour on his
wife's family was too shocking to be enjoyed even by his enemies.
Archer's New York tolerated hypocrisy in private relations; but in
business matters it exacted a limpid and impeccable honesty. It was a
long time since any well-known banker had failed discreditably; but
every one remembered the social extinction visited on the heads of the
firm when the last event of the kind had happened. It would be the
same with the Beauforts, in spite of his power and her popularity; not
all the leagued strength of the Dallas connection would save poor
Regina if there were any truth in the reports of her husband's unlawful
speculations.
The talk took refuge in less ominous topics; but everything they
touched on seemed to confirm Mrs. Archer's sense of an accelerated
trend.
"Of course, Newland, I know you let dear May go to Mrs. Struthers's
Sunday evenings--" she began; and May interposed gaily: "Oh, you know,
everybody goes to Mrs. Struthers's now; and she was invited to Granny's
last reception."
It was thus, Archer reflected, that New York managed its transitions:
conspiring to ignore them till they were well over, and then, in all
good faith, imagining that they had taken place in a preceding age.
There was always a traitor in the citadel; and after he (or generally
she) had surrendered the keys, what was the use of pretending that it
was impregnable? Once people had tasted of Mrs. Struthers's easy
Sunday hospitality they were not likely to sit at home remembering that
her champagne was transmuted Shoe-Polish.
"I know, dear, I know," Mrs. Archer sighed. "Such things have to be, I
suppose, as long as AMUSEMENT is what people go out for; but I've never
quite forgiven your cousin Madame Olenska for being the first person to
countenance Mrs. Struthers."
A sudden blush rose to young Mrs. Archer's face; it surprised her
husband as much as the other guests about the table. "Oh, ELLEN--" she
murmured, much in the same accusing and yet deprecating tone in which
her parents might have said: "Oh, THE BLENKERS--."
It was the note which the family had taken to sounding on the mention
of the Countess Olenska's name, since she had surprised and
inconvenienced them by remaining obdurate to her husband's advances;
but on May's lips it gave food for thought, and Archer looked at her
with the sense of strangeness that sometimes came over him when she was
most in the tone of her environment.
His mother, with less than her usual sensitiveness to atmosphere, still
insisted: "I've always thought that people like the Countess Olenska,
who have lived in aristocratic societies, ought to help us to keep up
our social distinctions, instead of ignoring them."
May's blush remained permanently vivid: it seemed to have a
significance beyond that implied by the recognition of Madame Olenska's
social bad faith.
"I've no doubt we all seem alike to foreigners," said Miss Jackson
tartly.
"I don't think Ellen cares for society; but nobody knows exactly what
she does care for," May continued, as if she had been groping for
something noncommittal.
"Ah, well--" Mrs. Archer sighed again.
Everybody knew that the Countess Olenska was no longer in the good
graces of her family. Even her devoted champion, old Mrs. Manson
Mingott, had been unable to defend her refusal to return to her
husband. The Mingotts had not proclaimed their disapproval aloud:
their sense of solidarity was too strong. They had simply, as Mrs.
Welland said, "let poor Ellen find her own level"--and that,
mortifyingly and incomprehensibly, was in the dim depths where the
Blenkers prevailed, and "people who wrote" celebrated their untidy
rites. It was incredible, but it was a fact, that Ellen, in spite of
all her opportunities and her privileges, had become simply "Bohemian."
The fact enforced the contention that she had made a fatal mistake in
not returning to Count Olenski. After all, a young woman's place was
under her husband's roof, especially when she had left it in
circumstances that ... well ... if one had cared to look into them ...
"Madame Olenska is a great favourite with the gentlemen," said Miss
Sophy, with her air of wishing to put forth something conciliatory when
she knew that she was planting a dart.
"Ah, that's the danger that a young woman like Madame Olenska is always
exposed to," Mrs. Archer mournfully agreed; and the ladies, on this
conclusion, gathered up their trains to seek the carcel globes of the
drawing-room, while Archer and Mr. Sillerton Jackson withdrew to the
Gothic library.
Once established before the grate, and consoling himself for the
inadequacy of the dinner by the perfection of his cigar, Mr. Jackson
became portentous and communicable.
"If the Beaufort smash comes," he announced, "there are going to be
disclosures."
Archer raised his head quickly: he could never hear the name without
the sharp vision of Beaufort's heavy figure, opulently furred and shod,
advancing through the snow at Skuytercliff.
"There's bound to be," Mr. Jackson continued, "the nastiest kind of a
cleaning up. He hasn't spent all his money on Regina."
"Oh, well--that's discounted, isn't it? My belief is he'll pull out
yet," said the young man, wanting to change the subject.
"Perhaps--perhaps. I know he was to see some of the influential people
today. Of course," Mr. Jackson reluctantly conceded, "it's to be hoped
they can tide him over--this time anyhow. I shouldn't like to think of
poor Regina's spending the rest of her life in some shabby foreign
watering-place for bankrupts."
Archer said nothing. It seemed to him so natural--however tragic--that
money ill-gotten should be cruelly expiated, that his mind, hardly
lingering over Mrs. Beaufort's doom, wandered back to closer questions.
What was the meaning of May's blush when the Countess Olenska had been
mentioned?
Four months had passed since the midsummer day that he and Madame
Olenska had spent together; and since then he had not seen her. He
knew that she had returned to Washington, to the little house which she
and Medora Manson had taken there: he had written to her once--a few
words, asking when they were to meet again--and she had even more
briefly replied: "Not yet."
Since then there had been no farther communication between them, and he
had built up within himself a kind of sanctuary in which she throned
among his secret thoughts and longings. Little by little it became the
scene of his real life, of his only rational activities; thither he
brought the books he read, the ideas and feelings which nourished him,
his judgments and his visions. Outside it, in the scene of his actual
life, he moved with a growing sense of unreality and insufficiency,
blundering against familiar prejudices and traditional points of view
as an absent-minded man goes on bumping into the furniture of his own
room. Absent--that was what he was: so absent from everything most
densely real and near to those about him that it sometimes startled him
to find they still imagined he was there.
He became aware that Mr. Jackson was clearing his throat preparatory to
farther revelations.
"I don't know, of course, how far your wife's family are aware of what
people say about--well, about Madame Olenska's refusal to accept her
husband's latest offer."
Archer was silent, and Mr. Jackson obliquely continued: "It's a
pity--it's certainly a pity--that she refused it."
"A pity? In God's name, why?"
Mr. Jackson looked down his leg to the unwrinkled sock that joined it
to a glossy pump.
"Well--to put it on the lowest ground--what's she going to live on now?"
"Now--?"
"If Beaufort--"
Archer sprang up, his fist banging down on the black walnut-edge of the
writing-table. The wells of the brass double-inkstand danced in their
sockets.
"What the devil do you mean, sir?"
Mr. Jackson, shifting himself slightly in his chair, turned a tranquil
gaze on the young man's burning face.
"Well--I have it on pretty good authority--in fact, on old Catherine's
herself--that the family reduced Countess Olenska's allowance
considerably when she definitely refused to go back to her husband; and
as, by this refusal, she also forfeits the money settled on her when
she married--which Olenski was ready to make over to her if she
returned--why, what the devil do YOU mean, my dear boy, by asking me
what I mean?" Mr. Jackson good-humouredly retorted.
Archer moved toward the mantelpiece and bent over to knock his ashes
into the grate.
"I don't know anything of Madame Olenska's private affairs; but I don't
need to, to be certain that what you insinuate--"
"Oh, I don't: it's Lefferts, for one," Mr. Jackson interposed.
"Lefferts--who made love to her and got snubbed for it!" Archer broke
out contemptuously.
"Ah--DID he?" snapped the other, as if this were exactly the fact he
had been laying a trap for. He still sat sideways from the fire, so
that his hard old gaze held Archer's face as if in a spring of steel.
"Well, well: it's a pity she didn't go back before Beaufort's cropper,"
he repeated. "If she goes NOW, and if he fails, it will only confirm
the general impression: which isn't by any means peculiar to Lefferts,
by the way."
"Oh, she won't go back now: less than ever!" Archer had no sooner said
it than he had once more the feeling that it was exactly what Mr.
Jackson had been waiting for.
The old gentleman considered him attentively. "That's your opinion,
eh? Well, no doubt you know. But everybody will tell you that the few
pennies Medora Manson has left are all in Beaufort's hands; and how the
two women are to keep their heads above water unless he does, I can't
imagine. Of course, Madame Olenska may still soften old Catherine,
who's been the most inexorably opposed to her staying; and old
Catherine could make her any allowance she chooses. But we all know
that she hates parting with good money; and the rest of the family have
no particular interest in keeping Madame Olenska here."
Archer was burning with unavailing wrath: he was exactly in the state
when a man is sure to do something stupid, knowing all the while that
he is doing it.
He saw that Mr. Jackson had been instantly struck by the fact that
Madame Olenska's differences with her grandmother and her other
relations were not known to him, and that the old gentleman had drawn
his own conclusions as to the reasons for Archer's exclusion from the
family councils. This fact warned Archer to go warily; but the
insinuations about Beaufort made him reckless. He was mindful,
however, if not of his own danger, at least of the fact that Mr.
Jackson was under his mother's roof, and consequently his guest. Old
New York scrupulously observed the etiquette of hospitality, and no
discussion with a guest was ever allowed to degenerate into a
disagreement.
"Shall we go up and join my mother?" he suggested curtly, as Mr.
Jackson's last cone of ashes dropped into the brass ashtray at his
elbow.
On the drive homeward May remained oddly silent; through the darkness,
he still felt her enveloped in her menacing blush. What its menace
meant he could not guess: but he was sufficiently warned by the fact
that Madame Olenska's name had evoked it.
They went upstairs, and he turned into the library. She usually
followed him; but he heard her passing down the passage to her bedroom.
"May!" he called out impatiently; and she came back, with a slight
glance of surprise at his tone.
"This lamp is smoking again; I should think the servants might see that
it's kept properly trimmed," he grumbled nervously.
"I'm so sorry: it shan't happen again," she answered, in the firm
bright tone she had learned from her mother; and it exasperated Archer
to feel that she was already beginning to humour him like a younger Mr.
Welland. She bent over to lower the wick, and as the light struck up
on her white shoulders and the clear curves of her face he thought:
"How young she is! For what endless years this life will have to go
on!"
He felt, with a kind of horror, his own strong youth and the bounding
blood in his veins. "Look here," he said suddenly, "I may have to go
to Washington for a few days--soon; next week perhaps."
Her hand remained on the key of the lamp as she turned to him slowly.
The heat from its flame had brought back a glow to her face, but it
paled as she looked up.
"On business?" she asked, in a tone which implied that there could be
no other conceivable reason, and that she had put the question
automatically, as if merely to finish his own sentence.
"On business, naturally. There's a patent case coming up before the
Supreme Court--" He gave the name of the inventor, and went on
furnishing details with all Lawrence Lefferts's practised glibness,
while she listened attentively, saying at intervals: "Yes, I see."
"The change will do you good," she said simply, when he had finished;
"and you must be sure to go and see Ellen," she added, looking him
straight in the eyes with her cloudless smile, and speaking in the tone
she might have employed in urging him not to neglect some irksome
family duty.
It was the only word that passed between them on the subject; but in
the code in which they had both been trained it meant: "Of course you
understand that I know all that people have been saying about Ellen,
and heartily sympathise with my family in their effort to get her to
return to her husband. I also know that, for some reason you have not
chosen to tell me, you have advised her against this course, which all
the older men of the family, as well as our grandmother, agree in
approving; and that it is owing to your encouragement that Ellen defies
us all, and exposes herself to the kind of criticism of which Mr.
Sillerton Jackson probably gave you, this evening, the hint that has
made you so irritable.... Hints have indeed not been wanting; but
since you appear unwilling to take them from others, I offer you this
one myself, in the only form in which well-bred people of our kind can
communicate unpleasant things to each other: by letting you understand
that I know you mean to see Ellen when you are in Washington, and are
perhaps going there expressly for that purpose; and that, since you are
sure to see her, I wish you to do so with my full and explicit
approval--and to take the opportunity of letting her know what the
course of conduct you have encouraged her in is likely to lead to."
Her hand was still on the key of the lamp when the last word of this
mute message reached him. She turned the wick down, lifted off the
globe, and breathed on the sulky flame.
"They smell less if one blows them out," she explained, with her bright
housekeeping air. On the threshold she turned and paused for his kiss. | Over Thanksgiving dinner, the matter of changing society is thoroughly discussed. For example, now even May goes to Mrs. Struthers1 home for Sunday night amusement. Mrs. Archer, of course, brings up the fact that it was Ellen who attended the dinners first. May blushes deeply when Ellen1s name comes up; Newland is very concerned about what the blush means. Beaufort1s name also comes up over the meal because he has been illegally speculating and may go to prison or go bankrupt. Meanwhile, dreams of Ellen have become Newland1s "real" life. He reads the books she used to read. He is "absent" from his society. After dinner, Newland and Sillerton Jackson retreat to the Gothic library. Jacskson mentions that Ellen is almost financially cut off by her family for her refusal to return to the Count. He implies that now that Beaufort is bankrupt, she may be forced to return to Europe because he won1t be able to support her. Newland is very angry and concerned for Ellen. He tells May that he will go to Washington on business; May understands that he is going to see Ellen, although she does not say anything. |
The youth fell back in the procession until the tattered soldier was
not in sight. Then he started to walk on with the others.
But he was amid wounds. The mob of men was bleeding. Because of the
tattered soldier's question he now felt that his shame could be viewed.
He was continually casting sidelong glances to see if the men were
contemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow.
At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He
conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished
that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage.
The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The
man's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray,
appalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing
to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his
plight, questioning him and giving him advice.
In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave
him alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips
seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen
a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking
infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on,
he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a
grave.
Something in the gesture of the man as he waved the bloody and pitying
soldiers away made the youth start as if bitten. He yelled in horror.
Tottering forward he laid a quivering hand upon the man's arm. As the
latter slowly turned his waxlike features toward him, the youth
screamed:
"Gawd! Jim Conklin!"
The tall soldier made a little commonplace smile. "Hello, Henry," he
said.
The youth swayed on his legs and glared strangely. He stuttered and
stammered. "Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--"
The tall soldier held out his gory hand. There was a curious red and
black combination of new blood and old blood upon it. "Where yeh been,
Henry?" he asked. He continued in a monotonous voice, "I thought mebbe
yeh got keeled over. There 's been thunder t' pay t'-day. I was
worryin' about it a good deal."
The youth still lamented. "Oh, Jim--oh, Jim--oh, Jim--"
"Yeh know," said the tall soldier, "I was out there." He made a
careful gesture. "An', Lord, what a circus! An', b'jiminey, I got
shot--I got shot. Yes, b'jiminey, I got shot." He reiterated this
fact in a bewildered way, as if he did not know how it came about.
The youth put forth anxious arms to assist him, but the tall soldier
went firmly on as if propelled. Since the youth's arrival as a
guardian for his friend, the other wounded men had ceased to display
much interest. They occupied themselves again in dragging their own
tragedies toward the rear.
Suddenly, as the two friends marched on, the tall soldier seemed to be
overcome by a terror. His face turned to a semblance of gray paste. He
clutched the youth's arm and looked all about him, as if dreading to be
overheard. Then he began to speak in a shaking whisper:
"I tell yeh what I'm 'fraid of, Henry--I 'll tell yeh what I 'm 'fraid
of. I 'm 'fraid I 'll fall down--an' then yeh know--them damned
artillery wagons--they like as not 'll run over me. That 's what I 'm
'fraid of--"
The youth cried out to him hysterically: "I 'll take care of yeh, Jim!
I'll take care of yeh! I swear t' Gawd I will!"
"Sure--will yeh, Henry?" the tall soldier beseeched.
"Yes--yes--I tell yeh--I'll take care of yeh, Jim!" protested the
youth. He could not speak accurately because of the gulpings in his
throat.
But the tall soldier continued to beg in a lowly way. He now hung
babelike to the youth's arm. His eyes rolled in the wildness of his
terror. "I was allus a good friend t' yeh, wa'n't I, Henry? I 've
allus been a pretty good feller, ain't I? An' it ain't much t' ask, is
it? Jest t' pull me along outer th' road? I 'd do it fer you,
Wouldn't I, Henry?"
He paused in piteous anxiety to await his friend's reply.
The youth had reached an anguish where the sobs scorched him. He
strove to express his loyalty, but he could only make fantastic
gestures.
However, the tall soldier seemed suddenly to forget all those fears. He
became again the grim, stalking specter of a soldier. He went stonily
forward. The youth wished his friend to lean upon him, but the other
always shook his head and strangely protested. "No--no--no--leave me
be--leave me be--"
His look was fixed again upon the unknown. He moved with mysterious
purpose, and all of the youth's offers he brushed aside. "No--no--leave
me be--leave me be--"
The youth had to follow.
Presently the latter heard a voice talking softly near his shoulders.
Turning he saw that it belonged to the tattered soldier. "Ye 'd better
take 'im outa th' road, pardner. There 's a batt'ry comin' helitywhoop
down th' road an' he 'll git runned over. He 's a goner anyhow in
about five minutes--yeh kin see that. Ye 'd better take 'im outa th'
road. Where th' blazes does he git his stren'th from?"
"Lord knows!" cried the youth. He was shaking his hands helplessly.
He ran forward presently and grasped the tall soldier by the arm. "Jim!
Jim!" he coaxed, "come with me."
The tall soldier weakly tried to wrench himself free. "Huh," he said
vacantly. He stared at the youth for a moment. At last he spoke as if
dimly comprehending. "Oh! Inteh th' fields? Oh!"
He started blindly through the grass.
The youth turned once to look at the lashing riders and jouncing guns
of the battery. He was startled from this view by a shrill outcry from
the tattered man.
"Gawd! He's runnin'!"
Turning his head swiftly, the youth saw his friend running in a
staggering and stumbling way toward a little clump of bushes. His
heart seemed to wrench itself almost free from his body at this sight.
He made a noise of pain. He and the tattered man began a pursuit. There
was a singular race.
When he overtook the tall soldier he began to plead with all the words
he could find. "Jim--Jim--what are you doing--what makes you do this
way--you 'll hurt yerself."
The same purpose was in the tall soldier's face. He protested in a
dulled way, keeping his eyes fastened on the mystic place of his
intentions. "No--no--don't tech me--leave me be--leave me be--"
The youth, aghast and filled with wonder at the tall soldier, began
quaveringly to question him. "Where yeh goin', Jim? What you thinking
about? Where you going? Tell me, won't you, Jim?"
The tall soldier faced about as upon relentless pursuers. In his eyes
there was a great appeal. "Leave me be, can't yeh? Leave me be fer a
minnit."
The youth recoiled. "Why, Jim," he said, in a dazed way, "what's the
matter with you?"
The tall soldier turned and, lurching dangerously, went on. The youth
and the tattered soldier followed, sneaking as if whipped, feeling
unable to face the stricken man if he should again confront them. They
began to have thoughts of a solemn ceremony. There was something
rite-like in these movements of the doomed soldier. And there was a
resemblance in him to a devotee of a mad religion, blood-sucking,
muscle-wrenching, bone-crushing. They were awed and afraid. They hung
back lest he have at command a dreadful weapon.
At last, they saw him stop and stand motionless. Hastening up, they
perceived that his face wore an expression telling that he had at last
found the place for which he had struggled. His spare figure was
erect; his bloody hands were quietly at his side. He was waiting with
patience for something that he had come to meet. He was at the
rendezvous. They paused and stood, expectant.
There was a silence.
Finally, the chest of the doomed soldier began to heave with a strained
motion. It increased in violence until it was as if an animal was
within and was kicking and tumbling furiously to be free.
This spectacle of gradual strangulation made the youth writhe, and once
as his friend rolled his eyes, he saw something in them that made him
sink wailing to the ground. He raised his voice in a last supreme call.
"Jim--Jim--Jim--"
The tall soldier opened his lips and spoke. He made a gesture. "Leave
me be--don't tech me--leave me be--"
There was another silence while he waited.
Suddenly, his form stiffened and straightened. Then it was shaken by a
prolonged ague. He stared into space. To the two watchers there was a
curious and profound dignity in the firm lines of his awful face.
He was invaded by a creeping strangeness that slowly enveloped him. For
a moment the tremor of his legs caused him to dance a sort of hideous
hornpipe. His arms beat wildly about his head in expression of implike
enthusiasm.
His tall figure stretched itself to its full height. There was a slight
rending sound. Then it began to swing forward, slow and straight, in
the manner of a falling tree. A swift muscular contortion made the
left shoulder strike the ground first.
The body seemed to bounce a little way from the earth. "God!" said the
tattered soldier.
The youth had watched, spellbound, this ceremony at the place of
meeting. His face had been twisted into an expression of every agony
he had imagined for his friend.
He now sprang to his feet and, going closer, gazed upon the pastelike
face. The mouth was open and the teeth showed in a laugh.
As the flap of the blue jacket fell away from the body, he could see
that the side looked as if it had been chewed by wolves.
The youth turned, with sudden, livid rage, toward the battlefield. He
shook his fist. He seemed about to deliver a philippic.
"Hell--"
The red sun was pasted in the sky like a wafer. | Henry falls back in the procession to avoid the tattered man. As he observes the wounded soldiers around him, he becomes envious of their injuries; he considers a wound proof of valor--a "red badge of courage"--and wishes that he had one. He walks by the spectral soldier that he noticed earlier, a gray man staring blankly into "the unknown. Henry suddenly realizes the man's identity and cries out: "Gawd. Jim Conklin. Jim greets Henry wearily and asks where he has been, telling him, "I got shot. Jim adds that he is afraid of falling down and being run over by the artillery wagons. Henry promises to take care of him. Jim seems reassured, but soon orders Henry to leave him alone and not touch him. Baffled, Henry tries to lead Jim into the fields, where the artillery wagons will not frighten him, but Jim musters the strength to run away toward a small clump of bushes. Henry and the tattered man follow after him, watching in horror as Jim convulses, collapses, and dies. The flap of Jim's blue jacket falls away from his body, and Henry sees that his side looks "as if it had been chewed by wolves. Consumed with rage at his friend's death, Henry clenches his fist and shakes it angrily in the direction of the battlefield |
NIGHT--THE FLOCK--AN INTERIOR--ANOTHER INTERIOR
It was nearly midnight on the eve of St. Thomas's, the shortest day
in the year. A desolating wind wandered from the north over the hill
whereon Oak had watched the yellow waggon and its occupant in the
sunshine of a few days earlier.
Norcombe Hill--not far from lonely Toller-Down--was one of the spots
which suggest to a passer-by that he is in the presence of a shape
approaching the indestructible as nearly as any to be found on
earth. It was a featureless convexity of chalk and soil--an ordinary
specimen of those smoothly-outlined protuberances of the globe which
may remain undisturbed on some great day of confusion, when far
grander heights and dizzy granite precipices topple down.
The hill was covered on its northern side by an ancient and decaying
plantation of beeches, whose upper verge formed a line over the
crest, fringing its arched curve against the sky, like a mane.
To-night these trees sheltered the southern slope from the keenest
blasts, which smote the wood and floundered through it with a sound
as of grumbling, or gushed over its crowning boughs in a weakened
moan. The dry leaves in the ditch simmered and boiled in the same
breezes, a tongue of air occasionally ferreting out a few, and
sending them spinning across the grass. A group or two of the latest
in date amongst the dead multitude had remained till this very
mid-winter time on the twigs which bore them and in falling rattled
against the trunks with smart taps.
Between this half-wooded half-naked hill, and the vague still horizon
that its summit indistinctly commanded, was a mysterious sheet of
fathomless shade--the sounds from which suggested that what it
concealed bore some reduced resemblance to features here. The thin
grasses, more or less coating the hill, were touched by the wind in
breezes of differing powers, and almost of differing natures--one
rubbing the blades heavily, another raking them piercingly, another
brushing them like a soft broom. The instinctive act of humankind
was to stand and listen, and learn how the trees on the right and the
trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular
antiphonies of a cathedral choir; how hedges and other shapes to
leeward then caught the note, lowering it to the tenderest sob; and
how the hurrying gust then plunged into the south, to be heard no
more.
The sky was clear--remarkably clear--and the twinkling of all the
stars seemed to be but throbs of one body, timed by a common pulse.
The North Star was directly in the wind's eye, and since evening the
Bear had swung round it outwardly to the east, till he was now at
a right angle with the meridian. A difference of colour in the
stars--oftener read of than seen in England--was really perceptible
here. The sovereign brilliancy of Sirius pierced the eye with a
steely glitter, the star called Capella was yellow, Aldebaran and
Betelgueux shone with a fiery red.
To persons standing alone on a hill during a clear midnight such as
this, the roll of the world eastward is almost a palpable movement.
The sensation may be caused by the panoramic glide of the stars past
earthly objects, which is perceptible in a few minutes of stillness,
or by the better outlook upon space that a hill affords, or by the
wind, or by the solitude; but whatever be its origin, the impression
of riding along is vivid and abiding. The poetry of motion is a
phrase much in use, and to enjoy the epic form of that gratification
it is necessary to stand on a hill at a small hour of the night,
and, having first expanded with a sense of difference from the mass
of civilised mankind, who are dreamwrapt and disregardful of all
such proceedings at this time, long and quietly watch your stately
progress through the stars. After such a nocturnal reconnoitre it is
hard to get back to earth, and to believe that the consciousness of
such majestic speeding is derived from a tiny human frame.
Suddenly an unexpected series of sounds began to be heard in this
place up against the sky. They had a clearness which was to be found
nowhere in the wind, and a sequence which was to be found nowhere in
nature. They were the notes of Farmer Oak's flute.
The tune was not floating unhindered into the open air: it seemed
muffled in some way, and was altogether too curtailed in power to
spread high or wide. It came from the direction of a small dark
object under the plantation hedge--a shepherd's hut--now presenting
an outline to which an uninitiated person might have been puzzled
to attach either meaning or use.
The image as a whole was that of a small Noah's Ark on a small
Ararat, allowing the traditionary outlines and general form of
the Ark which are followed by toy-makers--and by these means are
established in men's imaginations among their firmest, because
earliest impressions--to pass as an approximate pattern. The hut
stood on little wheels, which raised its floor about a foot from the
ground. Such shepherds' huts are dragged into the fields when the
lambing season comes on, to shelter the shepherd in his enforced
nightly attendance.
It was only latterly that people had begun to call Gabriel "Farmer"
Oak. During the twelvemonth preceding this time he had been enabled
by sustained efforts of industry and chronic good spirits to lease
the small sheep-farm of which Norcombe Hill was a portion, and stock
it with two hundred sheep. Previously he had been a bailiff for a
short time, and earlier still a shepherd only, having from his
childhood assisted his father in tending the flocks of large
proprietors, till old Gabriel sank to rest.
This venture, unaided and alone, into the paths of farming as master
and not as man, with an advance of sheep not yet paid for, was a
critical juncture with Gabriel Oak, and he recognised his position
clearly. The first movement in his new progress was the lambing of
his ewes, and sheep having been his speciality from his youth, he
wisely refrained from deputing the task of tending them at this
season to a hireling or a novice.
The wind continued to beat about the corners of the hut, but the
flute-playing ceased. A rectangular space of light appeared in the
side of the hut, and in the opening the outline of Farmer Oak's
figure. He carried a lantern in his hand, and closing the door
behind him, came forward and busied himself about this nook of the
field for nearly twenty minutes, the lantern light appearing and
disappearing here and there, and brightening him or darkening him
as he stood before or behind it.
Oak's motions, though they had a quiet-energy, were slow, and their
deliberateness accorded well with his occupation. Fitness being the
basis of beauty, nobody could have denied that his steady swings and
turns in and about the flock had elements of grace. Yet, although if
occasion demanded he could do or think a thing with as mercurial a
dash as can the men of towns who are more to the manner born, his
special power, morally, physically, and mentally, was static, owing
little or nothing to momentum as a rule.
A close examination of the ground hereabout, even by the wan
starlight only, revealed how a portion of what would have been
casually called a wild slope had been appropriated by Farmer Oak for
his great purpose this winter. Detached hurdles thatched with straw
were stuck into the ground at various scattered points, amid and
under which the whitish forms of his meek ewes moved and rustled.
The ring of the sheep-bell, which had been silent during his absence,
recommenced, in tones that had more mellowness than clearness, owing
to an increasing growth of surrounding wool. This continued till Oak
withdrew again from the flock. He returned to the hut, bringing in
his arms a new-born lamb, consisting of four legs large enough for
a full-grown sheep, united by a seemingly inconsiderable membrane
about half the substance of the legs collectively, which constituted
the animal's entire body just at present.
The little speck of life he placed on a wisp of hay before the small
stove, where a can of milk was simmering. Oak extinguished the
lantern by blowing into it and then pinching the snuff, the cot being
lighted by a candle suspended by a twisted wire. A rather hard
couch, formed of a few corn sacks thrown carelessly down, covered
half the floor of this little habitation, and here the young man
stretched himself along, loosened his woollen cravat, and closed his
eyes. In about the time a person unaccustomed to bodily labour would
have decided upon which side to lie, Farmer Oak was asleep.
The inside of the hut, as it now presented itself, was cosy and
alluring, and the scarlet handful of fire in addition to the candle,
reflecting its own genial colour upon whatever it could reach, flung
associations of enjoyment even over utensils and tools. In the
corner stood the sheep-crook, and along a shelf at one side were
ranged bottles and canisters of the simple preparations pertaining to
ovine surgery and physic; spirits of wine, turpentine, tar, magnesia,
ginger, and castor-oil being the chief. On a triangular shelf across
the corner stood bread, bacon, cheese, and a cup for ale or cider,
which was supplied from a flagon beneath. Beside the provisions lay
the flute, whose notes had lately been called forth by the lonely
watcher to beguile a tedious hour. The house was ventilated by two
round holes, like the lights of a ship's cabin, with wood slides.
The lamb, revived by the warmth began to bleat, and the sound entered
Gabriel's ears and brain with an instant meaning, as expected
sounds will. Passing from the profoundest sleep to the most alert
wakefulness with the same ease that had accompanied the reverse
operation, he looked at his watch, found that the hour-hand had
shifted again, put on his hat, took the lamb in his arms, and carried
it into the darkness. After placing the little creature with its
mother, he stood and carefully examined the sky, to ascertain the
time of night from the altitudes of the stars.
The Dog-star and Aldebaran, pointing to the restless Pleiades, were
half-way up the Southern sky, and between them hung Orion, which
gorgeous constellation never burnt more vividly than now, as it
soared forth above the rim of the landscape. Castor and Pollux with
their quiet shine were almost on the meridian: the barren and gloomy
Square of Pegasus was creeping round to the north-west; far away
through the plantation Vega sparkled like a lamp suspended amid the
leafless trees, and Cassiopeia's chair stood daintily poised on the
uppermost boughs.
"One o'clock," said Gabriel.
Being a man not without a frequent consciousness that there was some
charm in this life he led, he stood still after looking at the sky
as a useful instrument, and regarded it in an appreciative spirit,
as a work of art superlatively beautiful. For a moment he seemed
impressed with the speaking loneliness of the scene, or rather with
the complete abstraction from all its compass of the sights and
sounds of man. Human shapes, interferences, troubles, and joys
were all as if they were not, and there seemed to be on the shaded
hemisphere of the globe no sentient being save himself; he could
fancy them all gone round to the sunny side.
Occupied thus, with eyes stretched afar, Oak gradually perceived
that what he had previously taken to be a star low down behind the
outskirts of the plantation was in reality no such thing. It was an
artificial light, almost close at hand.
To find themselves utterly alone at night where company is desirable
and expected makes some people fearful; but a case more trying by
far to the nerves is to discover some mysterious companionship when
intuition, sensation, memory, analogy, testimony, probability,
induction--every kind of evidence in the logician's list--have united
to persuade consciousness that it is quite in isolation.
Farmer Oak went towards the plantation and pushed through its lower
boughs to the windy side. A dim mass under the slope reminded him
that a shed occupied a place here, the site being a cutting into the
slope of the hill, so that at its back part the roof was almost level
with the ground. In front it was formed of board nailed to posts and
covered with tar as a preservative. Through crevices in the roof and
side spread streaks and dots of light, a combination of which made
the radiance that had attracted him. Oak stepped up behind, where,
leaning down upon the roof and putting his eye close to a hole, he
could see into the interior clearly.
The place contained two women and two cows. By the side of the
latter a steaming bran-mash stood in a bucket. One of the women was
past middle age. Her companion was apparently young and graceful;
he could form no decided opinion upon her looks, her position being
almost beneath his eye, so that he saw her in a bird's-eye view, as
Milton's Satan first saw Paradise. She wore no bonnet or hat, but
had enveloped herself in a large cloak, which was carelessly flung
over her head as a covering.
"There, now we'll go home," said the elder of the two, resting her
knuckles upon her hips, and looking at their goings-on as a whole.
"I do hope Daisy will fetch round again now. I have never been more
frightened in my life, but I don't mind breaking my rest if she
recovers."
The young woman, whose eyelids were apparently inclined to fall
together on the smallest provocation of silence, yawned without
parting her lips to any inconvenient extent, whereupon Gabriel caught
the infection and slightly yawned in sympathy.
"I wish we were rich enough to pay a man to do these things," she
said.
"As we are not, we must do them ourselves," said the other; "for you
must help me if you stay."
"Well, my hat is gone, however," continued the younger. "It went over
the hedge, I think. The idea of such a slight wind catching it."
The cow standing erect was of the Devon breed, and was encased in a
tight warm hide of rich Indian red, as absolutely uniform from eyes
to tail as if the animal had been dipped in a dye of that colour, her
long back being mathematically level. The other was spotted, grey
and white. Beside her Oak now noticed a little calf about a day old,
looking idiotically at the two women, which showed that it had not
long been accustomed to the phenomenon of eyesight, and often turning
to the lantern, which it apparently mistook for the moon, inherited
instinct having as yet had little time for correction by experience.
Between the sheep and the cows Lucina had been busy on Norcombe Hill
lately.
"I think we had better send for some oatmeal," said the elder woman;
"there's no more bran."
"Yes, aunt; and I'll ride over for it as soon as it is light."
"But there's no side-saddle."
"I can ride on the other: trust me."
Oak, upon hearing these remarks, became more curious to observe her
features, but this prospect being denied him by the hooding effect of
the cloak, and by his aerial position, he felt himself drawing upon
his fancy for their details. In making even horizontal and clear
inspections we colour and mould according to the wants within us
whatever our eyes bring in. Had Gabriel been able from the first to
get a distinct view of her countenance, his estimate of it as very
handsome or slightly so would have been as his soul required a
divinity at the moment or was ready supplied with one. Having for
some time known the want of a satisfactory form to fill an increasing
void within him, his position moreover affording the widest scope for
his fancy, he painted her a beauty.
By one of those whimsical coincidences in which Nature, like a busy
mother, seems to spare a moment from her unremitting labours to turn
and make her children smile, the girl now dropped the cloak, and
forth tumbled ropes of black hair over a red jacket. Oak knew
her instantly as the heroine of the yellow waggon, myrtles, and
looking-glass: prosily, as the woman who owed him twopence.
They placed the calf beside its mother again, took up the lantern,
and went out, the light sinking down the hill till it was no more
than a nebula. Gabriel Oak returned to his flock. | Swirling winds blew over Norcombe Hill one St. Thomas' Eve. "The trees on the right and the trees on the left wailed or chaunted to each other in the regular antiphonies of a cathedral choir." Mingling with the wintry midnight sounds came the sounds of a flute. They issued from a small, arklike structure on wheels, of the type shepherds dragged about the fields to shelter themselves as they attended to their ewes at lambing time. Gabriel was keeping vigil. After less than a year "as master and not as man," he now owned two hundred ewes, which he kept on leased land. With his lantern, he made the rounds of the straw-thatched hurdles around which the ewes stood. Cradling a fragile, newborn lamb, he hastened back to his hut and placed it on some hay before the bit of fire. The hut's furnishings were meager: they consisted of a small stove, a bed of corn sacks, a few medications and ointments, some food, and the flute. Not stopping to adjust the two round ventilating holes, Oak instantly fell asleep on his cornshuck bed. Soon the warmth restored the lamb, which began to bleat. Gabriel roused instantly and carried it back to its mother. The stars told him, his timepiece having failed as usual, that scarcely an hour had passed. Perceiving a faint light on the horizon, Gabriel went to the edge of the plantation to check. The light came from a hut built into the slope. As he looked through the chinks in the roof, the light illuminated two women tending an ailing cow, and a second cow just delivered of a calf. The older woman was glad the cow was improving; the younger lamented that there was no man to do these heavy chores and that she had lost her hat. All the same, she volunteered to ride to town to fetch cereals in the morning. As the enshrouding cloak fell from her head, Gabriel discerned the dark tresses and red jacket of the girl he had seen in the wagon. |
SCENE 2.
A street in Windsor.
[Enter MISTRESS PAGE and ROBIN.]
MRS. PAGE.
Nay, keep your way, little gallant: you were wont to be a follower,
but now you are a leader. Whether had you rather lead mine eyes,
or eye your master's heels?
ROBIN.
I had rather, forsooth, go before you like a man than follow him
like a dwarf.
MRS. PAGE.
O! you are a flattering boy: now I see you'll be a courtier.
[Enter FORD.]
FORD.
Well met, Mistress Page. Whither go you?
MRS. PAGE.
Truly, sir, to see your wife. Is she at home?
FORD.
Ay; and as idle as she may hang together, for want of company.
I think, if your husbands were dead, you two would marry.
MRS. PAGE.
Be sure of that--two other husbands.
FORD.
Where had you this pretty weathercock?
MRS. PAGE.
I cannot tell what the dickens his name is my husband had him of.
What do you call your knight's name, sirrah?
ROBIN.
Sir John Falstaff.
FORD.
Sir John Falstaff!
MRS. PAGE.
He, he; I can never hit on's name. There is such a league between
my good man and he! Is your wife at home indeed?
FORD.
Indeed she is.
MRS. PAGE.
By your leave, sir: I am sick till I see her.
[Exeunt MRS. PAGE and ROBIN.]
FORD.
Has Page any brains? Hath he any eyes? Hath he any thinking? Sure,
they sleep; he hath no use of them. Why, this boy will carry a
letter twenty mile as easy as a cannon will shoot point-blank
twelve score. He pieces out his wife's inclination; he gives
her folly motion and advantage; and now she's going to my wife,
and Falstaff's boy with her. A man may hear this shower sing in
the wind: and Falstaff's boy with her! Good plots! They are laid;
and our revolted wives share damnation together. Well; I will take
him, then torture my wife, pluck the borrowed veil of modesty from
the so seeming Mistress Page, divulge Page himself for a secure
and wilful Actaeon; and to these violent proceedings all my
neighbours shall cry aim. [Clock strikes] The clock gives me my
cue, and my assurance bids me search; there I shall find Falstaff.
I shall be rather praised for this than mocked; for it is as
positive as the earth is firm that Falstaff is there. I will go.
[Enter PAGE, SHALLOW, SLENDER, HOST, SIR HUGH EVANS,
CAIUS, and RUGBY.]
SHALLOW, PAGE, &c.
Well met, Master Ford.
FORD.
Trust me, a good knot; I have good cheer at home, and I pray you
all go with me.
SHALLOW.
I must excuse myself, Master Ford.
SLENDER.
And so must I, sir; we have appointed to dine with Mistress Anne,
and I would not break with her for more money than I'll speak of.
SHALLOW.
We have lingered about a match between Anne Page and my cousin
Slender, and this day we shall have our answer.
SLENDER.
I hope I have your good will, father Page.
PAGE.
You have, Master Slender; I stand wholly for you. But my wife,
Master doctor, is for you altogether.
CAIUS.
Ay, be-gar; and de maid is love-a me: my nursh-a Quickly tell me
so mush.
HOST.
What say you to young Master Fenton? He capers, he dances, he has
eyes of youth, he writes verses, he speaks holiday, he smells April
and May; he will carry 't, he will carry 't; 'tis in his buttons;
he will carry 't.
PAGE.
Not by my consent, I promise you. The gentleman is of no having:
he kept company with the wild Prince and Pointz; he is of too high
a region, he knows too much. No, he shall not knit a knot in his
fortunes with the finger of my substance; if he take her, let him
take her simply; the wealth I have waits on my consent, and my
consent goes not that way.
FORD.
I beseech you, heartily, some of you go home with me to dinner:
besides your cheer, you shall have sport; I will show you a monster.
Master Doctor, you shall go; so shall you, Master Page; and you,
Sir Hugh.
SHALLOW.
Well, fare you well; we shall have the freer wooing at Master Page's.
[Exeunt SHALLOW and SLENDER.]
CAIUS.
Go home, John Rugby; I come anon.
[Exit RUGBY.]
HOST.
Farewell, my hearts; I will to my honest knight Falstaff, and drink
canary with him.
[Exit HOST.]
FORD.
[Aside] I think I shall drink in pipe-wine first with him. I'll
make him dance. Will you go, gentles?
ALL.
Have with you to see this monster.
[Exeunt.] | Ford encounters Mrs. Page with Falstaff's page, Robin, which leads Ford to jump to conclusions and mock the absent Page for his stupidity in not suspecting his wife. He vows that he will torture his wife, expose Mrs. Page and show what a fool Page is. He resolves to go to his own house when he knows Falstaff will be there with his wife. . Page, Shallow, Slender, Host, Evans and Caius enter. They are on their way to dine with Anne Page. Shallow and Slender hope to have an answer that day as to whether Slender will be able to marry Anne. Page supports his suit, but Mrs. Page prefers Caius. Host mentions Fenton, but Page says that Fenton is from too high a social class to be suitable for his daughter. . Ford invites them all to his house to witness a monster . . |
No misfortune occurred, again to prevent the ball. The day approached,
the day arrived; and after a morning of some anxious watching, Frank
Churchill, in all the certainty of his own self, reached Randalls before
dinner, and every thing was safe.
No second meeting had there yet been between him and Emma. The room
at the Crown was to witness it;--but it would be better than a
common meeting in a crowd. Mr. Weston had been so very earnest in his
entreaties for her arriving there as soon as possible after themselves,
for the purpose of taking her opinion as to the propriety and comfort of
the rooms before any other persons came, that she could not refuse him,
and must therefore spend some quiet interval in the young man's company.
She was to convey Harriet, and they drove to the Crown in good time, the
Randalls party just sufficiently before them.
Frank Churchill seemed to have been on the watch; and though he did not
say much, his eyes declared that he meant to have a delightful evening.
They all walked about together, to see that every thing was as it should
be; and within a few minutes were joined by the contents of another
carriage, which Emma could not hear the sound of at first, without great
surprize. "So unreasonably early!" she was going to exclaim; but she
presently found that it was a family of old friends, who were coming,
like herself, by particular desire, to help Mr. Weston's judgment; and
they were so very closely followed by another carriage of cousins,
who had been entreated to come early with the same distinguishing
earnestness, on the same errand, that it seemed as if half the company
might soon be collected together for the purpose of preparatory
inspection.
Emma perceived that her taste was not the only taste on which Mr. Weston
depended, and felt, that to be the favourite and intimate of a man
who had so many intimates and confidantes, was not the very first
distinction in the scale of vanity. She liked his open manners, but
a little less of open-heartedness would have made him a higher
character.--General benevolence, but not general friendship, made a
man what he ought to be.--She could fancy such a man. The whole party
walked about, and looked, and praised again; and then, having nothing
else to do, formed a sort of half-circle round the fire, to observe
in their various modes, till other subjects were started, that, though
_May_, a fire in the evening was still very pleasant.
Emma found that it was not Mr. Weston's fault that the number of privy
councillors was not yet larger. They had stopped at Mrs. Bates's door
to offer the use of their carriage, but the aunt and niece were to be
brought by the Eltons.
Frank was standing by her, but not steadily; there was a restlessness,
which shewed a mind not at ease. He was looking about, he was going to
the door, he was watching for the sound of other carriages,--impatient
to begin, or afraid of being always near her.
Mrs. Elton was spoken of. "I think she must be here soon," said he. "I
have a great curiosity to see Mrs. Elton, I have heard so much of her.
It cannot be long, I think, before she comes."
A carriage was heard. He was on the move immediately; but coming back,
said,
"I am forgetting that I am not acquainted with her. I have never seen
either Mr. or Mrs. Elton. I have no business to put myself forward."
Mr. and Mrs. Elton appeared; and all the smiles and the proprieties
passed.
"But Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax!" said Mr. Weston, looking about. "We
thought you were to bring them."
The mistake had been slight. The carriage was sent for them now. Emma
longed to know what Frank's first opinion of Mrs. Elton might be; how
he was affected by the studied elegance of her dress, and her smiles of
graciousness. He was immediately qualifying himself to form an opinion,
by giving her very proper attention, after the introduction had passed.
In a few minutes the carriage returned.--Somebody talked of rain.--"I
will see that there are umbrellas, sir," said Frank to his father:
"Miss Bates must not be forgotten:" and away he went. Mr. Weston was
following; but Mrs. Elton detained him, to gratify him by her opinion
of his son; and so briskly did she begin, that the young man himself,
though by no means moving slowly, could hardly be out of hearing.
"A very fine young man indeed, Mr. Weston. You know I candidly told you
I should form my own opinion; and I am happy to say that I am extremely
pleased with him.--You may believe me. I never compliment. I think him
a very handsome young man, and his manners are precisely what I like and
approve--so truly the gentleman, without the least conceit or puppyism.
You must know I have a vast dislike to puppies--quite a horror of them.
They were never tolerated at Maple Grove. Neither Mr. Suckling nor
me had ever any patience with them; and we used sometimes to say very
cutting things! Selina, who is mild almost to a fault, bore with them
much better."
While she talked of his son, Mr. Weston's attention was chained; but
when she got to Maple Grove, he could recollect that there were ladies
just arriving to be attended to, and with happy smiles must hurry away.
Mrs. Elton turned to Mrs. Weston. "I have no doubt of its being our
carriage with Miss Bates and Jane. Our coachman and horses are so
extremely expeditious!--I believe we drive faster than any body.--What
a pleasure it is to send one's carriage for a friend!--I understand you
were so kind as to offer, but another time it will be quite unnecessary.
You may be very sure I shall always take care of _them_."
Miss Bates and Miss Fairfax, escorted by the two gentlemen, walked into
the room; and Mrs. Elton seemed to think it as much her duty as Mrs.
Weston's to receive them. Her gestures and movements might be understood
by any one who looked on like Emma; but her words, every body's words,
were soon lost under the incessant flow of Miss Bates, who came in
talking, and had not finished her speech under many minutes after her
being admitted into the circle at the fire. As the door opened she was
heard,
"So very obliging of you!--No rain at all. Nothing to signify. I do not
care for myself. Quite thick shoes. And Jane declares--Well!--(as soon
as she was within the door) Well! This is brilliant indeed!--This is
admirable!--Excellently contrived, upon my word. Nothing wanting. Could
not have imagined it.--So well lighted up!--Jane, Jane, look!--did you
ever see any thing? Oh! Mr. Weston, you must really have had Aladdin's
lamp. Good Mrs. Stokes would not know her own room again. I saw her as
I came in; she was standing in the entrance. 'Oh! Mrs. Stokes,' said
I--but I had not time for more." She was now met by Mrs. Weston.--"Very
well, I thank you, ma'am. I hope you are quite well. Very happy to hear
it. So afraid you might have a headache!--seeing you pass by so often,
and knowing how much trouble you must have. Delighted to hear it indeed.
Ah! dear Mrs. Elton, so obliged to you for the carriage!--excellent
time. Jane and I quite ready. Did not keep the horses a moment. Most
comfortable carriage.--Oh! and I am sure our thanks are due to you,
Mrs. Weston, on that score. Mrs. Elton had most kindly sent Jane a note,
or we should have been.--But two such offers in one day!--Never were
such neighbours. I said to my mother, 'Upon my word, ma'am--.' Thank
you, my mother is remarkably well. Gone to Mr. Woodhouse's. I made her
take her shawl--for the evenings are not warm--her large new shawl--
Mrs. Dixon's wedding-present.--So kind of her to think of my mother!
Bought at Weymouth, you know--Mr. Dixon's choice. There were three
others, Jane says, which they hesitated about some time. Colonel
Campbell rather preferred an olive. My dear Jane, are you sure you did
not wet your feet?--It was but a drop or two, but I am so afraid:--but
Mr. Frank Churchill was so extremely--and there was a mat to step
upon--I shall never forget his extreme politeness.--Oh! Mr. Frank
Churchill, I must tell you my mother's spectacles have never been in
fault since; the rivet never came out again. My mother often talks of
your good-nature. Does not she, Jane?--Do not we often talk of Mr. Frank
Churchill?--Ah! here's Miss Woodhouse.--Dear Miss Woodhouse, how do
you do?--Very well I thank you, quite well. This is meeting quite
in fairy-land!--Such a transformation!--Must not compliment, I know
(eyeing Emma most complacently)--that would be rude--but upon my word,
Miss Woodhouse, you do look--how do you like Jane's hair?--You are
a judge.--She did it all herself. Quite wonderful how she does her
hair!--No hairdresser from London I think could.--Ah! Dr. Hughes I
declare--and Mrs. Hughes. Must go and speak to Dr. and Mrs. Hughes for a
moment.--How do you do? How do you do?--Very well, I thank you. This
is delightful, is not it?--Where's dear Mr. Richard?--Oh! there he is.
Don't disturb him. Much better employed talking to the young ladies. How
do you do, Mr. Richard?--I saw you the other day as you rode through
the town--Mrs. Otway, I protest!--and good Mr. Otway, and Miss Otway
and Miss Caroline.--Such a host of friends!--and Mr. George and Mr.
Arthur!--How do you do? How do you all do?--Quite well, I am much
obliged to you. Never better.--Don't I hear another carriage?--Who can
this be?--very likely the worthy Coles.--Upon my word, this is charming
to be standing about among such friends! And such a noble fire!--I am
quite roasted. No coffee, I thank you, for me--never take coffee.--A
little tea if you please, sir, by and bye,--no hurry--Oh! here it comes.
Every thing so good!"
Frank Churchill returned to his station by Emma; and as soon as Miss
Bates was quiet, she found herself necessarily overhearing the discourse
of Mrs. Elton and Miss Fairfax, who were standing a little way behind
her.--He was thoughtful. Whether he were overhearing too, she could not
determine. After a good many compliments to Jane on her dress and look,
compliments very quietly and properly taken, Mrs. Elton was evidently
wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like
my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my
hair?"--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient
politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in
general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when every body's
eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have
no doubt are giving this ball chiefly to do me honour--I would not wish
to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except
mine.--So Frank Churchill is a capital dancer, I understand.--We shall
see if our styles suit.--A fine young man certainly is Frank Churchill.
I like him very well."
At this moment Frank began talking so vigorously, that Emma could not
but imagine he had overheard his own praises, and did not want to hear
more;--and the voices of the ladies were drowned for a while, till
another suspension brought Mrs. Elton's tones again distinctly
forward.--Mr. Elton had just joined them, and his wife was exclaiming,
"Oh! you have found us out at last, have you, in our seclusion?--I was
this moment telling Jane, I thought you would begin to be impatient for
tidings of us."
"Jane!"--repeated Frank Churchill, with a look of surprize and
displeasure.--"That is easy--but Miss Fairfax does not disapprove it, I
suppose."
"How do you like Mrs. Elton?" said Emma in a whisper.
"Not at all."
"You are ungrateful."
"Ungrateful!--What do you mean?" Then changing from a frown to a
smile--"No, do not tell me--I do not want to know what you mean.--Where
is my father?--When are we to begin dancing?"
Emma could hardly understand him; he seemed in an odd humour. He walked
off to find his father, but was quickly back again with both Mr. and
Mrs. Weston. He had met with them in a little perplexity, which must be
laid before Emma. It had just occurred to Mrs. Weston that Mrs. Elton
must be asked to begin the ball; that she would expect it; which
interfered with all their wishes of giving Emma that distinction.--Emma
heard the sad truth with fortitude.
"And what are we to do for a proper partner for her?" said Mr. Weston.
"She will think Frank ought to ask her."
Frank turned instantly to Emma, to claim her former promise; and
boasted himself an engaged man, which his father looked his most perfect
approbation of--and it then appeared that Mrs. Weston was wanting _him_
to dance with Mrs. Elton himself, and that their business was to help to
persuade him into it, which was done pretty soon.--Mr. Weston and Mrs.
Elton led the way, Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Woodhouse followed.
Emma must submit to stand second to Mrs. Elton, though she had always
considered the ball as peculiarly for her. It was almost enough to make
her think of marrying. Mrs. Elton had undoubtedly the advantage, at this
time, in vanity completely gratified; for though she had intended to
begin with Frank Churchill, she could not lose by the change. Mr. Weston
might be his son's superior.--In spite of this little rub, however,
Emma was smiling with enjoyment, delighted to see the respectable length
of the set as it was forming, and to feel that she had so many hours
of unusual festivity before her.--She was more disturbed by Mr.
Knightley's not dancing than by any thing else.--There he was, among
the standers-by, where he ought not to be; he ought to be dancing,--not
classing himself with the husbands, and fathers, and whist-players, who
were pretending to feel an interest in the dance till their rubbers were
made up,--so young as he looked!--He could not have appeared to greater
advantage perhaps anywhere, than where he had placed himself. His tall,
firm, upright figure, among the bulky forms and stooping shoulders of
the elderly men, was such as Emma felt must draw every body's eyes;
and, excepting her own partner, there was not one among the whole row of
young men who could be compared with him.--He moved a few steps nearer,
and those few steps were enough to prove in how gentlemanlike a manner,
with what natural grace, he must have danced, would he but take the
trouble.--Whenever she caught his eye, she forced him to smile; but
in general he was looking grave. She wished he could love a ballroom
better, and could like Frank Churchill better.--He seemed often
observing her. She must not flatter herself that he thought of her
dancing, but if he were criticising her behaviour, she did not feel
afraid. There was nothing like flirtation between her and her partner.
They seemed more like cheerful, easy friends, than lovers. That Frank
Churchill thought less of her than he had done, was indubitable.
The ball proceeded pleasantly. The anxious cares, the incessant
attentions of Mrs. Weston, were not thrown away. Every body seemed
happy; and the praise of being a delightful ball, which is seldom
bestowed till after a ball has ceased to be, was repeatedly given in
the very beginning of the existence of this. Of very important, very
recordable events, it was not more productive than such meetings usually
are. There was one, however, which Emma thought something of.--The two
last dances before supper were begun, and Harriet had no partner;--the
only young lady sitting down;--and so equal had been hitherto the
number of dancers, that how there could be any one disengaged was the
wonder!--But Emma's wonder lessened soon afterwards, on seeing Mr. Elton
sauntering about. He would not ask Harriet to dance if it were possible
to be avoided: she was sure he would not--and she was expecting him
every moment to escape into the card-room.
Escape, however, was not his plan. He came to the part of the room where
the sitters-by were collected, spoke to some, and walked about in front
of them, as if to shew his liberty, and his resolution of maintaining
it. He did not omit being sometimes directly before Miss Smith, or
speaking to those who were close to her.--Emma saw it. She was not yet
dancing; she was working her way up from the bottom, and had therefore
leisure to look around, and by only turning her head a little she saw
it all. When she was half-way up the set, the whole group were exactly
behind her, and she would no longer allow her eyes to watch; but Mr.
Elton was so near, that she heard every syllable of a dialogue which
just then took place between him and Mrs. Weston; and she perceived that
his wife, who was standing immediately above her, was not only
listening also, but even encouraging him by significant glances.--The
kind-hearted, gentle Mrs. Weston had left her seat to join him and say,
"Do not you dance, Mr. Elton?" to which his prompt reply was, "Most
readily, Mrs. Weston, if you will dance with me."
"Me!--oh! no--I would get you a better partner than myself. I am no
dancer."
"If Mrs. Gilbert wishes to dance," said he, "I shall have great
pleasure, I am sure--for, though beginning to feel myself rather an old
married man, and that my dancing days are over, it would give me very
great pleasure at any time to stand up with an old friend like Mrs.
Gilbert."
"Mrs. Gilbert does not mean to dance, but there is a young lady
disengaged whom I should be very glad to see dancing--Miss Smith." "Miss
Smith!--oh!--I had not observed.--You are extremely obliging--and if I
were not an old married man.--But my dancing days are over, Mrs. Weston.
You will excuse me. Any thing else I should be most happy to do, at your
command--but my dancing days are over."
Mrs. Weston said no more; and Emma could imagine with what surprize and
mortification she must be returning to her seat. This was Mr. Elton! the
amiable, obliging, gentle Mr. Elton.--She looked round for a moment; he
had joined Mr. Knightley at a little distance, and was arranging himself
for settled conversation, while smiles of high glee passed between him
and his wife.
She would not look again. Her heart was in a glow, and she feared her
face might be as hot.
In another moment a happier sight caught her;--Mr. Knightley leading
Harriet to the set!--Never had she been more surprized, seldom more
delighted, than at that instant. She was all pleasure and gratitude,
both for Harriet and herself, and longed to be thanking him; and though
too distant for speech, her countenance said much, as soon as she could
catch his eye again.
His dancing proved to be just what she had believed it, extremely good;
and Harriet would have seemed almost too lucky, if it had not been for
the cruel state of things before, and for the very complete enjoyment
and very high sense of the distinction which her happy features
announced. It was not thrown away on her, she bounded higher than ever,
flew farther down the middle, and was in a continual course of smiles.
Mr. Elton had retreated into the card-room, looking (Emma trusted) very
foolish. She did not think he was quite so hardened as his wife, though
growing very like her;--_she_ spoke some of her feelings, by observing
audibly to her partner,
"Knightley has taken pity on poor little Miss Smith!--Very good-natured,
I declare."
Supper was announced. The move began; and Miss Bates might be heard from
that moment, without interruption, till her being seated at table and
taking up her spoon.
"Jane, Jane, my dear Jane, where are you?--Here is your tippet. Mrs.
Weston begs you to put on your tippet. She says she is afraid there will
be draughts in the passage, though every thing has been done--One door
nailed up--Quantities of matting--My dear Jane, indeed you must.
Mr. Churchill, oh! you are too obliging! How well you put it on!--so
gratified! Excellent dancing indeed!--Yes, my dear, I ran home, as I
said I should, to help grandmama to bed, and got back again, and
nobody missed me.--I set off without saying a word, just as I told you.
Grandmama was quite well, had a charming evening with Mr. Woodhouse, a
vast deal of chat, and backgammon.--Tea was made downstairs, biscuits
and baked apples and wine before she came away: amazing luck in some
of her throws: and she inquired a great deal about you, how you were
amused, and who were your partners. 'Oh!' said I, 'I shall not forestall
Jane; I left her dancing with Mr. George Otway; she will love to tell
you all about it herself to-morrow: her first partner was Mr. Elton,
I do not know who will ask her next, perhaps Mr. William Cox.' My dear
sir, you are too obliging.--Is there nobody you would not rather?--I am
not helpless. Sir, you are most kind. Upon my word, Jane on one arm, and
me on the other!--Stop, stop, let us stand a little back, Mrs. Elton is
going; dear Mrs. Elton, how elegant she looks!--Beautiful lace!--Now we
all follow in her train. Quite the queen of the evening!--Well, here we
are at the passage. Two steps, Jane, take care of the two steps. Oh! no,
there is but one. Well, I was persuaded there were two. How very odd!
I was convinced there were two, and there is but one. I never saw any
thing equal to the comfort and style--Candles everywhere.--I was telling
you of your grandmama, Jane,--There was a little disappointment.--The
baked apples and biscuits, excellent in their way, you know; but there
was a delicate fricassee of sweetbread and some asparagus brought in at
first, and good Mr. Woodhouse, not thinking the asparagus quite boiled
enough, sent it all out again. Now there is nothing grandmama loves
better than sweetbread and asparagus--so she was rather disappointed,
but we agreed we would not speak of it to any body, for fear of
its getting round to dear Miss Woodhouse, who would be so very much
concerned!--Well, this is brilliant! I am all amazement! could not have
supposed any thing!--Such elegance and profusion!--I have seen nothing
like it since--Well, where shall we sit? where shall we sit? Anywhere,
so that Jane is not in a draught. Where _I_ sit is of no consequence.
Oh! do you recommend this side?--Well, I am sure, Mr. Churchill--only
it seems too good--but just as you please. What you direct in this house
cannot be wrong. Dear Jane, how shall we ever recollect half the dishes
for grandmama? Soup too! Bless me! I should not be helped so soon, but
it smells most excellent, and I cannot help beginning."
Emma had no opportunity of speaking to Mr. Knightley till after supper;
but, when they were all in the ballroom again, her eyes invited
him irresistibly to come to her and be thanked. He was warm in his
reprobation of Mr. Elton's conduct; it had been unpardonable rudeness;
and Mrs. Elton's looks also received the due share of censure.
"They aimed at wounding more than Harriet," said he. "Emma, why is it
that they are your enemies?"
He looked with smiling penetration; and, on receiving no answer, added,
"_She_ ought not to be angry with you, I suspect, whatever he may
be.--To that surmise, you say nothing, of course; but confess, Emma,
that you did want him to marry Harriet."
"I did," replied Emma, "and they cannot forgive me."
He shook his head; but there was a smile of indulgence with it, and he
only said,
"I shall not scold you. I leave you to your own reflections."
"Can you trust me with such flatterers?--Does my vain spirit ever tell
me I am wrong?"
"Not your vain spirit, but your serious spirit.--If one leads you wrong,
I am sure the other tells you of it."
"I do own myself to have been completely mistaken in Mr. Elton. There is
a littleness about him which you discovered, and which I did not: and I
was fully convinced of his being in love with Harriet. It was through a
series of strange blunders!"
"And, in return for your acknowledging so much, I will do you the
justice to say, that you would have chosen for him better than he has
chosen for himself.--Harriet Smith has some first-rate qualities, which
Mrs. Elton is totally without. An unpretending, single-minded, artless
girl--infinitely to be preferred by any man of sense and taste to such a
woman as Mrs. Elton. I found Harriet more conversable than I expected."
Emma was extremely gratified.--They were interrupted by the bustle of
Mr. Weston calling on every body to begin dancing again.
"Come Miss Woodhouse, Miss Otway, Miss Fairfax, what are you all
doing?--Come Emma, set your companions the example. Every body is lazy!
Every body is asleep!"
"I am ready," said Emma, "whenever I am wanted."
"Whom are you going to dance with?" asked Mr. Knightley.
She hesitated a moment, and then replied, "With you, if you will ask
me."
"Will you?" said he, offering his hand.
"Indeed I will. You have shewn that you can dance, and you know we are
not really so much brother and sister as to make it at all improper."
"Brother and sister! no, indeed." | The day of the ball arrives. Emma is invited by Mr. Weston to come early and give her opinion on the arrangements, and she believes that this opportunity will give some privacy to her second meeting with Frank, who will be with his father. But Emma is not the only one of Mr. Weston's "favourites" that he has entreated to come early, and all the while Frank seems excited but restless, constantly moving to see who has arrived. Finally, when Jane and Miss Bates arrive, Frank rushes out to help them with umbrellas. Mrs. Elton pronounces Frank a very fine young man. Miss Bates overwhelms everyone with exclamations of gratitude and pleasure. Frank tells Emma that he dislikes Mrs. Elton and her familiar manner with Jane, and he runs off again to ask his father when the dancing will begin. Mr. and Mrs. Weston suddenly realize that Mrs. Elton expects to be asked to lead the dance and that they cannot give Emma that honor, as they had hoped. Despite this slight disappointment, Emma enjoys the beginning of the festivities, though she is disturbed that Mr. Knightley will not dance. She admires the figure he cuts among the other men, and he notices that he is watching her. The ball is a success, and only one episode mars Emma's enjoyment. During one dance, Harriet is left without a partner, and Mr. Elton, the one dancer who is disengaged, pointedly refuses to ask her. Mr. Knightley soothes Harriet's embarrassment by asking her to dance, and Emma is very pleased with him. Later, she expresses her gratitude, and he asks her why the Eltons are her enemies. She admits that she wanted Mr. Elton to marry Harriet and acknowledges that Knightley was right about his character. Knightley in return admits that Harriet has more admirable qualities than he originally thought. Emma and Knightley cement their new mutual understanding with a dance |
She slept a long time, and when she awakened Mrs. Medlock had bought a
lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold
beef and bread and butter and some hot tea. The rain seemed to be
streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore
wet and glistening waterproofs. The guard lighted the lamps in the
carriage, and Mrs. Medlock cheered up very much over her tea and
chicken and beef. She ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep
herself, and Mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet
slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner
of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the
windows. It was quite dark when she awakened again. The train had
stopped at a station and Mrs. Medlock was shaking her.
"You have had a sleep!" she said. "It's time to open your eyes! We're
at Thwaite Station and we've got a long drive before us."
Mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while Mrs. Medlock
collected her parcels. The little girl did not offer to help her,
because in India native servants always picked up or carried things and
it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.
The station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be
getting out of the train. The station-master spoke to Mrs. Medlock in
a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad
fashion which Mary found out afterward was Yorkshire.
"I see tha's got back," he said. "An' tha's browt th' young 'un with
thee."
"Aye, that's her," answered Mrs. Medlock, speaking with a Yorkshire
accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward Mary.
"How's thy Missus?"
"Well enow. Th' carriage is waitin' outside for thee."
A brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform. Mary
saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who
helped her in. His long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of
his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the
burly station-master included.
When he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they
drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably
cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again. She
sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road
over which she was being driven to the queer place Mrs. Medlock had
spoken of. She was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly
frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in
a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up--a house standing on
the edge of a moor.
"What is a moor?" she said suddenly to Mrs. Medlock.
"Look out of the window in about ten minutes and you'll see," the woman
answered. "We've got to drive five miles across Missel Moor before we
get to the Manor. You won't see much because it's a dark night, but
you can see something."
Mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner,
keeping her eyes on the window. The carriage lamps cast rays of light
a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things
they passed. After they had left the station they had driven through a
tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a
public house. Then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a
little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd
things set out for sale. Then they were on the highroad and she saw
hedges and trees. After that there seemed nothing different for a long
time--or at least it seemed a long time to her.
At last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing
up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more
trees. She could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either
side. She leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just
as the carriage gave a big jolt.
"Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock.
The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which
seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in
the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them.
A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
"It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking round at her
companion.
"No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fields nor
mountains, it's just miles and miles and miles of wild land that
nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on
but wild ponies and sheep."
"I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said
Mary. "It sounds like the sea just now."
"That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's
a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that
likes it--particularly when the heather's in bloom."
On and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped,
the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds. The road went
up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge
beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise. Mary
felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide,
bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was
passing on a strip of dry land.
"I don't like it," she said to herself. "I don't like it," and she
pinched her thin lips more tightly together.
The horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught
sight of a light. Mrs. Medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a
long sigh of relief.
"Eh, I am glad to see that bit o' light twinkling," she exclaimed.
"It's the light in the lodge window. We shall get a good cup of tea
after a bit, at all events."
It was "after a bit," as she said, for when the carriage passed through
the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and
the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were
driving through a long dark vault.
They drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an
immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone
court. At first Mary thought that there were no lights at all in the
windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a
corner upstairs showed a dull glow.
The entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped
panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron
bars. It opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that
the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of
armor made Mary feel that she did not want to look at them. As she
stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black
figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.
A neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for
them.
"You are to take her to her room," he said in a husky voice. "He
doesn't want to see her. He's going to London in the morning."
"Very well, Mr. Pitcher," Mrs. Medlock answered. "So long as I know
what's expected of me, I can manage."
"What's expected of you, Mrs. Medlock," Mr. Pitcher said, "is that you
make sure that he's not disturbed and that he doesn't see what he
doesn't want to see."
And then Mary Lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long
corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor
and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a
room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.
Mrs. Medlock said unceremoniously:
"Well, here you are! This room and the next are where you'll live--and
you must keep to them. Don't you forget that!"
It was in this way Mistress Mary arrived at Misselthwaite Manor and she
had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life. | When Mary awakes, the train has arrived in Yorkshire. She and Mrs. Medlock board a carriage there, which takes them through a village and over Missel Moor, until they finally reach the manor. There, the travelers are greeted by Mr. Pitcher, her uncle's manservant, who tells them that Mr. Craven does not wish to see them. Medlock shuts Mary up in a room by herself, and reminds her again that she is not to explore the house or its grounds, as Mr. Craven "won't have it. Mary's contrariness reaches new levels of intensity. |
I FIRST heard of Antonia(1) on what seemed to me an interminable journey
across the great midland plain of North America. I was ten years old then;
I had lost both my father and mother within a year, and my Virginia
relatives were sending me out to my grandparents, who lived in Nebraska. I
traveled in the care of a mountain boy, Jake Marpole, one of the "hands"
on my father's old farm under the Blue Ridge, who was now going West to
work for my grandfather. Jake's experience of the world was not much wider
than mine. He had never been in a railway train until the morning when we
set out together to try our fortunes in a new world.
We went all the way in day-coaches, becoming more sticky and grimy with
each stage of the journey. Jake bought everything the newsboys offered
him: candy, oranges, brass collar buttons, a watch-charm, and for me a
"Life of Jesse James," which I remember as one of the most satisfactory
books I have ever read. Beyond Chicago we were under the protection of a
friendly passenger conductor, who knew all about the country to which we
were going and gave us a great deal of advice in exchange for our
confidence. He seemed to us an experienced and worldly man who had been
almost everywhere; in his conversation he threw out lightly the names of
distant States and cities. He wore the rings and pins and badges of
different fraternal orders to which he belonged. Even his cuff-buttons
were engraved with hieroglyphics, and he was more inscribed than an
Egyptian obelisk. Once when he sat down to chat, he told us that in the
immigrant car ahead there was a family from "across the water" whose
destination was the same as ours.
"They can't any of them speak English, except one little girl, and all she
can say is 'We go Black Hawk, Nebraska.' She's not much older than you,
twelve or thirteen, maybe, and she's as bright as a new dollar. Don't you
want to go ahead and see her, Jimmy? She's got the pretty brown eyes,
too!"
This last remark made me bashful, and I shook my head and settled down to
"Jesse James." Jake nodded at me approvingly and said you were likely to
get diseases from foreigners.
I do not remember crossing the Missouri River, or anything about the long
day's journey through Nebraska. Probably by that time I had crossed so
many rivers that I was dull to them. The only thing very noticeable about
Nebraska was that it was still, all day long, Nebraska.
I had been sleeping, curled up in a red plush seat, for a long while when
we reached Black Hawk. Jake roused me and took me by the hand. We stumbled
down from the train to a wooden siding, where men were running about with
lanterns. I could n't see any town, or even distant lights; we were
surrounded by utter darkness. The engine was panting heavily after its
long run. In the red glow from the fire-box, a group of people stood
huddled together on the platform, encumbered by bundles and boxes. I knew
this must be the immigrant family the conductor had told us about. The
woman wore a fringed shawl tied over her head, and she carried a little
tin trunk in her arms, hugging it as if it were a baby. There was an old
man, tall and stooped. Two half-grown boys and a girl stood holding
oil-cloth bundles, and a little girl clung to her mother's skirts.
Presently a man with a lantern approached them and began to talk, shouting
and exclaiming. I pricked up my ears, for it was positively the first time
I had ever heard a foreign tongue.
Another lantern came along. A bantering voice called out: "Hello, are you
Mr. Burden's folks? If you are, it's me you're looking for. I'm Otto
Fuchs. I'm Mr. Burden's hired man, and I'm to drive you out. Hello, Jimmy,
ain't you scared to come so far west?"
I looked up with interest at the new face in the lantern light. He might
have stepped out of the pages of "Jesse James." He wore a sombrero hat,
with a wide leather band and a bright buckle, and the ends of his mustache
were twisted up stiffly, like little horns. He looked lively and
ferocious, I thought, and as if he had a history. A long scar ran across
one cheek and drew the corner of his mouth up in a sinister curl. The top
of his left ear was gone, and his skin was brown as an Indian's. Surely
this was the face of a desperado. As he walked about the platform in his
high-heeled boots, looking for our trunks, I saw that he was a rather
slight man, quick and wiry, and light on his feet. He told us we had a
long night drive ahead of us, and had better be on the hike. He led us to
a hitching-bar where two farm wagons were tied, and I saw the foreign
family crowding into one of them. The other was for us. Jake got on the
front seat with Otto Fuchs, and I rode on the straw in the bottom of the
wagon-box, covered up with a buffalo hide. The immigrants rumbled off into
the empty darkness, and we followed them.
I tried to go to sleep, but the jolting made me bite my tongue, and I soon
began to ache all over. When the straw settled down I had a hard bed.
Cautiously I slipped from under the buffalo hide, got up on my knees and
peered over the side of the wagon. There seemed to be nothing to see; no
fences, no creeks or trees, no hills or fields. If there was a road, I
could not make it out in the faint starlight. There was nothing but land:
not a country at all, but the material out of which countries are made.
No, there was nothing but land--slightly undulating, I knew, because often
our wheels ground against the brake as we went down into a hollow and
lurched up again on the other side. I had the feeling that the world was
left behind, that we had got over the edge of it, and were outside man's
jurisdiction. I had never before looked up at the sky when there was not a
familiar mountain ridge against it. But this was the complete dome of
heaven, all there was of it. I did not believe that my dead father and
mother were watching me from up there; they would still be looking for me
at the sheep-fold down by the creek, or along the white road that led to
the mountain pastures. I had left even their spirits behind me. The wagon
jolted on, carrying me I knew not whither. I don't think I was homesick.
If we never arrived anywhere, it did not matter. Between that earth and
that sky I felt erased, blotted out. I did not say my prayers that night:
here, I felt, what would be would be. | Jim Burden first heard of Antonia when he was on a very long train ride out west to Nebraska. He was ten years old and was being sent out west to his grandparents by his Virginia relatives after his parents had died. He was brought out by Jake Marpole, a man who has been hired by his grandparents. As he rides the train, he reads a novel about the life of Jesse James. The train conductor befriends them and tells them of a family on the immigrant car who will be settling in Black Hawk, Nebraska, the same place where Jim will be living. The train conductor encourages Jim to go over and meet the girl, but he is shy about it. Jake approves of his decision, saying that he should watch out because he could get a disease from foreigners. Jim doesnt think much of Nebraska. It is a long train ride through the state and he only notices its vastness. When they arrive at Black Hawk, it is dark. He feels "surrounded by utter darkness. " He cant see any lights anywhere. As they debark from the train, he notices the immigrant family. A man comes to them and speaks in a foreign language. Jim is interested to hear it since it is the first time he has heard a foreign language. Then Otto Fuchs, Jims grandparents hired man, comes to pick them up. Jim thinks Otto looks just like a character from his Jesse James book. They put Jim in the back of the wagon and head off for the farm. Jim sleeps under a buffalo hide, but the ride is too rough for comfort. He peeps out from the hide to see the land. He finds nothing to see. He thinks it is nothing but the material from which to make a country. He feels as if they have left the world behind. When he looks up at the sky, he realizes he doesnt believe his father and mother are watching over him here, but must be back in Virginia looking for him. The wagon goes on and Jim experiences a strange feeling, not of sadness, but of nothingness. He thinks that if they kept on going forever, he wouldnt mind. That night, he doesnt say his prayers. He feels as if here in Nebraska, "what would be would be." |
COMING HOME--A CRY
On the turnpike road, between Casterbridge and Weatherbury, and about
three miles from the former place, is Yalbury Hill, one of those
steep long ascents which pervade the highways of this undulating
part of South Wessex. In returning from market it is usual for the
farmers and other gig-gentry to alight at the bottom and walk up.
One Saturday evening in the month of October Bathsheba's vehicle was
duly creeping up this incline. She was sitting listlessly in the
second seat of the gig, whilst walking beside her in a farmer's
marketing suit of unusually fashionable cut was an erect, well-made
young man. Though on foot, he held the reins and whip, and
occasionally aimed light cuts at the horse's ear with the end of the
lash, as a recreation. This man was her husband, formerly Sergeant
Troy, who, having bought his discharge with Bathsheba's money, was
gradually transforming himself into a farmer of a spirited and very
modern school. People of unalterable ideas still insisted upon
calling him "Sergeant" when they met him, which was in some degree
owing to his having still retained the well-shaped moustache of his
military days, and the soldierly bearing inseparable from his form
and training.
"Yes, if it hadn't been for that wretched rain I should have cleared
two hundred as easy as looking, my love," he was saying. "Don't you
see, it altered all the chances? To speak like a book I once read,
wet weather is the narrative, and fine days are the episodes, of our
country's history; now, isn't that true?"
"But the time of year is come for changeable weather."
"Well, yes. The fact is, these autumn races are the ruin of
everybody. Never did I see such a day as 'twas! 'Tis a wild open
place, just out of Budmouth, and a drab sea rolled in towards us like
liquid misery. Wind and rain--good Lord! Dark? Why, 'twas as black
as my hat before the last race was run. 'Twas five o'clock, and
you couldn't see the horses till they were almost in, leave alone
colours. The ground was as heavy as lead, and all judgment from a
fellow's experience went for nothing. Horses, riders, people, were
all blown about like ships at sea. Three booths were blown over,
and the wretched folk inside crawled out upon their hands and knees;
and in the next field were as many as a dozen hats at one time. Ay,
Pimpernel regularly stuck fast, when about sixty yards off, and when
I saw Policy stepping on, it did knock my heart against the lining
of my ribs, I assure you, my love!"
"And you mean, Frank," said Bathsheba, sadly--her voice was painfully
lowered from the fulness and vivacity of the previous summer--"that
you have lost more than a hundred pounds in a month by this dreadful
horse-racing? O, Frank, it is cruel; it is foolish of you to take
away my money so. We shall have to leave the farm; that will be the
end of it!"
"Humbug about cruel. Now, there 'tis again--turn on the waterworks;
that's just like you."
"But you'll promise me not to go to Budmouth second meeting, won't
you?" she implored. Bathsheba was at the full depth for tears, but
she maintained a dry eye.
"I don't see why I should; in fact, if it turns out to be a fine day,
I was thinking of taking you."
"Never, never! I'll go a hundred miles the other way first. I hate
the sound of the very word!"
"But the question of going to see the race or staying at home has
very little to do with the matter. Bets are all booked safely enough
before the race begins, you may depend. Whether it is a bad race for
me or a good one, will have very little to do with our going there
next Monday."
"But you don't mean to say that you have risked anything on this one
too!" she exclaimed, with an agonized look.
"There now, don't you be a little fool. Wait till you are told.
Why, Bathsheba, you have lost all the pluck and sauciness you
formerly had, and upon my life if I had known what a chicken-hearted
creature you were under all your boldness, I'd never have--I know
what."
A flash of indignation might have been seen in Bathsheba's dark eyes
as she looked resolutely ahead after this reply. They moved on
without further speech, some early-withered leaves from the trees
which hooded the road at this spot occasionally spinning downward
across their path to the earth.
A woman appeared on the brow of the hill. The ridge was in a
cutting, so that she was very near the husband and wife before she
became visible. Troy had turned towards the gig to remount, and
whilst putting his foot on the step the woman passed behind him.
Though the overshadowing trees and the approach of eventide enveloped
them in gloom, Bathsheba could see plainly enough to discern the
extreme poverty of the woman's garb, and the sadness of her face.
"Please, sir, do you know at what time Casterbridge Union-house
closes at night?"
The woman said these words to Troy over his shoulder.
Troy started visibly at the sound of the voice; yet he seemed to
recover presence of mind sufficient to prevent himself from giving
way to his impulse to suddenly turn and face her. He said, slowly--
"I don't know."
The woman, on hearing him speak, quickly looked up, examined the side
of his face, and recognized the soldier under the yeoman's garb. Her
face was drawn into an expression which had gladness and agony both
among its elements. She uttered an hysterical cry, and fell down.
"Oh, poor thing!" exclaimed Bathsheba, instantly preparing to alight.
"Stay where you are, and attend to the horse!" said Troy,
peremptorily throwing her the reins and the whip. "Walk the horse
to the top: I'll see to the woman."
"But I--"
"Do you hear? Clk--Poppet!"
The horse, gig, and Bathsheba moved on.
"How on earth did you come here? I thought you were miles away, or
dead! Why didn't you write to me?" said Troy to the woman, in a
strangely gentle, yet hurried voice, as he lifted her up.
"I feared to."
"Have you any money?"
"None."
"Good Heaven--I wish I had more to give you! Here's--wretched--the
merest trifle. It is every farthing I have left. I have none but
what my wife gives me, you know, and I can't ask her now."
The woman made no answer.
"I have only another moment," continued Troy; "and now listen. Where
are you going to-night? Casterbridge Union?"
"Yes; I thought to go there."
"You shan't go there; yet, wait. Yes, perhaps for to-night; I can
do nothing better--worse luck! Sleep there to-night, and stay there
to-morrow. Monday is the first free day I have; and on Monday
morning, at ten exactly, meet me on Grey's Bridge just out of the
town. I'll bring all the money I can muster. You shan't want--I'll
see that, Fanny; then I'll get you a lodging somewhere. Good-bye
till then. I am a brute--but good-bye!"
After advancing the distance which completed the ascent of the
hill, Bathsheba turned her head. The woman was upon her feet, and
Bathsheba saw her withdrawing from Troy, and going feebly down the
hill by the third milestone from Casterbridge. Troy then came on
towards his wife, stepped into the gig, took the reins from her hand,
and without making any observation whipped the horse into a trot. He
was rather agitated.
"Do you know who that woman was?" said Bathsheba, looking searchingly
into his face.
"I do," he said, looking boldly back into hers.
"I thought you did," said she, with angry hauteur, and still
regarding him. "Who is she?"
He suddenly seemed to think that frankness would benefit neither of
the women.
"Nothing to either of us," he said. "I know her by sight."
"What is her name?"
"How should I know her name?"
"I think you do."
"Think if you will, and be--" The sentence was completed by a smart
cut of the whip round Poppet's flank, which caused the animal to
start forward at a wild pace. No more was said. | Bathsheba and Sergeant Troy are travelling to the local market to deal with some business. Bathsheba is sitting up in a cart, while Sergeant Troy is on the road leading the horses. They argue briefly about how much of Bathsheba's money Troy has been blowing at horse races. Troy tells her that if he'd known she was such a nag he wouldn't have married her. As they travel, a homeless-looking woman walks past them and asks Troy what time the local shelter in Casterbridge closes for the night. Troy is clearly concerned by the sound of this woman's voice, but he pretends to be chill and tells her he's not sure about the closing time. When the woman sees Troy's face, she utters a cry and falls to the ground. Bathsheba tries to help, but Troy orders her to stay where she is. In a hushed voice, Troy asks the woman why she didn't just write to him for money. He then gives her every last penny he has on him. Before they part ways, Troy tells her to meet him at a place called Grey's Bridge on the next Monday. While he's saying this, he calls her Fanny. So we know that this woman is Fanny Robin, Troy's jilted ex-fiance. Finally, Troy hurries Fanny away and returns to his cart and Bathsheba. Bathsheba asks him if he knew the woman, but he denies it, saying he only knows her face from around town. Bathsheba isn't convinced, though, and she's certain that Troy has had some previous contact with this woman. Good call, Bathsheba. |
Emma was not required, by any subsequent discovery, to retract her ill
opinion of Mrs. Elton. Her observation had been pretty correct. Such as
Mrs. Elton appeared to her on this second interview, such she appeared
whenever they met again,--self-important, presuming, familiar, ignorant,
and ill-bred. She had a little beauty and a little accomplishment,
but so little judgment that she thought herself coming with superior
knowledge of the world, to enliven and improve a country neighbourhood;
and conceived Miss Hawkins to have held such a place in society as Mrs.
Elton's consequence only could surpass.
There was no reason to suppose Mr. Elton thought at all differently from
his wife. He seemed not merely happy with her, but proud. He had the air
of congratulating himself on having brought such a woman to Highbury,
as not even Miss Woodhouse could equal; and the greater part of her
new acquaintance, disposed to commend, or not in the habit of judging,
following the lead of Miss Bates's good-will, or taking it for granted
that the bride must be as clever and as agreeable as she professed
herself, were very well satisfied; so that Mrs. Elton's praise
passed from one mouth to another as it ought to do, unimpeded by Miss
Woodhouse, who readily continued her first contribution and talked with
a good grace of her being "very pleasant and very elegantly dressed."
In one respect Mrs. Elton grew even worse than she had appeared at
first. Her feelings altered towards Emma.--Offended, probably, by the
little encouragement which her proposals of intimacy met with, she drew
back in her turn and gradually became much more cold and distant; and
though the effect was agreeable, the ill-will which produced it was
necessarily increasing Emma's dislike. Her manners, too--and Mr.
Elton's, were unpleasant towards Harriet. They were sneering and
negligent. Emma hoped it must rapidly work Harriet's cure; but the
sensations which could prompt such behaviour sunk them both very
much.--It was not to be doubted that poor Harriet's attachment had been
an offering to conjugal unreserve, and her own share in the story, under
a colouring the least favourable to her and the most soothing to him,
had in all likelihood been given also. She was, of course, the object
of their joint dislike.--When they had nothing else to say, it must be
always easy to begin abusing Miss Woodhouse; and the enmity which
they dared not shew in open disrespect to her, found a broader vent in
contemptuous treatment of Harriet.
Mrs. Elton took a great fancy to Jane Fairfax; and from the first. Not
merely when a state of warfare with one young lady might be supposed to
recommend the other, but from the very first; and she was not satisfied
with expressing a natural and reasonable admiration--but without
solicitation, or plea, or privilege, she must be wanting to assist and
befriend her.--Before Emma had forfeited her confidence, and about the
third time of their meeting, she heard all Mrs. Elton's knight-errantry
on the subject.--
"Jane Fairfax is absolutely charming, Miss Woodhouse.--I quite rave
about Jane Fairfax.--A sweet, interesting creature. So mild and
ladylike--and with such talents!--I assure you I think she has very
extraordinary talents. I do not scruple to say that she plays extremely
well. I know enough of music to speak decidedly on that point. Oh! she
is absolutely charming! You will laugh at my warmth--but, upon my word,
I talk of nothing but Jane Fairfax.--And her situation is so calculated
to affect one!--Miss Woodhouse, we must exert ourselves and endeavour
to do something for her. We must bring her forward. Such talent as hers
must not be suffered to remain unknown.--I dare say you have heard those
charming lines of the poet,
'Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
'And waste its fragrance on the desert air.'
We must not allow them to be verified in sweet Jane Fairfax."
"I cannot think there is any danger of it," was Emma's calm answer--"and
when you are better acquainted with Miss Fairfax's situation and
understand what her home has been, with Colonel and Mrs. Campbell, I
have no idea that you will suppose her talents can be unknown."
"Oh! but dear Miss Woodhouse, she is now in such retirement, such
obscurity, so thrown away.--Whatever advantages she may have enjoyed
with the Campbells are so palpably at an end! And I think she feels it.
I am sure she does. She is very timid and silent. One can see that she
feels the want of encouragement. I like her the better for it. I
must confess it is a recommendation to me. I am a great advocate for
timidity--and I am sure one does not often meet with it.--But in those
who are at all inferior, it is extremely prepossessing. Oh! I assure
you, Jane Fairfax is a very delightful character, and interests me more
than I can express."
"You appear to feel a great deal--but I am not aware how you or any of
Miss Fairfax's acquaintance here, any of those who have known her longer
than yourself, can shew her any other attention than"--
"My dear Miss Woodhouse, a vast deal may be done by those who dare to
act. You and I need not be afraid. If _we_ set the example, many will
follow it as far as they can; though all have not our situations. _We_
have carriages to fetch and convey her home, and _we_ live in a style
which could not make the addition of Jane Fairfax, at any time, the
least inconvenient.--I should be extremely displeased if Wright were to
send us up such a dinner, as could make me regret having asked _more_
than Jane Fairfax to partake of it. I have no idea of that sort of
thing. It is not likely that I _should_, considering what I have been
used to. My greatest danger, perhaps, in housekeeping, may be quite the
other way, in doing too much, and being too careless of expense. Maple
Grove will probably be my model more than it ought to be--for we do not
at all affect to equal my brother, Mr. Suckling, in income.--However, my
resolution is taken as to noticing Jane Fairfax.--I shall certainly have
her very often at my house, shall introduce her wherever I can, shall
have musical parties to draw out her talents, and shall be constantly
on the watch for an eligible situation. My acquaintance is so very
extensive, that I have little doubt of hearing of something to suit
her shortly.--I shall introduce her, of course, very particularly to my
brother and sister when they come to us. I am sure they will like her
extremely; and when she gets a little acquainted with them, her fears
will completely wear off, for there really is nothing in the manners
of either but what is highly conciliating.--I shall have her very often
indeed while they are with me, and I dare say we shall sometimes find a
seat for her in the barouche-landau in some of our exploring parties."
"Poor Jane Fairfax!"--thought Emma.--"You have not deserved this. You
may have done wrong with regard to Mr. Dixon, but this is a punishment
beyond what you can have merited!--The kindness and protection of Mrs.
Elton!--'Jane Fairfax and Jane Fairfax.' Heavens! Let me not suppose
that she dares go about, Emma Woodhouse-ing me!--But upon my honour,
there seems no limits to the licentiousness of that woman's tongue!"
Emma had not to listen to such paradings again--to any so exclusively
addressed to herself--so disgustingly decorated with a "dear Miss
Woodhouse." The change on Mrs. Elton's side soon afterwards appeared,
and she was left in peace--neither forced to be the very particular
friend of Mrs. Elton, nor, under Mrs. Elton's guidance, the very active
patroness of Jane Fairfax, and only sharing with others in a general
way, in knowing what was felt, what was meditated, what was done.
She looked on with some amusement.--Miss Bates's gratitude for
Mrs. Elton's attentions to Jane was in the first style of guileless
simplicity and warmth. She was quite one of her worthies--the
most amiable, affable, delightful woman--just as accomplished and
condescending as Mrs. Elton meant to be considered. Emma's only surprize
was that Jane Fairfax should accept those attentions and tolerate Mrs.
Elton as she seemed to do. She heard of her walking with the Eltons,
sitting with the Eltons, spending a day with the Eltons! This was
astonishing!--She could not have believed it possible that the taste or
the pride of Miss Fairfax could endure such society and friendship as
the Vicarage had to offer.
"She is a riddle, quite a riddle!" said she.--"To chuse to remain here
month after month, under privations of every sort! And now to chuse the
mortification of Mrs. Elton's notice and the penury of her conversation,
rather than return to the superior companions who have always loved her
with such real, generous affection."
Jane had come to Highbury professedly for three months; the Campbells
were gone to Ireland for three months; but now the Campbells had
promised their daughter to stay at least till Midsummer, and fresh
invitations had arrived for her to join them there. According to Miss
Bates--it all came from her--Mrs. Dixon had written most pressingly.
Would Jane but go, means were to be found, servants sent, friends
contrived--no travelling difficulty allowed to exist; but still she had
declined it!
"She must have some motive, more powerful than appears, for refusing
this invitation," was Emma's conclusion. "She must be under some sort
of penance, inflicted either by the Campbells or herself. There is great
fear, great caution, great resolution somewhere.--She is _not_ to be
with the _Dixons_. The decree is issued by somebody. But why must she
consent to be with the Eltons?--Here is quite a separate puzzle."
Upon her speaking her wonder aloud on that part of the subject, before
the few who knew her opinion of Mrs. Elton, Mrs. Weston ventured this
apology for Jane.
"We cannot suppose that she has any great enjoyment at the Vicarage,
my dear Emma--but it is better than being always at home. Her aunt is a
good creature, but, as a constant companion, must be very tiresome. We
must consider what Miss Fairfax quits, before we condemn her taste for
what she goes to."
"You are right, Mrs. Weston," said Mr. Knightley warmly, "Miss Fairfax
is as capable as any of us of forming a just opinion of Mrs. Elton.
Could she have chosen with whom to associate, she would not have chosen
her. But (with a reproachful smile at Emma) she receives attentions from
Mrs. Elton, which nobody else pays her."
Emma felt that Mrs. Weston was giving her a momentary glance; and she
was herself struck by his warmth. With a faint blush, she presently
replied,
"Such attentions as Mrs. Elton's, I should have imagined, would rather
disgust than gratify Miss Fairfax. Mrs. Elton's invitations I should
have imagined any thing but inviting."
"I should not wonder," said Mrs. Weston, "if Miss Fairfax were to have
been drawn on beyond her own inclination, by her aunt's eagerness in
accepting Mrs. Elton's civilities for her. Poor Miss Bates may
very likely have committed her niece and hurried her into a greater
appearance of intimacy than her own good sense would have dictated, in
spite of the very natural wish of a little change."
Both felt rather anxious to hear him speak again; and after a few
minutes silence, he said,
"Another thing must be taken into consideration too--Mrs. Elton does
not talk _to_ Miss Fairfax as she speaks _of_ her. We all know the
difference between the pronouns he or she and thou, the plainest spoken
amongst us; we all feel the influence of a something beyond common
civility in our personal intercourse with each other--a something more
early implanted. We cannot give any body the disagreeable hints that we
may have been very full of the hour before. We feel things differently.
And besides the operation of this, as a general principle, you may be
sure that Miss Fairfax awes Mrs. Elton by her superiority both of mind
and manner; and that, face to face, Mrs. Elton treats her with all the
respect which she has a claim to. Such a woman as Jane Fairfax probably
never fell in Mrs. Elton's way before--and no degree of vanity can
prevent her acknowledging her own comparative littleness in action, if
not in consciousness."
"I know how highly you think of Jane Fairfax," said Emma. Little Henry
was in her thoughts, and a mixture of alarm and delicacy made her
irresolute what else to say.
"Yes," he replied, "any body may know how highly I think of her."
"And yet," said Emma, beginning hastily and with an arch look, but soon
stopping--it was better, however, to know the worst at once--she hurried
on--"And yet, perhaps, you may hardly be aware yourself how highly it
is. The extent of your admiration may take you by surprize some day or
other."
Mr. Knightley was hard at work upon the lower buttons of his thick
leather gaiters, and either the exertion of getting them together, or
some other cause, brought the colour into his face, as he answered,
"Oh! are you there?--But you are miserably behindhand. Mr. Cole gave me
a hint of it six weeks ago."
He stopped.--Emma felt her foot pressed by Mrs. Weston, and did not
herself know what to think. In a moment he went on--
"That will never be, however, I can assure you. Miss Fairfax, I dare
say, would not have me if I were to ask her--and I am very sure I shall
never ask her."
Emma returned her friend's pressure with interest; and was pleased
enough to exclaim,
"You are not vain, Mr. Knightley. I will say that for you."
He seemed hardly to hear her; he was thoughtful--and in a manner which
shewed him not pleased, soon afterwards said,
"So you have been settling that I should marry Jane Fairfax?"
"No indeed I have not. You have scolded me too much for match-making,
for me to presume to take such a liberty with you. What I said just now,
meant nothing. One says those sort of things, of course, without any
idea of a serious meaning. Oh! no, upon my word I have not the smallest
wish for your marrying Jane Fairfax or Jane any body. You would not come
in and sit with us in this comfortable way, if you were married."
Mr. Knightley was thoughtful again. The result of his reverie was, "No,
Emma, I do not think the extent of my admiration for her will ever take
me by surprize.--I never had a thought of her in that way, I assure
you." And soon afterwards, "Jane Fairfax is a very charming young
woman--but not even Jane Fairfax is perfect. She has a fault. She has
not the open temper which a man would wish for in a wife."
Emma could not but rejoice to hear that she had a fault. "Well," said
she, "and you soon silenced Mr. Cole, I suppose?"
"Yes, very soon. He gave me a quiet hint; I told him he was mistaken;
he asked my pardon and said no more. Cole does not want to be wiser or
wittier than his neighbours."
"In that respect how unlike dear Mrs. Elton, who wants to be wiser and
wittier than all the world! I wonder how she speaks of the Coles--what
she calls them! How can she find any appellation for them, deep enough
in familiar vulgarity? She calls you, Knightley--what can she do for
Mr. Cole? And so I am not to be surprized that Jane Fairfax accepts
her civilities and consents to be with her. Mrs. Weston, your argument
weighs most with me. I can much more readily enter into the temptation
of getting away from Miss Bates, than I can believe in the triumph of
Miss Fairfax's mind over Mrs. Elton. I have no faith in Mrs. Elton's
acknowledging herself the inferior in thought, word, or deed; or in her
being under any restraint beyond her own scanty rule of good-breeding.
I cannot imagine that she will not be continually insulting her visitor
with praise, encouragement, and offers of service; that she will not be
continually detailing her magnificent intentions, from the procuring her
a permanent situation to the including her in those delightful exploring
parties which are to take place in the barouche-landau."
"Jane Fairfax has feeling," said Mr. Knightley--"I do not accuse her
of want of feeling. Her sensibilities, I suspect, are strong--and her
temper excellent in its power of forbearance, patience, self-control;
but it wants openness. She is reserved, more reserved, I think, than
she used to be--And I love an open temper. No--till Cole alluded to my
supposed attachment, it had never entered my head. I saw Jane Fairfax
and conversed with her, with admiration and pleasure always--but with no
thought beyond."
"Well, Mrs. Weston," said Emma triumphantly when he left them, "what do
you say now to Mr. Knightley's marrying Jane Fairfax?"
"Why, really, dear Emma, I say that he is so very much occupied by the
idea of _not_ being in love with her, that I should not wonder if it
were to end in his being so at last. Do not beat me." | Mrs. Elton, offended by the little encouragement given by Emma, become cold and distant to her. Her manners, and those of Mr. Elton, also become more unpleasant toward Harriet. Mrs. Elton does, however, take a great fancy to Jane Fairfax, a fact which causes Emma to pity Jane for the first time. Jane refuses an invitation to join the Campbells, and Emma suspects that she has some ulterior motive. Mrs. Weston predicts that Mr. Knightley has spent so much time occupied with the idea of not being in love with Jane Fairfax that he will probably end in marrying her. |
CHAPTER XXVII
I
A LETTER from Raymie Wutherspoon, in France, said that he had been sent
to the front, been slightly wounded, been made a captain. From Vida's
pride Carol sought to draw a stimulant to rouse her from depression.
Miles had sold his dairy. He had several thousand dollars. To Carol he
said good-by with a mumbled word, a harsh hand-shake, "Going to buy a
farm in northern Alberta--far off from folks as I can get." He turned
sharply away, but he did not walk with his former spring. His shoulders
seemed old.
It was said that before he went he cursed the town. There was talk
of arresting him, of riding him on a rail. It was rumored that at the
station old Champ Perry rebuked him, "You better not come back here.
We've got respect for your dead, but we haven't got any for a blasphemer
and a traitor that won't do anything for his country and only bought one
Liberty Bond."
Some of the people who had been at the station declared that Miles made
some dreadful seditious retort: something about loving German workmen
more than American bankers; but others asserted that he couldn't find
one word with which to answer the veteran; that he merely sneaked up on
the platform of the train. He must have felt guilty, everybody agreed,
for as the train left town, a farmer saw him standing in the vestibule
and looking out.
His house--with the addition which he had built four months ago--was
very near the track on which his train passed.
When Carol went there, for the last time, she found Olaf's chariot with
its red spool wheels standing in the sunny corner beside the stable. She
wondered if a quick eye could have noticed it from a train.
That day and that week she went reluctantly to Red Cross work; she
stitched and packed silently, while Vida read the war bulletins. And she
said nothing at all when Kennicott commented, "From what Champ says,
I guess Bjornstam was a bad egg, after all. In spite of Bea, don't
know but what the citizens' committee ought to have forced him to
be patriotic--let on like they could send him to jail if he didn't
volunteer and come through for bonds and the Y. M. C. A. They've worked
that stunt fine with all these German farmers."
II
She found no inspiration but she did find a dependable kindness in Mrs.
Westlake, and at last she yielded to the old woman's receptivity and had
relief in sobbing the story of Bea.
Guy Pollock she often met on the street, but he was merely a pleasant
voice which said things about Charles Lamb and sunsets.
Her most positive experience was the revelation of Mrs. Flickerbaugh,
the tall, thin, twitchy wife of the attorney. Carol encountered her at
the drug store.
"Walking?" snapped Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why, yes."
"Humph. Guess you're the only female in this town that retains the use
of her legs. Come home and have a cup o' tea with me."
Because she had nothing else to do, Carol went. But she was
uncomfortable in the presence of the amused stares which Mrs.
Flickerbaugh's raiment drew. Today, in reeking early August, she wore a
man's cap, a skinny fur like a dead cat, a necklace of imitation pearls,
a scabrous satin blouse, and a thick cloth skirt hiked up in front.
"Come in. Sit down. Stick the baby in that rocker. Hope you don't mind
the house looking like a rat's nest. You don't like this town. Neither
do I," said Mrs. Flickerbaugh.
"Why----"
"Course you don't!"
"Well then, I don't! But I'm sure that some day I'll find some solution.
Probably I'm a hexagonal peg. Solution: find the hexagonal hole." Carol
was very brisk.
"How do you know you ever will find it?"
"There's Mrs. Westlake. She's naturally a big-city woman--she ought to
have a lovely old house in Philadelphia or Boston--but she escapes by
being absorbed in reading."
"You be satisfied to never do anything but read?"
"No, but Heavens, one can't go on hating a town always!"
"Why not? I can! I've hated it for thirty-two years. I'll die here--and
I'll hate it till I die. I ought to have been a business woman. I had
a good deal of talent for tending to figures. All gone now. Some folks
think I'm crazy. Guess I am. Sit and grouch. Go to church and sing
hymns. Folks think I'm religious. Tut! Trying to forget washing and
ironing and mending socks. Want an office of my own, and sell things.
Julius never hear of it. Too late."
Carol sat on the gritty couch, and sank into fear. Could this drabness
of life keep up forever, then? Would she some day so despise herself
and her neighbors that she too would walk Main Street an old skinny
eccentric woman in a mangy cat's-fur? As she crept home she felt that
the trap had finally closed. She went into the house, a frail small
woman, still winsome but hopeless of eye as she staggered with the
weight of the drowsy boy in her arms.
She sat alone on the porch, that evening. It seemed that Kennicott had
to make a professional call on Mrs. Dave Dyer.
Under the stilly boughs and the black gauze of dusk the street was
meshed in silence. There was but the hum of motor tires crunching the
road, the creak of a rocker on the Howlands' porch, the slap of a hand
attacking a mosquito, a heat-weary conversation starting and dying, the
precise rhythm of crickets, the thud of moths against the screen--sounds
that were a distilled silence. It was a street beyond the end of
the world, beyond the boundaries of hope. Though she should sit here
forever, no brave procession, no one who was interesting, would be
coming by. It was tediousness made tangible, a street builded of
lassitude and of futility.
Myrtle Cass appeared, with Cy Bogart. She giggled and bounced when Cy
tickled her ear in village love. They strolled with the half-dancing
gait of lovers, kicking their feet out sideways or shuffling a dragging
jig, and the concrete walk sounded to the broken two-four rhythm. Their
voices had a dusky turbulence. Suddenly, to the woman rocking on the
porch of the doctor's house, the night came alive, and she felt that
everywhere in the darkness panted an ardent quest which she was missing
as she sank back to wait for----There must be something. | Miles Bjornstam sells his dairy and leaves town to go to Alberta a broken man. The town blames him for his wife and child's death and bids him good riddance. Carol is depressed and, after talking to old Mrs. Flickerbaugh, who has always hated the town, she is afraid she will simply become a bitter old woman in Gopher Prairie. |
Thus communed these; while to their lowly dome,
The full-fed swine return'd with evening home;
Compell'd, reluctant, to the several sties,
With din obstreperous, and ungrateful cries.
Pope's Odyssey
In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the
river Don, there extended in ancient times a large forest, covering
the greater part of the beautiful hills and valleys which lie between
Sheffield and the pleasant town of Doncaster. The remains of this
extensive wood are still to be seen at the noble seats of Wentworth, of
Warncliffe Park, and around Rotherham. Here haunted of yore the fabulous
Dragon of Wantley; here were fought many of the most desperate battles
during the Civil Wars of the Roses; and here also flourished in ancient
times those bands of gallant outlaws, whose deeds have been rendered so
popular in English song.
Such being our chief scene, the date of our story refers to a period
towards the end of the reign of Richard I., when his return from his
long captivity had become an event rather wished than hoped for by his
despairing subjects, who were in the meantime subjected to every species
of subordinate oppression. The nobles, whose power had become exorbitant
during the reign of Stephen, and whom the prudence of Henry the Second
had scarce reduced to some degree of subjection to the crown, had now
resumed their ancient license in its utmost extent; despising the feeble
interference of the English Council of State, fortifying their castles,
increasing the number of their dependants, reducing all around them to a
state of vassalage, and striving by every means in their power, to place
themselves each at the head of such forces as might enable him to make a
figure in the national convulsions which appeared to be impending.
The situation of the inferior gentry, or Franklins, as they were called,
who, by the law and spirit of the English constitution, were entitled
to hold themselves independent of feudal tyranny, became now unusually
precarious. If, as was most generally the case, they placed themselves
under the protection of any of the petty kings in their vicinity,
accepted of feudal offices in his household, or bound themselves by
mutual treaties of alliance and protection, to support him in his
enterprises, they might indeed purchase temporary repose; but it must
be with the sacrifice of that independence which was so dear to every
English bosom, and at the certain hazard of being involved as a party in
whatever rash expedition the ambition of their protector might lead him
to undertake. On the other hand, such and so multiplied were the means
of vexation and oppression possessed by the great Barons, that they
never wanted the pretext, and seldom the will, to harass and pursue,
even to the very edge of destruction, any of their less powerful
neighbours, who attempted to separate themselves from their authority,
and to trust for their protection, during the dangers of the times, to
their own inoffensive conduct, and to the laws of the land.
A circumstance which greatly tended to enhance the tyranny of the
nobility, and the sufferings of the inferior classes, arose from
the consequences of the Conquest by Duke William of Normandy. Four
generations had not sufficed to blend the hostile blood of the Normans
and Anglo-Saxons, or to unite, by common language and mutual interests,
two hostile races, one of which still felt the elation of triumph, while
the other groaned under all the consequences of defeat. The power had
been completely placed in the hands of the Norman nobility, by the event
of the battle of Hastings, and it had been used, as our histories assure
us, with no moderate hand. The whole race of Saxon princes and nobles
had been extirpated or disinherited, with few or no exceptions; nor were
the numbers great who possessed land in the country of their fathers,
even as proprietors of the second, or of yet inferior classes. The royal
policy had long been to weaken, by every means, legal or illegal, the
strength of a part of the population which was justly considered as
nourishing the most inveterate antipathy to their victor. All the
monarchs of the Norman race had shown the most marked predilection for
their Norman subjects; the laws of the chase, and many others equally
unknown to the milder and more free spirit of the Saxon constitution,
had been fixed upon the necks of the subjugated inhabitants, to add
weight, as it were, to the feudal chains with which they were loaded. At
court, and in the castles of the great nobles, where the pomp and state
of a court was emulated, Norman-French was the only language employed;
in courts of law, the pleadings and judgments were delivered in the same
tongue. In short, French was the language of honour, of chivalry, and
even of justice, while the far more manly and expressive Anglo-Saxon
was abandoned to the use of rustics and hinds, who knew no other. Still,
however, the necessary intercourse between the lords of the soil,
and those oppressed inferior beings by whom that soil was cultivated,
occasioned the gradual formation of a dialect, compounded betwixt
the French and the Anglo-Saxon, in which they could render themselves
mutually intelligible to each other; and from this necessity arose by
degrees the structure of our present English language, in which the
speech of the victors and the vanquished have been so happily blended
together; and which has since been so richly improved by importations
from the classical languages, and from those spoken by the southern
nations of Europe.
This state of things I have thought it necessary to premise for the
information of the general reader, who might be apt to forget, that,
although no great historical events, such as war or insurrection, mark
the existence of the Anglo-Saxons as a separate people subsequent to the
reign of William the Second; yet the great national distinctions betwixt
them and their conquerors, the recollection of what they had formerly
been, and to what they were now reduced, continued down to the reign
of Edward the Third, to keep open the wounds which the Conquest had
inflicted, and to maintain a line of separation betwixt the descendants
of the victor Normans and the vanquished Saxons.
The sun was setting upon one of the rich grassy glades of that forest,
which we have mentioned in the beginning of the chapter. Hundreds of
broad-headed, short-stemmed, wide-branched oaks, which had witnessed
perhaps the stately march of the Roman soldiery, flung their gnarled
arms over a thick carpet of the most delicious green sward; in some
places they were intermingled with beeches, hollies, and copsewood of
various descriptions, so closely as totally to intercept the level beams
of the sinking sun; in others they receded from each other, forming
those long sweeping vistas, in the intricacy of which the eye delights
to lose itself, while imagination considers them as the paths to yet
wilder scenes of silvan solitude. Here the red rays of the sun shot a
broken and discoloured light, that partially hung upon the shattered
boughs and mossy trunks of the trees, and there they illuminated in
brilliant patches the portions of turf to which they made their way. A
considerable open space, in the midst of this glade, seemed formerly to
have been dedicated to the rites of Druidical superstition; for, on
the summit of a hillock, so regular as to seem artificial, there still
remained part of a circle of rough unhewn stones, of large dimensions.
Seven stood upright; the rest had been dislodged from their places,
probably by the zeal of some convert to Christianity, and lay, some
prostrate near their former site, and others on the side of the hill.
One large stone only had found its way to the bottom, and in stopping
the course of a small brook, which glided smoothly round the foot of
the eminence, gave, by its opposition, a feeble voice of murmur to the
placid and elsewhere silent streamlet.
The human figures which completed this landscape, were in number two,
partaking, in their dress and appearance, of that wild and rustic
character, which belonged to the woodlands of the West-Riding of
Yorkshire at that early period. The eldest of these men had a
stern, savage, and wild aspect. His garment was of the simplest form
imaginable, being a close jacket with sleeves, composed of the tanned
skin of some animal, on which the hair had been originally left, but
which had been worn off in so many places, that it would have been
difficult to distinguish from the patches that remained, to what
creature the fur had belonged. This primeval vestment reached from
the throat to the knees, and served at once all the usual purposes
of body-clothing; there was no wider opening at the collar, than
was necessary to admit the passage of the head, from which it may be
inferred, that it was put on by slipping it over the head and shoulders,
in the manner of a modern shirt, or ancient hauberk. Sandals, bound
with thongs made of boars' hide, protected the feet, and a roll of thin
leather was twined artificially round the legs, and, ascending above the
calf, left the knees bare, like those of a Scottish Highlander. To make
the jacket sit yet more close to the body, it was gathered at the middle
by a broad leathern belt, secured by a brass buckle; to one side of
which was attached a sort of scrip, and to the other a ram's horn,
accoutred with a mouthpiece, for the purpose of blowing. In the same
belt was stuck one of those long, broad, sharp-pointed, and two-edged
knives, with a buck's-horn handle, which were fabricated in the
neighbourhood, and bore even at this early period the name of a
Sheffield whittle. The man had no covering upon his head, which was
only defended by his own thick hair, matted and twisted together, and
scorched by the influence of the sun into a rusty dark-red colour,
forming a contrast with the overgrown beard upon his cheeks, which was
rather of a yellow or amber hue. One part of his dress only remains, but
it is too remarkable to be suppressed; it was a brass ring, resembling a
dog's collar, but without any opening, and soldered fast round his neck,
so loose as to form no impediment to his breathing, yet so tight as to
be incapable of being removed, excepting by the use of the file. On this
singular gorget was engraved, in Saxon characters, an inscription of the
following purport:--"Gurth, the son of Beowulph, is the born thrall of
Cedric of Rotherwood."
Beside the swine-herd, for such was Gurth's occupation, was seated, upon
one of the fallen Druidical monuments, a person about ten years younger
in appearance, and whose dress, though resembling his companion's in
form, was of better materials, and of a more fantastic appearance. His
jacket had been stained of a bright purple hue, upon which there had
been some attempt to paint grotesque ornaments in different colours. To
the jacket he added a short cloak, which scarcely reached half way down
his thigh; it was of crimson cloth, though a good deal soiled, lined
with bright yellow; and as he could transfer it from one shoulder to the
other, or at his pleasure draw it all around him, its width, contrasted
with its want of longitude, formed a fantastic piece of drapery. He had
thin silver bracelets upon his arms, and on his neck a collar of the
same metal bearing the inscription, "Wamba, the son of Witless, is the
thrall of Cedric of Rotherwood." This personage had the same sort of
sandals with his companion, but instead of the roll of leather thong,
his legs were cased in a sort of gaiters, of which one was red and the
other yellow. He was provided also with a cap, having around it more
than one bell, about the size of those attached to hawks, which jingled
as he turned his head to one side or other; and as he seldom remained a
minute in the same posture, the sound might be considered as incessant.
Around the edge of this cap was a stiff bandeau of leather, cut at the
top into open work, resembling a coronet, while a prolonged bag arose
from within it, and fell down on one shoulder like an old-fashioned
nightcap, or a jelly-bag, or the head-gear of a modern hussar. It was to
this part of the cap that the bells were attached; which circumstance,
as well as the shape of his head-dress, and his own half-crazed,
half-cunning expression of countenance, sufficiently pointed him out as
belonging to the race of domestic clowns or jesters, maintained in the
houses of the wealthy, to help away the tedium of those lingering
hours which they were obliged to spend within doors. He bore, like
his companion, a scrip, attached to his belt, but had neither horn nor
knife, being probably considered as belonging to a class whom it is
esteemed dangerous to intrust with edge-tools. In place of these, he
was equipped with a sword of lath, resembling that with which Harlequin
operates his wonders upon the modern stage.
The outward appearance of these two men formed scarce a stronger
contrast than their look and demeanour. That of the serf, or bondsman,
was sad and sullen; his aspect was bent on the ground with an appearance
of deep dejection, which might be almost construed into apathy, had
not the fire which occasionally sparkled in his red eye manifested that
there slumbered, under the appearance of sullen despondency, a sense of
oppression, and a disposition to resistance. The looks of Wamba, on
the other hand, indicated, as usual with his class, a sort of vacant
curiosity, and fidgetty impatience of any posture of repose, together
with the utmost self-satisfaction respecting his own situation, and the
appearance which he made. The dialogue which they maintained between
them, was carried on in Anglo-Saxon, which, as we said before, was
universally spoken by the inferior classes, excepting the Norman
soldiers, and the immediate personal dependants of the great feudal
nobles. But to give their conversation in the original would convey but
little information to the modern reader, for whose benefit we beg to
offer the following translation:
"The curse of St Withold upon these infernal porkers!" said the
swine-herd, after blowing his horn obstreperously, to collect together
the scattered herd of swine, which, answering his call with notes
equally melodious, made, however, no haste to remove themselves from the
luxurious banquet of beech-mast and acorns on which they had fattened,
or to forsake the marshy banks of the rivulet, where several of them,
half plunged in mud, lay stretched at their ease, altogether regardless
of the voice of their keeper. "The curse of St Withold upon them and
upon me!" said Gurth; "if the two-legged wolf snap not up some of them
ere nightfall, I am no true man. Here, Fangs! Fangs!" he ejaculated at
the top of his voice to a ragged wolfish-looking dog, a sort of lurcher,
half mastiff, half greyhound, which ran limping about as if with the
purpose of seconding his master in collecting the refractory grunters;
but which, in fact, from misapprehension of the swine-herd's signals,
ignorance of his own duty, or malice prepense, only drove them hither
and thither, and increased the evil which he seemed to design to remedy.
"A devil draw the teeth of him," said Gurth, "and the mother of mischief
confound the Ranger of the forest, that cuts the foreclaws off our dogs,
and makes them unfit for their trade! [8] Wamba, up and help me an thou
be'st a man; take a turn round the back o' the hill to gain the wind
on them; and when thous't got the weather-gage, thou mayst drive them
before thee as gently as so many innocent lambs."
"Truly," said Wamba, without stirring from the spot, "I have consulted
my legs upon this matter, and they are altogether of opinion, that
to carry my gay garments through these sloughs, would be an act of
unfriendship to my sovereign person and royal wardrobe; wherefore,
Gurth, I advise thee to call off Fangs, and leave the herd to their
destiny, which, whether they meet with bands of travelling soldiers,
or of outlaws, or of wandering pilgrims, can be little else than to
be converted into Normans before morning, to thy no small ease and
comfort."
"The swine turned Normans to my comfort!" quoth Gurth; "expound that
to me, Wamba, for my brain is too dull, and my mind too vexed, to read
riddles."
"Why, how call you those grunting brutes running about on their four
legs?" demanded Wamba.
"Swine, fool, swine," said the herd, "every fool knows that."
"And swine is good Saxon," said the Jester; "but how call you the sow
when she is flayed, and drawn, and quartered, and hung up by the heels,
like a traitor?"
"Pork," answered the swine-herd.
"I am very glad every fool knows that too," said Wamba, "and pork, I
think, is good Norman-French; and so when the brute lives, and is in
the charge of a Saxon slave, she goes by her Saxon name; but becomes a
Norman, and is called pork, when she is carried to the Castle-hall to
feast among the nobles; what dost thou think of this, friend Gurth, ha?"
"It is but too true doctrine, friend Wamba, however it got into thy
fool's pate."
"Nay, I can tell you more," said Wamba, in the same tone; "there is old
Alderman Ox continues to hold his Saxon epithet, while he is under the
charge of serfs and bondsmen such as thou, but becomes Beef, a fiery
French gallant, when he arrives before the worshipful jaws that are
destined to consume him. Mynheer Calf, too, becomes Monsieur de Veau
in the like manner; he is Saxon when he requires tendance, and takes a
Norman name when he becomes matter of enjoyment."
"By St Dunstan," answered Gurth, "thou speakest but sad truths; little
is left to us but the air we breathe, and that appears to have been
reserved with much hesitation, solely for the purpose of enabling us to
endure the tasks they lay upon our shoulders. The finest and the fattest
is for their board; the loveliest is for their couch; the best and
bravest supply their foreign masters with soldiers, and whiten distant
lands with their bones, leaving few here who have either will or the
power to protect the unfortunate Saxon. God's blessing on our master
Cedric, he hath done the work of a man in standing in the gap; but
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf is coming down to this country in person, and we
shall soon see how little Cedric's trouble will avail him.--Here, here,"
he exclaimed again, raising his voice, "So ho! so ho! well done, Fangs!
thou hast them all before thee now, and bring'st them on bravely, lad."
"Gurth," said the Jester, "I know thou thinkest me a fool, or thou
wouldst not be so rash in putting thy head into my mouth. One word to
Reginald Front-de-Boeuf, or Philip de Malvoisin, that thou hast
spoken treason against the Norman,--and thou art but a cast-away
swineherd,--thou wouldst waver on one of these trees as a terror to all
evil speakers against dignities."
"Dog, thou wouldst not betray me," said Gurth, "after having led me on
to speak so much at disadvantage?"
"Betray thee!" answered the Jester; "no, that were the trick of a wise
man; a fool cannot half so well help himself--but soft, whom have we
here?" he said, listening to the trampling of several horses which
became then audible.
"Never mind whom," answered Gurth, who had now got his herd before him,
and, with the aid of Fangs, was driving them down one of the long dim
vistas which we have endeavoured to describe.
"Nay, but I must see the riders," answered Wamba; "perhaps they are come
from Fairy-land with a message from King Oberon."
"A murrain take thee," rejoined the swine-herd; "wilt thou talk of such
things, while a terrible storm of thunder and lightning is raging within
a few miles of us? Hark, how the thunder rumbles! and for summer rain,
I never saw such broad downright flat drops fall out of the clouds; the
oaks, too, notwithstanding the calm weather, sob and creak with their
great boughs as if announcing a tempest. Thou canst play the rational if
thou wilt; credit me for once, and let us home ere the storm begins to
rage, for the night will be fearful."
Wamba seemed to feel the force of this appeal, and accompanied his
companion, who began his journey after catching up a long quarter-staff
which lay upon the grass beside him. This second Eumaeus strode hastily
down the forest glade, driving before him, with the assistance of Fangs,
the whole herd of his inharmonious charge. | In the opening chapter, Scott describes the setting and gives a historical account of England during the reign of Richard I. With the captivity of King Richard, the nobles had resumed the practice of making vassals and serfs of their less powerful neighbors. The hostility of the Saxons, which began with the victory of Duke William of Normandy at the Battle of Hastings, was kept smoldering by the Norman French, who reduced many of the Saxons to servitude, and seized, or threatened to seize, their lands. French became the official language and, although a common dialect emerged, each faction spoke the other's language as little as possible. As Gurth, with the aid of his dog, gathers the swine, he and Wamba discuss the Norman-Saxon community. Just as they are leaving to avoid the approaching storm, they hear a party of horsemen approaching. |
As to my own treatment while I lived on Colonel Lloyd's plantation,
it was very similar to that of the other slave children. I was not old
enough to work in the field, and there being little else than field work
to do, I had a great deal of leisure time. The most I had to do was to
drive up the cows at evening, keep the fowls out of the garden, keep the
front yard clean, and run of errands for my old master's daughter, Mrs.
Lucretia Auld. The most of my leisure time I spent in helping Master
Daniel Lloyd in finding his birds, after he had shot them. My connection
with Master Daniel was of some advantage to me. He became quite attached
to me, and was a sort of protector of me. He would not allow the older
boys to impose upon me, and would divide his cakes with me.
I was seldom whipped by my old master, and suffered little from any
thing else than hunger and cold. I suffered much from hunger, but much
more from cold. In hottest summer and coldest winter, I was kept almost
naked--no shoes, no stockings, no jacket, no trousers, nothing on but a
coarse tow linen shirt, reaching only to my knees. I had no bed. I must
have perished with cold, but that, the coldest nights, I used to steal
a bag which was used for carrying corn to the mill. I would crawl into
this bag, and there sleep on the cold, damp, clay floor, with my head in
and feet out. My feet have been so cracked with the frost, that the pen
with which I am writing might be laid in the gashes.
We were not regularly allowanced. Our food was coarse corn meal boiled.
This was called _mush_. It was put into a large wooden tray or trough,
and set down upon the ground. The children were then called, like so
many pigs, and like so many pigs they would come and devour the mush;
some with oyster-shells, others with pieces of shingle, some with naked
hands, and none with spoons. He that ate fastest got most; he that was
strongest secured the best place; and few left the trough satisfied.
I was probably between seven and eight years old when I left Colonel
Lloyd's plantation. I left it with joy. I shall never forget the ecstasy
with which I received the intelligence that my old master (Anthony)
had determined to let me go to Baltimore, to live with Mr. Hugh Auld,
brother to my old master's son-in-law, Captain Thomas Auld. I received
this information about three days before my departure. They were three
of the happiest days I ever enjoyed. I spent the most part of all these
three days in the creek, washing off the plantation scurf, and preparing
myself for my departure.
The pride of appearance which this would indicate was not my own. I
spent the time in washing, not so much because I wished to, but because
Mrs. Lucretia had told me I must get all the dead skin off my feet and
knees before I could go to Baltimore; for the people in Baltimore were
very cleanly, and would laugh at me if I looked dirty. Besides, she was
going to give me a pair of trousers, which I should not put on unless
I got all the dirt off me. The thought of owning a pair of trousers was
great indeed! It was almost a sufficient motive, not only to make me
take off what would be called by pig-drovers the mange, but the skin
itself. I went at it in good earnest, working for the first time with
the hope of reward.
The ties that ordinarily bind children to their homes were all suspended
in my case. I found no severe trial in my departure. My home was
charmless; it was not home to me; on parting from it, I could not feel
that I was leaving any thing which I could have enjoyed by staying. My
mother was dead, my grandmother lived far off, so that I seldom saw her.
I had two sisters and one brother, that lived in the same house with me;
but the early separation of us from our mother had well nigh blotted the
fact of our relationship from our memories. I looked for home elsewhere,
and was confident of finding none which I should relish less than the
one which I was leaving. If, however, I found in my new home hardship,
hunger, whipping, and nakedness, I had the consolation that I should not
have escaped any one of them by staying. Having already had more than
a taste of them in the house of my old master, and having endured them
there, I very naturally inferred my ability to endure them elsewhere,
and especially at Baltimore; for I had something of the feeling about
Baltimore that is expressed in the proverb, that "being hanged in
England is preferable to dying a natural death in Ireland." I had the
strongest desire to see Baltimore. Cousin Tom, though not fluent in
speech, had inspired me with that desire by his eloquent description
of the place. I could never point out any thing at the Great House,
no matter how beautiful or powerful, but that he had seen something at
Baltimore far exceeding, both in beauty and strength, the object which I
pointed out to him. Even the Great House itself, with all its pictures,
was far inferior to many buildings in Baltimore. So strong was my
desire, that I thought a gratification of it would fully compensate
for whatever loss of comforts I should sustain by the exchange. I left
without a regret, and with the highest hopes of future happiness.
We sailed out of Miles River for Baltimore on a Saturday morning. I
remember only the day of the week, for at that time I had no knowledge
of the days of the month, nor the months of the year. On setting sail, I
walked aft, and gave to Colonel Lloyd's plantation what I hoped would be
the last look. I then placed myself in the bows of the sloop, and there
spent the remainder of the day in looking ahead, interesting myself in
what was in the distance rather than in things near by or behind.
In the afternoon of that day, we reached Annapolis, the capital of the
State. We stopped but a few moments, so that I had no time to go on
shore. It was the first large town that I had ever seen, and though it
would look small compared with some of our New England factory villages,
I thought it a wonderful place for its size--more imposing even than the
Great House Farm!
We arrived at Baltimore early on Sunday morning, landing at Smith's
Wharf, not far from Bowley's Wharf. We had on board the sloop a large
flock of sheep; and after aiding in driving them to the slaughterhouse
of Mr. Curtis on Louden Slater's Hill, I was conducted by Rich, one of
the hands belonging on board of the sloop, to my new home in Alliciana
Street, near Mr. Gardner's ship-yard, on Fells Point.
Mr. and Mrs. Auld were both at home, and met me at the door with their
little son Thomas, to take care of whom I had been given. And here I saw
what I had never seen before; it was a white face beaming with the most
kindly emotions; it was the face of my new mistress, Sophia Auld. I wish
I could describe the rapture that flashed through my soul as I beheld
it. It was a new and strange sight to me, brightening up my pathway
with the light of happiness. Little Thomas was told, there was his
Freddy,--and I was told to take care of little Thomas; and thus I entered
upon the duties of my new home with the most cheering prospect ahead.
I look upon my departure from Colonel Lloyd's plantation as one of
the most interesting events of my life. It is possible, and even quite
probable, that but for the mere circumstance of being removed from that
plantation to Baltimore, I should have to-day, instead of being here
seated by my own table, in the enjoyment of freedom and the happiness
of home, writing this Narrative, been confined in the galling chains of
slavery. Going to live at Baltimore laid the foundation, and opened the
gateway, to all my subsequent prosperity. I have ever regarded it as the
first plain manifestation of that kind providence which has ever since
attended me, and marked my life with so many favors. I regarded the
selection of myself as being somewhat remarkable. There were a number
of slave children that might have been sent from the plantation to
Baltimore. There were those younger, those older, and those of the same
age. I was chosen from among them all, and was the first, last, and only
choice.
I may be deemed superstitious, and even egotistical, in regarding this
event as a special interposition of divine Providence in my favor. But
I should be false to the earliest sentiments of my soul, if I suppressed
the opinion. I prefer to be true to myself, even at the hazard of
incurring the ridicule of others, rather than to be false, and incur my
own abhorrence. From my earliest recollection, I date the entertainment
of a deep conviction that slavery would not always be able to hold
me within its foul embrace; and in the darkest hours of my career in
slavery, this living word of faith and spirit of hope departed not from
me, but remained like ministering angels to cheer me through the gloom.
This good spirit was from God, and to him I offer thanksgiving and
praise. | Douglass further describes the conditions of slave children on Colonel Lloyd's plantation, telling us that his own experience was typical of slave children. Although he was seldom whipped, he was constantly hungry and cold. Even in the dead of winter, he was given nothing but a long shirt to wear, and, at night, he would steal a bag, crawl into it headfirst, and sleep. His exposed feet developed deep cracks from the frost. Children were fed cornmeal mush from a trough on the ground, and they ate from it, like the pigs did. When he was about seven or eight years old, he was given to Captain Anthony's son-in-law's brother, Hugh Auld, who lived in Baltimore. Douglass was instructed to clean himself before going to Baltimore, and he took great pride and joy in washing himself. He looks upon this event as a turning point in his life and claims that it was the hand of Providence which offered him this opportunity. In Baltimore, Mr. and Mrs. Auld and their child, Thomas, received him kindly. His duty was to take care of young Thomas. |
What vain weathercocks we are! I, who had determined to hold myself
independent of all social intercourse, and thanked my stars that, at
length, I had lighted on a spot where it was next to impracticable--I,
weak wretch, after maintaining till dusk a struggle with low spirits and
solitude, was finally compelled to strike my colours; and under pretence
of gaining information concerning the necessities of my establishment, I
desired Mrs. Dean, when she brought in supper, to sit down while I ate
it; hoping sincerely she would prove a regular gossip, and either rouse
me to animation or lull me to sleep by her talk.
'You have lived here a considerable time,' I commenced; 'did you not say
sixteen years?'
'Eighteen, sir: I came when the mistress was married, to wait on her;
after she died, the master retained me for his housekeeper.'
'Indeed.'
There ensued a pause. She was not a gossip, I feared; unless about her
own affairs, and those could hardly interest me. However, having studied
for an interval, with a fist on either knee, and a cloud of meditation
over her ruddy countenance, she ejaculated--'Ah, times are greatly
changed since then!'
'Yes,' I remarked, 'you've seen a good many alterations, I suppose?'
'I have: and troubles too,' she said.
'Oh, I'll turn the talk on my landlord's family!' I thought to myself. 'A
good subject to start! And that pretty girl-widow, I should like to know
her history: whether she be a native of the country, or, as is more
probable, an exotic that the surly _indigenae_ will not recognise for
kin.' With this intention I asked Mrs. Dean why Heathcliff let
Thrushcross Grange, and preferred living in a situation and residence so
much inferior. 'Is he not rich enough to keep the estate in good order?'
I inquired.
'Rich, sir!' she returned. 'He has nobody knows what money, and every
year it increases. Yes, yes, he's rich enough to live in a finer house
than this: but he's very near--close-handed; and, if he had meant to flit
to Thrushcross Grange, as soon as he heard of a good tenant he could not
have borne to miss the chance of getting a few hundreds more. It is
strange people should be so greedy, when they are alone in the world!'
'He had a son, it seems?'
'Yes, he had one--he is dead.'
'And that young lady, Mrs. Heathcliff, is his widow?'
'Yes.'
'Where did she come from originally?'
'Why, sir, she is my late master's daughter: Catherine Linton was her
maiden name. I nursed her, poor thing! I did wish Mr. Heathcliff would
remove here, and then we might have been together again.'
'What! Catherine Linton?' I exclaimed, astonished. But a minute's
reflection convinced me it was not my ghostly Catherine. 'Then,' I
continued, 'my predecessor's name was Linton?'
'It was.'
'And who is that Earnshaw: Hareton Earnshaw, who lives with Mr.
Heathcliff? Are they relations?'
'No; he is the late Mrs. Linton's nephew.'
'The young lady's cousin, then?'
'Yes; and her husband was her cousin also: one on the mother's, the other
on the father's side: Heathcliff married Mr. Linton's sister.'
'I see the house at Wuthering Heights has "Earnshaw" carved over the
front door. Are they an old family?'
'Very old, sir; and Hareton is the last of them, as our Miss Cathy is of
us--I mean, of the Lintons. Have you been to Wuthering Heights? I beg
pardon for asking; but I should like to hear how she is!'
'Mrs. Heathcliff? she looked very well, and very handsome; yet, I think,
not very happy.'
'Oh dear, I don't wonder! And how did you like the master?'
'A rough fellow, rather, Mrs. Dean. Is not that his character?
'Rough as a saw-edge, and hard as whinstone! The less you meddle with
him the better.'
'He must have had some ups and downs in life to make him such a churl. Do
you know anything of his history?'
'It's a cuckoo's, sir--I know all about it: except where he was born, and
who were his parents, and how he got his money at first. And Hareton has
been cast out like an unfledged dunnock! The unfortunate lad is the only
one in all this parish that does not guess how he has been cheated.'
'Well, Mrs. Dean, it will be a charitable deed to tell me something of my
neighbours: I feel I shall not rest if I go to bed; so be good enough to
sit and chat an hour.'
'Oh, certainly, sir! I'll just fetch a little sewing, and then I'll sit
as long as you please. But you've caught cold: I saw you shivering, and
you must have some gruel to drive it out.'
The worthy woman bustled off, and I crouched nearer the fire; my head
felt hot, and the rest of me chill: moreover, I was excited, almost to a
pitch of foolishness, through my nerves and brain. This caused me to
feel, not uncomfortable, but rather fearful (as I am still) of serious
effects from the incidents of to-day and yesterday. She returned
presently, bringing a smoking basin and a basket of work; and, having
placed the former on the hob, drew in her seat, evidently pleased to find
me so companionable.
Before I came to live here, she commenced--waiting no farther invitation
to her story--I was almost always at Wuthering Heights; because my mother
had nursed Mr. Hindley Earnshaw, that was Hareton's father, and I got
used to playing with the children: I ran errands too, and helped to make
hay, and hung about the farm ready for anything that anybody would set me
to. One fine summer morning--it was the beginning of harvest, I
remember--Mr. Earnshaw, the old master, came down-stairs, dressed for a
journey; and, after he had told Joseph what was to be done during the
day, he turned to Hindley, and Cathy, and me--for I sat eating my
porridge with them--and he said, speaking to his son, 'Now, my bonny man,
I'm going to Liverpool to-day, what shall I bring you? You may choose
what you like: only let it be little, for I shall walk there and back:
sixty miles each way, that is a long spell!' Hindley named a fiddle, and
then he asked Miss Cathy; she was hardly six years old, but she could
ride any horse in the stable, and she chose a whip. He did not forget
me; for he had a kind heart, though he was rather severe sometimes. He
promised to bring me a pocketful of apples and pears, and then he kissed
his children, said good-bye, and set off.
It seemed a long while to us all--the three days of his absence--and
often did little Cathy ask when he would be home. Mrs. Earnshaw expected
him by supper-time on the third evening, and she put the meal off hour
after hour; there were no signs of his coming, however, and at last the
children got tired of running down to the gate to look. Then it grew
dark; she would have had them to bed, but they begged sadly to be allowed
to stay up; and, just about eleven o'clock, the door-latch was raised
quietly, and in stepped the master. He threw himself into a chair,
laughing and groaning, and bid them all stand off, for he was nearly
killed--he would not have such another walk for the three kingdoms.
'And at the end of it to be flighted to death!' he said, opening his
great-coat, which he held bundled up in his arms. 'See here, wife! I
was never so beaten with anything in my life: but you must e'en take it
as a gift of God; though it's as dark almost as if it came from the
devil.'
We crowded round, and over Miss Cathy's head I had a peep at a dirty,
ragged, black-haired child; big enough both to walk and talk: indeed, its
face looked older than Catherine's; yet when it was set on its feet, it
only stared round, and repeated over and over again some gibberish that
nobody could understand. I was frightened, and Mrs. Earnshaw was ready
to fling it out of doors: she did fly up, asking how he could fashion to
bring that gipsy brat into the house, when they had their own bairns to
feed and fend for? What he meant to do with it, and whether he were mad?
The master tried to explain the matter; but he was really half dead with
fatigue, and all that I could make out, amongst her scolding, was a tale
of his seeing it starving, and houseless, and as good as dumb, in the
streets of Liverpool, where he picked it up and inquired for its owner.
Not a soul knew to whom it belonged, he said; and his money and time
being both limited, he thought it better to take it home with him at
once, than run into vain expenses there: because he was determined he
would not leave it as he found it. Well, the conclusion was, that my
mistress grumbled herself calm; and Mr. Earnshaw told me to wash it, and
give it clean things, and let it sleep with the children.
Hindley and Cathy contented themselves with looking and listening till
peace was restored: then, both began searching their father's pockets
for the presents he had promised them. The former was a boy of fourteen,
but when he drew out what had been a fiddle, crushed to morsels in the
great-coat, he blubbered aloud; and Cathy, when she learned the master
had lost her whip in attending on the stranger, showed her humour by
grinning and spitting at the stupid little thing; earning for her pains
a sound blow from her father, to teach her cleaner manners. They
entirely refused to have it in bed with them, or even in their room; and
I had no more sense, so I put it on the landing of the stairs, hoping it
might be gone on the morrow. By chance, or else attracted by hearing his
voice, it crept to Mr. Earnshaw's door, and there he found it on
quitting his chamber. Inquiries were made as to how it got there; I was
obliged to confess, and in recompense for my cowardice and inhumanity
was sent out of the house.
This was Heathcliff's first introduction to the family. On coming back a
few days afterwards (for I did not consider my banishment perpetual), I
found they had christened him 'Heathcliff': it was the name of a son who
died in childhood, and it has served him ever since, both for Christian
and surname. Miss Cathy and he were now very thick; but Hindley hated
him: and to say the truth I did the same; and we plagued and went on with
him shamefully: for I wasn't reasonable enough to feel my injustice, and
the mistress never put in a word on his behalf when she saw him wronged.
He seemed a sullen, patient child; hardened, perhaps, to ill-treatment:
he would stand Hindley's blows without winking or shedding a tear, and my
pinches moved him only to draw in a breath and open his eyes, as if he
had hurt himself by accident, and nobody was to blame. This endurance
made old Earnshaw furious, when he discovered his son persecuting the
poor fatherless child, as he called him. He took to Heathcliff
strangely, believing all he said (for that matter, he said precious
little, and generally the truth), and petting him up far above Cathy, who
was too mischievous and wayward for a favourite.
So, from the very beginning, he bred bad feeling in the house; and at
Mrs. Earnshaw's death, which happened in less than two years after, the
young master had learned to regard his father as an oppressor rather than
a friend, and Heathcliff as a usurper of his parent's affections and his
privileges; and he grew bitter with brooding over these injuries. I
sympathised a while; but when the children fell ill of the measles, and I
had to tend them, and take on me the cares of a woman at once, I changed
my idea. Heathcliff was dangerously sick; and while he lay at the worst
he would have me constantly by his pillow: I suppose he felt I did a good
deal for him, and he hadn't wit to guess that I was compelled to do it.
However, I will say this, he was the quietest child that ever nurse
watched over. The difference between him and the others forced me to be
less partial. Cathy and her brother harassed me terribly: he was as
uncomplaining as a lamb; though hardness, not gentleness, made him give
little trouble.
He got through, and the doctor affirmed it was in a great measure owing
to me, and praised me for my care. I was vain of his commendations, and
softened towards the being by whose means I earned them, and thus Hindley
lost his last ally: still I couldn't dote on Heathcliff, and I wondered
often what my master saw to admire so much in the sullen boy; who never,
to my recollection, repaid his indulgence by any sign of gratitude. He
was not insolent to his benefactor, he was simply insensible; though
knowing perfectly the hold he had on his heart, and conscious he had only
to speak and all the house would be obliged to bend to his wishes. As an
instance, I remember Mr. Earnshaw once bought a couple of colts at the
parish fair, and gave the lads each one. Heathcliff took the handsomest,
but it soon fell lame, and when he discovered it, he said to Hindley--
'You must exchange horses with me: I don't like mine; and if you won't I
shall tell your father of the three thrashings you've given me this week,
and show him my arm, which is black to the shoulder.' Hindley put out
his tongue, and cuffed him over the ears. 'You'd better do it at once,'
he persisted, escaping to the porch (they were in the stable): 'you will
have to: and if I speak of these blows, you'll get them again with
interest.' 'Off, dog!' cried Hindley, threatening him with an iron
weight used for weighing potatoes and hay. 'Throw it,' he replied,
standing still, 'and then I'll tell how you boasted that you would turn
me out of doors as soon as he died, and see whether he will not turn you
out directly.' Hindley threw it, hitting him on the breast, and down he
fell, but staggered up immediately, breathless and white; and, had not I
prevented it, he would have gone just so to the master, and got full
revenge by letting his condition plead for him, intimating who had caused
it. 'Take my colt, Gipsy, then!' said young Earnshaw. 'And I pray that
he may break your neck: take him, and be damned, you beggarly interloper!
and wheedle my father out of all he has: only afterwards show him what
you are, imp of Satan.--And take that, I hope he'll kick out your
brains!'
Heathcliff had gone to loose the beast, and shift it to his own stall; he
was passing behind it, when Hindley finished his speech by knocking him
under its feet, and without stopping to examine whether his hopes were
fulfilled, ran away as fast as he could. I was surprised to witness how
coolly the child gathered himself up, and went on with his intention;
exchanging saddles and all, and then sitting down on a bundle of hay to
overcome the qualm which the violent blow occasioned, before he entered
the house. I persuaded him easily to let me lay the blame of his bruises
on the horse: he minded little what tale was told since he had what he
wanted. He complained so seldom, indeed, of such stirs as these, that I
really thought him not vindictive: I was deceived completely, as you will
hear. | Recuperating from his wanderings, Lockwood asks Nelly about Heathcliff and his daughter-in-law. Nelly informs him that the widow's maiden name was Catherine Linton, the daughter of Nelly's late master, and that Hareton Earnshaw is the nephew of her late master's wife. Cathy is the last of the Lintons, and Hareton is the last of the Earnshaws. Nelly also reveals that Heathcliff had married Mr. Linton's sister. This bit of information piques Lockwood's curiosity, so he encourages Nelly to tell him the history of the people and places he has encountered. Her story begins with her life at Wuthering Heights; she grew up with Catherine and Hindley Earnshaw. Mr. Earnshaw brought an orphan home from Liverpool, named him Heathcliff , and grew to love the boy more than his own son. Catherine and Hindley both initially disliked Heathcliff, but Catherine soon grew to love him. Hindley resented Heathcliff, especially for displacing him from his father. After Mrs. Earnshaw died, within two years of Heathcliff's arrival, Hindley was separated from everyone in his family. |
Rome. A Room in the House of LEPIDUS.
[Enter ENOBARBUS and LEPIDUS.]
LEPIDUS.
Good Enobarbus, 'tis a worthy deed,
And shall become you well, to entreat your captain
To soft and gentle speech.
ENOBARBUS.
I shall entreat him
To answer like himself: if Caesar move him,
Let Antony look over Caesar's head,
And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,
Were I the wearer of Antonius' beard,
I would not shave't to-day.
LEPIDUS.
'Tis not a time
For private stomaching.
ENOBARBUS.
Every time
Serves for the matter that is then born in't.
LEPIDUS.
But small to greater matters must give way.
ENOBARBUS.
Not if the small come first.
LEPIDUS.
Your speech is passion:
But, pray you, stir no embers up. Here comes
The noble Antony.
[Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS.]
ENOBARBUS.
And yonder, Caesar.
[Enter CAESAR, MAECENAS, and AGRIPPA.]
ANTONY.
If we compose well here, to Parthia;
Hark, Ventidius.
CAESAR.
I do not know,
Maecenas; ask Agrippa.
LEPIDUS.
Noble friends,
That which combin'd us was most great, and let not
A leaner action rend us. What's amiss,
May it be gently heard: when we debate
Our trivial difference loud, we do commit
Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners,--
The rather for I earnestly beseech,--
Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
Nor curstness grow to the matter.
ANTONY.
'Tis spoken well.
Were we before our armies, and to fight,
I should do thus.
CAESAR.
Welcome to Rome.
ANTONY.
Thank you.
CAESAR.
Sit.
ANTONY.
Sit, sir.
CAESAR.
Nay, then.
ANTONY.
I learn you take things ill which are not so,
Or being, concern you not.
CAESAR.
I must be laugh'd at
If, or for nothing or a little, I
Should say myself offended, and with you
Chiefly i' the world; more laugh'd at that I should
Once name you derogately, when to sound your name
It not concern'd me.
ANTONY.
My being in Egypt, Caesar,
What was't to you?
CAESAR.
No more than my residing here at Rome
Might be to you in Egypt: yet, if you there
Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt
Might be my question.
ANTONY.
How intend you practis'd?
CAESAR.
You may be pleas'd to catch at mine intent
By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother
Made wars upon me; and their contestation
Was theme for you, you were the word of war.
ANTONY.
You do mistake your business; my brother never
Did urge me in his act: I did inquire it;
And have my learning from some true reports
That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather
Discredit my authority with yours;
And make the wars alike against my stomach,
Having alike your cause? Of this my letters
Before did satisfy you. If you'll patch a quarrel
As matter whole you have not to make it with,
It must not be with this.
CAESAR.
You praise yourself
By laying defects of judgment to me; but
You patch'd up your excuses.
ANTONY.
Not so, not so;
I know you could not lack, I am certain on't,
Very necessity of this thought, that I,
Your partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought,
Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars
Which 'fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,
I would you had her spirit in such another:
The third o' theworld is yours; which with a snaffle
You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
ENOBARBUS.
Would we had all such wives, that the men
Might go to wars with the women.
ANTONY.
So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar,
Made out of her impatience,--which not wanted
Shrewdness of policy too,--I grieving grant
Did you too much disquiet: for that you must
But say I could not help it.
CAESAR.
I wrote to you
When rioting in Alexandria; you
Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
Did gibe my missive out of audience.
ANTONY.
Sir,
He fell upon me ere admitted: then
Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want
Of what I was i' the morning: but next day
I told him of myself; which was as much
As to have ask'd him pardon. Let this fellow
Be nothing of our strife; if we contend,
Out of our question wipe him.
CAESAR.
You have broken
The article of your oath; which you shall never
Have tongue to charge me with.
LEPIDUS.
Soft, Caesar!
ANTONY.
No; Lepidus, let him speak.
The honour is sacred which he talks on now,
Supposing that I lack'd it.--But on, Caesar;
The article of my oath.
CAESAR.
To lend me arms and aid when I requir'd them;
The which you both denied.
ANTONY.
Neglected, rather;
And then when poison'd hours had bound me up
From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,
I'll play the penitent to you: but mine honesty
Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power
Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,
To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;
For which myself, the ignorant motive, do
So far ask pardon as befits mine honour
To stoop in such a case.
LEPIDUS.
'Tis noble spoken.
MAECENAS.
If it might please you to enforce no further
The griefs between ye: to forget them quite
Were to remember that the present need
Speaks to atone you.
LEPIDUS.
Worthily spoken, Maecenas.
ENOBARBUS.
Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant, you may,
when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again: you shall
have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.
ANTONY.
Thou art a soldier only: speak no more.
ENOBARBUS.
That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.
ANTONY.
You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.
ENOBARBUS.
Go to, then; your considerate stone!
CAESAR.
I do not much dislike the matter, but
The manner of his speech; for't cannot be
We shall remain in friendship, our conditions
So differing in their acts. Yet if I knew
What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge
O' the world, I would pursue it.
AGRIPPA.
Give me leave, Caesar,--
CAESAR.
Speak, Agrippa.
AGRIPPA.
Thou hast a sister by the mother's side,
Admir'd Octavia: great Mark Antony
Is now a widower.
CAESAR.
Say not so, Agrippa:
If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
Were well deserv'd of rashness.
ANTONY.
I am not married, Caesar: let me hear
Agrippa further speak.
AGRIPPA.
To hold you in perpetual amity,
To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts
With an unslipping knot, take Antony
Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims
No worse a husband than the best of men;
Whose virtue and whose general graces speak
That which none else can utter. By this marriage
All little jealousies, which now seem great,
And all great fears, which now import their dangers,
Would then be nothing: truths would be tales,
Where now half tales be truths: her love to both
Would each to other, and all loves to both,
Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke;
For 'tis a studied, not a present thought,
By duty ruminated.
ANTONY.
Will Caesar speak?
CAESAR.
Not till he hears how Antony is touch'd
With what is spoke already.
ANTONY.
What power is in Agrippa,
If I would say 'Agrippa, be it so,'
To make this good?
CAESAR.
The power of Caesar, and
His power unto Octavia.
ANTONY.
May I never
To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,
Dream of impediment!--Let me have thy hand:
Further this act of grace; and from this hour
The heart of brothers govern in our loves
And sway our great designs!
CAESAR.
There is my hand.
A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother
Did ever love so dearly: let her live
To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never
Fly off our loves again!
LEPIDUS.
Happily, amen!
ANTONY.
I did not think to draw my sword 'gainst Pompey;
For he hath laid strange courtesies and great
Of late upon me. I must thank him only,
Lest my remembrance suffer ill report;
At heel of that, defy him.
LEPIDUS.
Time calls upon's:
Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
Or else he seeks out us.
ANTONY.
Where lies he?
CAESAR.
About the Mount Misenum.
ANTONY.
What is his strength
By land?
CAESAR.
Great and increasing; but by sea
He is an absolute master.
ANTONY.
So is the fame.
Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it:
Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, despatch we
The business we have talk'd of.
CAESAR.
With most gladness;
And do invite you to my sister's view,
Whither straight I'll lead you.
ANTONY.
Let us, Lepidus,
Not lack your company.
LEPIDUS.
Noble Antony,
Not sickness should detain me.
[Flourish. Exeunt CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.]
MAECENAS.
Welcome from Egypt, sir.
ENOBARBUS.
Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas!--my honourable friend,
Agrippa!--
AGRIPPA.
Good Enobarbus!
MAECENAS.
We have cause to be glad that matters are so well digested. You
stay'd well by it in Egypt.
ENOBARBUS.
Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night
light with drinking.
MAECENAS.
Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast, and but twelve
persons there. Is this true?
ENOBARBUS.
This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had much more monstrous
matter of feast, which worthily deserved noting.
MAECENAS.
She's a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.
ENOBARBUS.
When she first met Mark Antony she pursed up his heart, upon the
river of Cydnus.
AGRIPPA.
There she appeared indeed; or my reporter devised well for her.
ENOBARBUS.
I will tell you.
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burn'd on the water: the poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description: she did lie
In her pavilion,--cloth-of-gold of tissue,--
O'er-picturing that Venus where we see
The fancy out-work nature: on each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.
AGRIPPA.
O, rare for Antony!
ENOBARBUS.
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereids,
So many mermaids, tended her i' the eyes,
And made their bends adornings: at the helm
A seeming mermaid steers: the silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthron'd i' the market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to the air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.
AGRIPPA.
Rare Egyptian!
ENOBARBUS.
Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,
Invited her to supper: she replied
It should be better he became her guest;
Which she entreated: our courteous Antony,
Whom ne'er the word of 'No' woman heard speak,
Being barber'd ten times o'er, goes to the feast,
And, for his ordinary, pays his heart
For what his eyes eat only.
AGRIPPA.
Royal wench!
She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed:
He ploughed her, and she cropp'd.
ENOBARBUS.
I saw her once
Hop forty paces through the public street;
And, having lost her breath, she spoke and panted,
That she did make defect perfection,
And, breathless, power breathe forth.
MAECENAS.
Now Antony must leave her utterly.
ENOBARBUS.
Never; he will not:
Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
Her infinite variety: other women cloy
The appetites they feed; but she makes hungry
Where most she satisfies: for vilest things
Become themselves in her; that the holy priests
Bless her when she is riggish.
MAECENAS.
If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle
The heart of Antony, Octavia is
A blessed lottery to him.
AGRIPPA.
Let us go.--
Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest
Whilst you abide here.
ENOBARBUS.
Humbly, sir, I thank you.
[Exeunt.] | Antony and Caesar meet with some of their officials surrounding them. Caesar is angry with Antony for his wife and brother's actions. He is also angry because Antony did not come to his aide when he wanted him there. To solve the problem, Agrippa comes up with the plan to have the newly widowed Antony married to Caesar's sister Octavia. The men agree to the plan that will cement their relationship and make them brothers, and leave to have the two betrothed meet. Some of their lords however stay behind, and they discuss the fact that though he may marry Octavia, Antony's heart will never leave Cleopatra |
41 The Butcher
I saw a great deal of trouble among the horses in London, and much of
it might have been prevented by a little common sense. We horses do not
mind hard work if we are treated reasonably, and I am sure there are
many driven by quite poor men who have a happier life than I had when I
used to go in the Countess of W----'s carriage, with my silver-mounted
harness and high feeding.
It often went to my heart to see how the little ponies were used,
straining along with heavy loads or staggering under heavy blows from
some low, cruel boy. Once I saw a little gray pony with a thick mane
and a pretty head, and so much like Merrylegs that if I had not been in
harness I should have neighed to him. He was doing his best to pull a
heavy cart, while a strong rough boy was cutting him under the belly
with his whip and chucking cruelly at his little mouth. Could it be
Merrylegs? It was just like him; but then Mr. Blomefield was never to
sell him, and I think he would not do it; but this might have been quite
as good a little fellow, and had as happy a place when he was young.
I often noticed the great speed at which butchers' horses were made to
go, though I did not know why it was so till one day when we had to wait
some time in St. John's Wood. There was a butcher's shop next door, and
as we were standing a butcher's cart came dashing up at a great pace.
The horse was hot and much exhausted; he hung his head down, while his
heaving sides and trembling legs showed how hard he had been driven. The
lad jumped out of the cart and was getting the basket when the master
came out of the shop much displeased. After looking at the horse he
turned angrily to the lad.
"How many times shall I tell you not to drive in this way? You ruined
the last horse and broke his wind, and you are going to ruin this in the
same way. If you were not my own son I would dismiss you on the spot;
it is a disgrace to have a horse brought to the shop in a condition like
that; you are liable to be taken up by the police for such driving, and
if you are you need not look to me for bail, for I have spoken to you
till I'm tired; you must look out for yourself."
During this speech the boy had stood by, sullen and dogged, but when his
father ceased he broke out angrily. It wasn't his fault, and he wouldn't
take the blame; he was only going by orders all the time.
"You always say, 'Now be quick; now look sharp!' and when I go to the
houses one wants a leg of mutton for an early dinner and I must be back
with it in a quarter of an hour; another cook has forgotten to order
the beef; I must go and fetch it and be back in no time, or the
mistress will scold; and the housekeeper says they have company coming
unexpectedly and must have some chops sent up directly; and the lady at
No. 4, in the Crescent, never orders her dinner till the meat comes
in for lunch, and it's nothing but hurry, hurry, all the time. If the
gentry would think of what they want, and order their meat the day
before, there need not be this blow up!"
"I wish to goodness they would," said the butcher; "'twould save me a
wonderful deal of harass, and I could suit my customers much better if
I knew beforehand--But there! what's the use of talking--who ever thinks
of a butcher's convenience or a butcher's horse! Now, then, take him
in and look to him well; mind, he does not go out again to-day, and if
anything else is wanted you must carry it yourself in the basket." With
that he went in, and the horse was led away.
But all boys are not cruel. I have seen some as fond of their pony or
donkey as if it had been a favorite dog, and the little creatures have
worked away as cheerfully and willingly for their young drivers as I
work for Jerry. It may be hard work sometimes, but a friend's hand and
voice make it easy.
There was a young coster-boy who came up our street with greens and
potatoes; he had an old pony, not very handsome, but the cheerfullest
and pluckiest little thing I ever saw, and to see how fond those two
were of each other was a treat. The pony followed his master like a dog,
and when he got into his cart would trot off without a whip or a word,
and rattle down the street as merrily as if he had come out of the
queen's stables. Jerry liked the boy, and called him "Prince Charlie",
for he said he would make a king of drivers some day.
There was an old man, too, who used to come up our street with a little
coal cart; he wore a coal-heaver's hat, and looked rough and black. He
and his old horse used to plod together along the street, like two good
partners who understood each other; the horse would stop of his own
accord at the doors where they took coal of him; he used to keep one ear
bent toward his master. The old man's cry could be heard up the street
long before he came near. I never knew what he said, but the children
called him "Old Ba-a-ar Hoo", for it sounded like that. Polly took her
coal of him, and was very friendly, and Jerry said it was a comfort to
think how happy an old horse might be in a poor place. | Beauty says he's seen a lot of trouble with London horses, " and much of it that might have been prevented by a little common sense" . It's hard for him to watch little ponies that are made to pull heavy loads--one day he sees one that reminds him of Merrylegs being whipped and mistreated. He notices that butcher's horses are driven particularly fast, and doesn't know why until he waits next to a butcher's shop one day. He watches the butcher berate his young son for driving their horse too hard, but the son tells him he's always told to rush, especially when delivering last-minute orders of fresh meat. "If the gentry would think of what they want, and order their meat the day before, there need not be this blow up!" , the young boy laments. So he's basically the pizza delivery guy of Victorian London. Beauty does say that some boys seem to treat their horses kindly, in particular one boy who sells vegetables with an old pony. "The pony followed his master like a dog and rattle down the street as merrily as if he had come out of the Queen's stables" , Beauty says. Jerry calls the boy "Prince Charlie," saying he " would make a king of drivers someday" . Beauty also describes an old man with a coal cart who has a very close relationship with his old horse, and Jerry says, " it was a comfort to think how happy an old horse might be in a poor place" . So basically, money isn't necessarily the key to a horse's happiness. |
DEPARTURE
Young George Willard got out of bed at four in the
morning. It was April and the young tree leaves were
just coming out of their buds. The trees along the
residence streets in Winesburg are maple and the seeds
are winged. When the wind blows they whirl crazily
about, filling the air and making a carpet underfoot.
George came downstairs into the hotel office carrying a
brown leather bag. His trunk was packed for departure.
Since two o'clock he had been awake thinking of the
journey he was about to take and wondering what he
would find at the end of his journey. The boy who slept
in the hotel office lay on a cot by the door. His mouth
was open and he snored lustily. George crept past the
cot and went out into the silent deserted main street.
The east was pink with the dawn and long streaks of
light climbed into the sky where a few stars still
shone.
Beyond the last house on Trunion Pike in Winesburg
there is a great stretch of open fields. The fields are
owned by farmers who live in town and drive homeward at
evening along Trunion Pike in light creaking wagons. In
the fields are planted berries and small fruits. In the
late afternoon in the hot summers when the road and the
fields are covered with dust, a smoky haze lies over
the great flat basin of land. To look across it is like
looking out across the sea. In the spring when the land
is green the effect is somewhat different. The land
becomes a wide green billiard table on which tiny human
insects toil up and down.
All through his boyhood and young manhood George
Willard had been in the habit of walking on Trunion
Pike. He had been in the midst of the great open place
on winter nights when it was covered with snow and only
the moon looked down at him; he had been there in the
fall when bleak winds blew and on summer evenings when
the air vibrated with the song of insects. On the April
morning he wanted to go there again, to walk again in
the silence. He did walk to where the road dipped down
by a little stream two miles from town and then turned
and walked silently back again. When he got to Main
Street clerks were sweeping the sidewalks before the
stores. "Hey, you George. How does it feel to be going
away?" they asked.
The westbound train leaves Winesburg at seven
forty-five in the morning. Tom Little is conductor. His
train runs from Cleveland to where it connects with a
great trunk line railroad with terminals in Chicago and
New York. Tom has what in railroad circles is called an
"easy run." Every evening he returns to his family. In
the fall and spring he spends his Sundays fishing in
Lake Erie. He has a round red face and small blue eyes.
He knows the people in the towns along his railroad
better than a city man knows the people who live in his
apartment building.
George came down the little incline from the New
Willard House at seven o'clock. Tom Willard carried his
bag. The son had become taller than the father.
On the station platform everyone shook the young man's
hand. More than a dozen people waited about. Then they
talked of their own affairs. Even Will Henderson, who
was lazy and often slept until nine, had got out of
bed. George was embarrassed. Gertrude Wilmot, a tall
thin woman of fifty who worked in the Winesburg post
office, came along the station platform. She had never
before paid any attention to George. Now she stopped
and put out her hand. In two words she voiced what
everyone felt. "Good luck," she said sharply and then
turning went on her way.
When the train came into the station George felt
relieved. He scampered hurriedly aboard. Helen White
came running along Main Street hoping to have a parting
word with him, but he had found a seat and did not see
her. When the train started Tom Little punched his
ticket, grinned and, although he knew George well and
knew on what adventure he was just setting out, made no
comment. Tom had seen a thousand George Willards go out
of their towns to the city. It was a commonplace enough
incident with him. In the smoking car there was a man
who had just invited Tom to go on a fishing trip to
Sandusky Bay. He wanted to accept the invitation and
talk over details.
George glanced up and down the car to be sure no one
was looking, then took out his pocket-book and counted
his money. His mind was occupied with a desire not to
appear green. Almost the last words his father had said
to him concerned the matter of his behavior when he got
to the city. "Be a sharp one," Tom Willard had said.
"Keep your eyes on your money. Be awake. That's the
ticket. Don't let anyone think you're a greenhorn."
After George counted his money he looked out of the
window and was surprised to see that the train was
still in Winesburg.
The young man, going out of his town to meet the
adventure of life, began to think but he did not think
of anything very big or dramatic. Things like his
mother's death, his departure from Winesburg, the
uncertainty of his future life in the city, the serious
and larger aspects of his life did not come into his
mind.
He thought of little things--Turk Smollet wheeling
boards through the main street of his town in the
morning, a tall woman, beautifully gowned, who had once
stayed overnight at his father's hotel, Butch Wheeler
the lamp lighter of Winesburg hurrying through the
streets on a summer evening and holding a torch in his
hand, Helen White standing by a window in the Winesburg
post office and putting a stamp on an envelope.
The young man's mind was carried away by his growing
passion for dreams. One looking at him would not have
thought him particularly sharp. With the recollection
of little things occupying his mind he closed his eyes
and leaned back in the car seat. He stayed that way for
a long time and when he aroused himself and again
looked out of the car window the town of Winesburg had
disappeared and his life there had become but a
background on which to paint the dreams of his manhood. | George Willard leaves Winesburg to go make his way in the big city. Several people see him off at the station, but Helen White is too late to wish him farewell. He thinks of mundane things as he waits for the train to pull out of the station. The conductor, who has seen many young men starting off on this journey, says nothing to George about what an important day this is. |
I. PLAYING PILGRIMS.
"Christmas won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying
on the rug.
"It's so dreadful to be poor!" sighed Meg, looking down at her old
dress.
"I don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things,
and other girls nothing at all," added little Amy, with an injured
sniff.
"We've got father and mother and each other," said Beth contentedly,
from her corner.
The four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the
cheerful words, but darkened again as Jo said sadly,--
"We haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time." She
didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of
father far away, where the fighting was.
Nobody spoke for a minute; then Meg said in an altered tone,--
"You know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this
Christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for every one; and
she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are
suffering so in the army. We can't do much, but we can make our little
sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly. But I am afraid I don't;" and Meg
shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she
wanted.
"But I don't think the little we should spend would do any good. We've
each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving
that. I agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but I do want
to buy Undine and Sintram for myself; I've wanted it _so_ long," said
Jo, who was a bookworm.
"I planned to spend mine in new music," said Beth, with a little sigh,
which no one heard but the hearth-brush and kettle-holder.
"I shall get a nice box of Faber's drawing-pencils; I really need them,"
said Amy decidedly.
"Mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to
give up everything. Let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun;
I'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried Jo, examining the heels
of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
"I know _I_ do,--teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when
I'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began Meg, in the complaining tone
again.
"You don't have half such a hard time as I do," said Jo. "How would you
like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps
you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to
fly out of the window or cry?"
"It's naughty to fret; but I do think washing dishes and keeping things
tidy is the worst work in the world. It makes me cross; and my hands get
so stiff, I can't practise well at all;" and Beth looked at her rough
hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
"I don't believe any of you suffer as I do," cried Amy; "for you don't
have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't
know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if
he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."
"If you mean _libel_, I'd say so, and not talk about _labels_, as if
papa was a pickle-bottle," advised Jo, laughing.
"I know what I mean, and you needn't be _statirical_ about it. It's
proper to use good words, and improve your _vocabilary_," returned Amy,
with dignity.
"Don't peck at one another, children. Don't you wish we had the money
papa lost when we were little, Jo? Dear me! how happy and good we'd be,
if we had no worries!" said Meg, who could remember better times.
"You said the other day, you thought we were a deal happier than the
King children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in
spite of their money."
"So I did, Beth. Well, I think we are; for, though we do have to work,
we make fun for ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as Jo would say."
"Jo does use such slang words!" observed Amy, with a reproving look at
the long figure stretched on the rug. Jo immediately sat up, put her
hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
"Don't, Jo; it's so boyish!"
"That's why I do it."
"I detest rude, unlady-like girls!"
"I hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
"'Birds in their little nests agree,'" sang Beth, the peace-maker, with
such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the
"pecking" ended for that time.
"Really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said Meg, beginning to
lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion. "You are old enough to leave off
boyish tricks, and to behave better, Josephine. It didn't matter so much
when you were a little girl; but now you are so tall, and turn up your
hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."
"I'm not! and if turning up my hair makes me one, I'll wear it in two
tails till I'm twenty," cried Jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down
a chestnut mane. "I hate to think I've got to grow up, and be Miss
March, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a China-aster! It's bad
enough to be a girl, anyway, when I like boys' games and work and
manners! I can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy; and it's
worse than ever now, for I'm dying to go and fight with papa, and I can
only stay at home and knit, like a poky old woman!" And Jo shook the
blue army-sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball
bounded across the room.
"Poor Jo! It's too bad, but it can't be helped; so you must try to be
contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us
girls," said Beth, stroking the rough head at her knee with a hand that
all the dish-washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in
its touch.
"As for you, Amy," continued Meg, "you are altogether too particular and
prim. Your airs are funny now; but you'll grow up an affected little
goose, if you don't take care. I like your nice manners and refined ways
of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant; but your absurd words are
as bad as Jo's slang."
"If Jo is a tom-boy and Amy a goose, what am I, please?" asked Beth,
ready to share the lecture.
"You're a dear, and nothing else," answered Meg warmly; and no one
contradicted her, for the "Mouse" was the pet of the family.
As young readers like to know "how people look," we will take this
moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat
knitting away in the twilight, while the December snow fell quietly
without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within. It was a comfortable
old room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain; for
a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses,
chrysanthemums and Christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a
pleasant atmosphere of home-peace pervaded it.
Margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being
plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft, brown hair, a sweet
mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain. Fifteen-year-old
Jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt; for she
never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very
much in her way. She had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp,
gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce,
funny, or thoughtful. Her long, thick hair was her one beauty; but it
was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way. Round shoulders
had Jo, big hands and feet, a fly-away look to her clothes, and the
uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a
woman, and didn't like it. Elizabeth--or Beth, as every one called
her--was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy
manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression, which was seldom
disturbed. Her father called her "Little Tranquillity," and the name
suited her excellently; for she seemed to live in a happy world of her
own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved. Amy,
though the youngest, was a most important person,--in her own opinion at
least. A regular snow-maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair, curling
on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a
young lady mindful of her manners. What the characters of the four
sisters were we will leave to be found out.
The clock struck six; and, having swept up the hearth, Beth put a pair
of slippers down to warm. Somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good
effect upon the girls; for mother was coming, and every one brightened
to welcome her. Meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, Amy got out
of the easy-chair without being asked, and Jo forgot how tired she was
as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
[Illustration: Beth put a pair of slippers down to warm]
"They are quite worn out; Marmee must have a new pair."
"I thought I'd get her some with my dollar," said Beth.
"No, I shall!" cried Amy.
"I'm the oldest," began Meg, but Jo cut in with a decided--
"I'm the man of the family now papa is away, and _I_ shall provide the
slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was
gone."
"I'll tell you what we'll do," said Beth; "let's each get her something
for Christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."
"That's like you, dear! What will we get?" exclaimed Jo.
Every one thought soberly for a minute; then Meg announced, as if the
idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "I shall give
her a nice pair of gloves."
"Army shoes, best to be had," cried Jo.
"Some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said Beth.
"I'll get a little bottle of cologne; she likes it, and it won't cost
much, so I'll have some left to buy my pencils," added Amy.
"How will we give the things?" asked Meg.
"Put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
Don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?" answered Jo.
[Illustration: I used to be so frightened when it was my
turn to sit in the big chair]
"I used to be _so_ frightened when it was my turn to sit in the big
chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the
presents, with a kiss. I liked the things and the kisses, but it was
dreadful to have you sit looking at me while I opened the bundles," said
Beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea, at the same time.
"Let Marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise
her. We must go shopping to-morrow afternoon, Meg; there is so much to
do about the play for Christmas night," said Jo, marching up and down,
with her hands behind her back and her nose in the air.
"I don't mean to act any more after this time; I'm getting too old for
such things," observed Meg, who was as much a child as ever about
"dressing-up" frolics.
"You won't stop, I know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown
with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry. You are the best
actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the
boards," said Jo. "We ought to rehearse to-night. Come here, Amy, and do
the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."
"I can't help it; I never saw any one faint, and I don't choose to make
myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do. If I can go down
easily, I'll drop; if I can't, I shall fall into a chair and be
graceful; I don't care if Hugo does come at me with a pistol," returned
Amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she
was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
[Illustration: Do it this way, clasp your hands so]
"Do it this way; clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room,
crying frantically, 'Roderigo! save me! save me!'" and away went Jo,
with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
Amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked
herself along as if she went by machinery; and her "Ow!" was more
suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish. Jo gave
a despairing groan, and Meg laughed outright, while Beth let her bread
burn as she watched the fun, with interest.
"It's no use! Do the best you can when the time comes, and if the
audience laugh, don't blame me. Come on, Meg."
Then things went smoothly, for Don Pedro defied the world in a speech of
two pages without a single break; Hagar, the witch, chanted an awful
incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect;
Roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and Hugo died in agonies of
remorse and arsenic, with a wild "Ha! ha!"
"It's the best we've had yet," said Meg, as the dead villain sat up and
rubbed his elbows.
"I don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, Jo. You're
a regular Shakespeare!" exclaimed Beth, who firmly believed that her
sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
"Not quite," replied Jo modestly. "I do think 'The Witch's Curse, an
Operatic Tragedy,' is rather a nice thing; but I'd like to try Macbeth,
if we only had a trap-door for Banquo. I always wanted to do the killing
part. 'Is that a dagger that I see before me?'" muttered Jo, rolling her
eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
"No, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the
bread. Beth's stage-struck!" cried Meg, and the rehearsal ended in a
general burst of laughter.
"Glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door,
and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady, with a
"can-I-help-you" look about her which was truly delightful. She was not
elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the
gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in
the world.
"Well, dearies, how have you got on to-day? There was so much to do,
getting the boxes ready to go to-morrow, that I didn't come home to
dinner. Has any one called, Beth? How is your cold, Meg? Jo, you look
tired to death. Come and kiss me, baby."
While making these maternal inquiries Mrs. March got her wet things off,
her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy-chair, drew Amy to
her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day. The girls
flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way. Meg
arranged the tea-table; Jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping,
overturning, and clattering everything she touched; Beth trotted to and
fro between parlor and kitchen, quiet and busy; while Amy gave
directions to every one, as she sat with her hands folded.
As they gathered about the table, Mrs. March said, with a particularly
happy face, "I've got a treat for you after supper."
A quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine. Beth clapped
her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and Jo tossed up her
napkin, crying, "A letter! a letter! Three cheers for father!"
"Yes, a nice long letter. He is well, and thinks he shall get through
the cold season better than we feared. He sends all sorts of loving
wishes for Christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said Mrs.
March, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.
"Hurry and get done! Don't stop to quirk your little finger, and simper
over your plate, Amy," cried Jo, choking in her tea, and dropping her
bread, butter side down, on the carpet, in her haste to get at the
treat.
Beth ate no more, but crept away, to sit in her shadowy corner and brood
over the delight to come, till the others were ready.
"I think it was so splendid in father to go as a chaplain when he was
too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said Meg
warmly.
"Don't I wish I could go as a drummer, a _vivan_--what's its name? or a
nurse, so I could be near him and help him," exclaimed Jo, with a groan.
"It must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of
bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed Amy.
"When will he come home, Marmee?" asked Beth, with a little quiver in
her voice.
"Not for many months, dear, unless he is sick. He will stay and do his
work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a
minute sooner than he can be spared. Now come and hear the letter."
They all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with Beth at her
feet, Meg and Amy perched on either arm of the chair, and Jo leaning on
the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter
should happen to be touching.
Very few letters were written in those hard times that were not
touching, especially those which fathers sent home. In this one little
was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the
homesickness conquered; it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of
lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news; and only
at the end did the writer's heart overflow with fatherly love and
longing for the little girls at home.
[Illustration: It was a cheerful, hopeful letter]
"Give them all my dear love and a kiss. Tell them I think of them by
day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection
at all times. A year seems very long to wait before I see them, but
remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days
need not be wasted. I know they will remember all I said to them, that
they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully,
fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so
beautifully, that when I come back to them I may be fonder and prouder
than ever of my little women."
Everybody sniffed when they came to that part; Jo wasn't ashamed of the
great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and Amy never minded
the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder
and sobbed out, "I _am_ a selfish girl! but I'll truly try to be better,
so he mayn't be disappointed in me by and by."
"We all will!" cried Meg. "I think too much of my looks, and hate to
work, but won't any more, if I can help it."
"I'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman,' and not be
rough and wild; but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere
else," said Jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much
harder task than facing a rebel or two down South.
Beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army-sock, and
began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that
lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all
that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy
coming home.
[Illustration: How you used to play Pilgrim's Progress]
Mrs. March broke the silence that followed Jo's words, by saying in her
cheery voice, "Do you remember how you used to play Pilgrim's Progress
when you were little things? Nothing delighted you more than to have me
tie my piece-bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks
and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the
cellar, which was the City of Destruction, up, up, to the house-top,
where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a
Celestial City."
"What fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting Apollyon, and
passing through the Valley where the hobgoblins were!" said Jo.
"I liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled down stairs,"
said Meg.
"My favorite part was when we came out on the flat roof where our
flowers and arbors and pretty things were, and all stood and sung for
joy up there in the sunshine," said Beth, smiling, as if that pleasant
moment had come back to her.
"I don't remember much about it, except that I was afraid of the cellar
and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the
top. If I wasn't too old for such things, I'd rather like to play it
over again," said Amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things
at the mature age of twelve.
"We never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are
playing all the time in one way or another. Our burdens are here, our
road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the
guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace
which is a true Celestial City. Now, my little pilgrims, suppose you
begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get
before father comes home."
"Really, mother? Where are our bundles?" asked Amy, who was a very
literal young lady.
"Each of you told what your burden was just now, except Beth; I rather
think she hasn't got any," said her mother.
"Yes, I have; mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice
pianos, and being afraid of people."
Beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh; but
nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.
"Let us do it," said Meg thoughtfully. "It is only another name for
trying to be good, and the story may help us; for though we do want to
be good, it's hard work, and we forget, and don't do our best."
"We were in the Slough of Despond to-night, and mother came and pulled
us out as Help did in the book. We ought to have our roll of directions,
like Christian. What shall we do about that?" asked Jo, delighted with
the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her
duty.
"Look under your pillows, Christmas morning, and you will find your
guide-book," replied Mrs. March.
They talked over the new plan while old Hannah cleared the table; then
out came the four little work-baskets, and the needles flew as the girls
made sheets for Aunt March. It was uninteresting sewing, but to-night no
one grumbled. They adopted Jo's plan of dividing the long seams into
four parts, and calling the quarters Europe, Asia, Africa, and America,
and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the
different countries as they stitched their way through them.
[Illustration: No one but Beth could get much music out of the old
piano]
At nine they stopped work, and sung, as usual, before they went to bed.
No one but Beth could get much music out of the old piano; but she had a
way of softly touching the yellow keys, and making a pleasant
accompaniment to the simple songs they sung. Meg had a voice like a
flute, and she and her mother led the little choir. Amy chirped like a
cricket, and Jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always
coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoilt the
most pensive tune. They had always done this from the time they could
lisp
"Crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,"
and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
The first sound in the morning was her voice, as she went about the
house singing like a lark; and the last sound at night was the same
cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar
lullaby.
[Illustration: At nine they stopped work and sung as usual]
[Illustration: A Merry Christmas] | Playing Pilgrims The story begins on Christmas Eve, where the four daughters are gathered in their simple living room lamenting that, this year, they are too poor to have presents on Christmas. Meg is sixteen and quite pretty. She can be vain, especially about her soft, white hands. Jo is fifteen years old, a tomboy with a fierce temper. Jo loves to write stories and plays, which the girls act out. Beth is thirteen and exceptionally quiet, but she loves music and her family. Beth loves music and her family. Amy is the youngest at twelve. She is vain about her appearance and tries to act like a lady, using long words incorrectly. She enjoys drawing and longs to be a famous artist. Each of the girls only has one dollar, and their mother feels that spending money on presents is wasteful during wartime. To cheer themselves up, the girls decide they will each buy themselves a present. Meg wants nice things, Jo wants a book, Beth new music, and Amy drawing pencils. But as they prepare for their mother's arrival, they decide that instead of buying presents for themselves, they will all buy presents for their Mother, "Marmee. When Marmee comes in, they enjoy a simple supper, and sit together by the fire to read a cherished letter from their Father. Mr. March, a philosopher, teacher, and pastor, was too old to be a soldier in the Union Army, so he joined as a chaplain. The whole family misses him dearly and worries about his safety. Father's letter reminds them to be dutiful, loving and kind, so when he returns he "may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women. Inspired by the letter, the girls decide to play a game based on Pilgrim's Progress and each work toward improving a personal character flaw. Meg's goal is to be less vain and do her work dutifully without complaint. Jo hopes to be womanlier and less wild. Beth aims to be less bashful and happy with her work, not envying girls with nice pianos. Amy vows to be less selfish. Marmee promises to give them guidebooks and loving support for their journeys. Everyone sings together and then goes to bed |
The same, all but Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, then Montfleury.
A marquis (watching De Guiche, who comes down from Roxane's box, and crosses
the pit surrounded by obsequious noblemen, among them the Viscount de
Valvert):
He pays a fine court, your De Guiche!
ANOTHER:
Faugh!. . .Another Gascon!
THE FIRST:
Ay, but the cold, supple Gascon--that is the stuff success is made of!
Believe me, we had best make our bow to him.
(They go toward De Guiche.)
SECOND MARQUIS:
What fine ribbons! How call you the color, Count de Guiche? 'Kiss me, my
darling,' or 'Timid Fawn?'
DE GUICHE:
'Tis the color called 'Sick Spaniard.'
FIRST MARQUIS:
'Faith! The color speaks truth, for, thanks to your valor, things will soon
go ill for Spain in Flanders.
DE GUICHE:
I go on the stage! Will you come?
(He goes toward the stage, followed by the marquises and gentlemen. Turning,
he calls):
Come you Valvert!
CHRISTIAN (who is watching and listening, starts on hearing this name):
The Viscount! Ah! I will throw full in his face my. . .
(He puts his hand in his pocket, and finds there the hand of a pickpocket who
is about to rob him. He turns round):
Hey?
THE PICKPOCKET:
Oh!
CHRISTIAN (holding him tightly):
I was looking for a glove.
THE PICKPOCKET (smiling piteously):
And you find a hand.
(Changing his tone, quickly and in a whisper):
Let me but go, and I will deliver you a secret.
CHRISTIAN (still holding him):
What is it?
THE PICKPOCKET:
Ligniere. . .he who has just left you. . .
CHRISTIAN (same play):
Well?
THE PICKPOCKET:
His life is in peril. A song writ by him has given offense in high places--
and a hundred men--I am of them--are posted to-night. . .
CHRISTIAN:
A hundred men! By whom posted?
THE PICKPOCKET:
I may not say--a secret. . .
CHRISTIAN (shrugging his shoulders):
Oh!
THE PICKPOCKET (with great dignity):
. . .Of the profession.
CHRISTIAN:
Where are they posted?
THE PICKPOCKET:
At the Porte de Nesle. On his way homeward. Warn him.
CHRISTIAN (letting go of his wrists):
But where can I find him?
THE PICKPOCKET:
Run round to all the taverns--The Golden Wine Press, the Pine Cone, The Belt
that Bursts, The Two Torches, The Three Funnels, and at each leave a word that
shall put him on his guard.
CHRISTIAN:
Good--I fly! Ah, the scoundrels! A hundred men 'gainst one!
(Looking lovingly at Roxane):
Ah, to leave her!. . .
(looking with rage at Valvert):
and him!. . .But save Ligniere I must!
(He hurries out. De Guiche, the viscount, the marquises, have all disappeared
behind the curtain to take their places on the benches placed on the stage.
The pit is quite full; the galleries and boxes are also crowded.)
THE AUDIENCE:
Begin!
A BURGHER (whose wig is drawn up on the end of a string by a page in the upper
gallery):
My wig!
CRIES OF DELIGHT:
He is bald! Bravo, pages--ha! ha! ha!. . .
THE BURGHER (furious, shaking his fist):
Young villain!
LAUGHTER AND CRIES (beginning very loud, and dying gradually away):
Ha! ha! ha! ha! ha! ha!
(Total silence.)
LE BRET (astonished):
What means this sudden silence?. . .
(A spectator says something to him in a low voice):
Is't true?
THE SPECTATOR:
I have just heard it on good authority.
MURMURS (spreading through the hall):
Hush! Is it he? No! Ay, I say! In the box with the bars in front! The
Cardinal! The Cardinal! The Cardinal!
A PAGE:
The devil! We shall have to behave ourselves. . .
(A knock is heard upon the stage. Every one is motionless. A pause.)
THE VOICE OF A MARQUIS (in the silence, behind the curtain):
Snuff that candle!
ANOTHER MARQUIS (putting his head through the opening in the curtain):
A chair!
(A chair is passed from hand to hand, over the heads of the spectators. The
marquis takes it and disappears, after blowing some kisses to the boxes.)
A SPECTATOR:
Silence!
(Three knocks are heard on the stage. The curtain opens in the centre
Tableau. The marquises in insolent attitudes seated on each side of the
stage. The scene represents a pastoral landscape. Four little lusters light
the stage; the violins play softly.)
LE BRET (in a low voice to Ragueneau):
Montfleury comes on the scene?
RAGUENEAU (also in a low voice):
Ay, 'tis he who begins.
LE BRET:
Cyrano is not here.
RAGUENEAU:
I have lost my wager.
LE BRET:
'Tis all the better!
(An air on the drone-pipes is heard, and Montfleury enters, enormously stout,
in an Arcadian shepherd's dress, a hat wreathed with roses drooping over one
ear, blowing into a ribboned drone pipe.)
THE PIT (applauding):
Bravo, Montfleury! Montfleury!
MONTFLEURY (after bowing low, begins the part of Phedon):
'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu solitaire,
Se prescrit a soi-meme un exil volontaire,
Et qui, lorsque Zephire a souffle sur les bois. . .'
A VOICE (from the middle of the pit):
Villain! Did I not forbid you to show your face here for month?
(General stupor. Every one turns round. Murmurs.)
DIFFERENT VOICES:
Hey?--What?--What is't?. . .
(The people stand up in the boxes to look.)
CUIGY:
'Tis he!
LE BRET (terrified):
Cyrano!
THE VOICE:
King of clowns! Leave the stage this instant!
ALL THE AUDIENCE (indignantly):
Oh!
MONTFLEURY:
But. . .
THE VOICE:
Do you dare defy me?
DIFFERENT VOICES (from the pit and the boxes):
Peace! Enough!--Play on, Montfleury--fear nothing!
MONTFLEURY (in a trembling voice):
'Heureux qui loin des cours, dans un lieu sol--'
THE VOICE (more fiercely):
Well! Chief of all the blackguards, must I come and give you a taste of my
cane?
(A hand holding a cane starts up over the heads of the spectators.)
MONTFLEURY (in a voice that trembles more and more):
'Heureux qui. . .'
(The cane is shaken.)
THE VOICE:
Off the stage!
THE PIT:
Oh!
MONTFLEURY (choking):
'Heureux qui loin des cours. . .'
CYRANO (appearing suddenly in the pit, standing on a chair, his arms crossed,
his beaver cocked fiercely, his mustache bristling, his nose terrible to see):
Ah! I shall be angry in a minute!. . .
(Sensation.) | As de Guiche and Valvert walk towards the stage, Christian decides to challenge Valvert to a duel over Roxane. As he reaches into his pocket for his glove to slap Valvert across the face by way of challenge, he encounters the hand of a pickpocket. In exchange for his release, the pickpocket tells Christian that Ligniere is in trouble. Ligniere has offended an important nobleman by writing a satirical song about him, and the nobleman has arranged for Ligniere to be ambushed by a hundred men at the Porte de Nesle on his way home. Christian runs off to rescue Ligniere. De Guiche, Valvert, and the Marquises take their seats on the stage. The crowd chants for the play to begin. Montfleury, a fat and untalented actor, comes on stage dressed as a shepherd and begins his speech. A voice from the pit is heard crying out, "Fool, have I not forbidden you the stage. Though the speaker is hidden, Le Bret and Cuigy are certain that it is Cyrano. Each time Montfleury tries to continue his speech, the speaker interrupts and threatens him. Montfleury's voice grows fainter and fainter. Finally, Cyrano stands up on his chair, creating a stir among the audience. |
HOUSEKEEPING
The next morning Jess was up before the others, as was fitting for a
little housekeeper. That is, she was first if we except the dog, who had
opened one eye instantly every time his little mistress stirred in her
sleep. He sat watching gravely in the door of the car as Jess descended
to get breakfast. She walked from the little waterfall quite a distance
down the brook, looking at it with critical eyes.
"This will be the well," she said to herself, regarding a small but deep
and quiet basin just below the falls. Below that she found a larger
basin, lined with gravel, with flat stones surrounding it.
"This will be the washtub," she decided. "And now I must go back to the
refrigerator." This was the strangest spot of all, for behind the little
waterfall was a small quiet pool in which Jess had set the milk bottles
the night before. Not a drop of water could get in, but all night long
the cool running water had surrounded the bottles. They were now fairly
icy to the touch. Jess smiled as she drew them out.
"Is it good?" asked Benny's voice. There he sat in the door of the car,
swinging his legs, his arm around the shaggy dog.
"It's delicious!" declared Jess. "Cold as ice." She climbed up beside
him as she spoke, bringing the breakfast with her. The other two
children sat up and looked at it.
"Today, Jess," began Henry, "I will go back to town and try to get a job
mowing lawns or something. Then we can afford to have something besides
milk for breakfast."
Milk suited Benny very well, however, so the older children allowed him
to drink rather more than his share. Henry did not waste any time
talking. He brushed his hair as well as he could without a brush, rolled
down his sleeves, and started for town with the second dollar.
"Glad you've got a dog, Jess," he called back, as he waved his straw
hat.
The children watched him disappear around the curve and then turned to
Jess expectantly. They were not mistaken. Jess had a plan.
"We'll explore," she began mysteriously. "We'll begin here at the car,
and hunt all over these woods until we find a dump!"
"What's a dump?" inquired Benny.
"O Benny!" answered Violet. "You know what a dump is. All old bottles
and papers and broken dishes."
"And wheels?" asked Benny interestedly. "Will there be any old wheels?"
"Yes, maybe," assented Violet. "But cups, Benny! Think of drinking milk
out of a cup again!"
"Oh, yes," said Benny, politely. But it was clear that his mind was
centered on wheels rather than cups.
The exploring party started slowly down the rusty track, with the dog
hopping happily on three legs. The fourth paw, nicely bandaged with
Jess' handkerchief, he held up out of harm's way.
"I think this is a spur track," said Jess. "They built it in here so
they could load wood on the cars, and then when they had cut all the
wood they didn't need the track any more."
This explanation seemed very likely, for here and there were stumps of
trees and decaying chips. Violet took note of these chips, and
remembered them some days later. In fact, both girls kept their eyes
open, and pointed out things of interest to each other.
"Remember these logs, Violet, if we should ever need any," said Jess
pointing.
"Blackberry blossoms!" returned Violet briefly, turning one over gently
with her foot.
"Big flat stones!" remarked Jess, later on, as they came upon a great
heap of them.
Here the track came out into the open sunshine, and broken pieces of
rail showed clearly where it had joined the main track at some time in
the past. And here from the top of the wooded hill the children could
plainly see the city in the valley. They walked along the track, picking
out a church steeple here and there, forgetting for a moment the object
of their search.
"There's a wheel!" Benny cried triumphantly from behind.
The girls looked down, and with a glad cry of surprise Jess recognized a
dump at the foot of the hill. They found it not composed entirely of
ashes and tin cans, either, although both of these were there in great
profusion. It was a royal dump, containing both cups and wheels.
"O Benny!" cried Jess, "if it hadn't been for you!" She hugged him,
wheel and all, and began turning over the rubbish with great delight.
"Here's a white pitcher, Jess," Violet called, holding up a perfect
specimen with a tiny chip in its nose.
"Here's a big white cup," said Jess delightedly, laying it aside.
"Want a teapot, Jessy?" inquired Benny, offering her an enormous blue
enameled affair without a handle.
"Yes, _indeed_!" cried Jess. "We can use that for water. I've found two
cups and a bowl already. And Violet, we ought to be looking for spoons,
too."
Violet pointed without speaking to her little pile of treasures. There
were five iron spoons covered with rust.
"Wonderful!" pronounced Jess with rapture. Indeed, it is doubtful if
collectors of rare and beautiful bits of porcelain ever enjoyed a search
as much as did these adventurers in the dump heap.
Benny actually found four wheels, exactly alike, probably from the same
cart, and insisted upon carrying them back. To please him, Jess allowed
him to add them to the growing pile.
"Here's a big iron kettle," observed Violet. "But we won't really cook
with a fire, will we, Jess?"
"We'll take it back, though," replied Jess with a knowing look. "We can
pile lots of dishes in it."
They could, and did, but not until after Benny had discovered his
beloved "pink cup." It was a tea-party cup of bright rose-color with a
wreath of gorgeous roses on it, and a little shepherdess giving her lamb
a drink from a pale blue brook. It had a perfectly good handle, gold
into the bargain. Its only flaw was a dangerous crack through the lamb's
nose and front feet. Jess made a cushion for it out of grass and laid it
on top of the kettle full of treasures. All the things, even the wheels,
were laid on a wide board which the two girls carried between them.
[Illustration: _Benny discovered his beloved "pink cup"_]
Can you imagine the dishwashing when the gay party returned to the
freight car? Children do not usually care for dishwashing. But never did
a little boy hand dishes to his sister so carefully as Benny did. On
their hands and knees beside the clear, cool little "washtub," the
three children soaped and rinsed and dried their precious store of
dishes. Jess scoured the rust from the spoons with sand. "There!" she
said, drying the last polished spoon. The children sat back and looked
admiringly at their own handiwork. But they did not look long. There was
too much to be done.
"Jess," exclaimed Violet, "I'll tell you!" Violet seldom spoke so
excitedly. Even Benny turned around and looked at her.
"Come and see what I noticed inside the car last night!"
Both children followed her, and peered in at the door.
"See, on the wall, right over on the other door, Jess." Now, all Jess
could see were two thick chunks of wood nailed securely to the closed
door opposite the open one. But she whirled around and around as fast as
she could, clapping her hands. When she could get her breath, however,
she skipped over to the board they had carried, dusted it nicely, and
laid it carefully across the two wooden projections. It was a perfect
shelf.
"There!" said Jess.
The children could hardly wait to arrange the shining new dishes on the
shelf. Violet quietly gathered some feathery white flowers, a daisy or
two, and some maidenhair ferns, which she arranged in a glass vase
filled with water from the "well." This she put in the middle, with the
broken edge hidden.
"There!" said Jess.
"You said 'there' three times, Jessy," remarked Benny, contentedly.
"So I did," replied Jess laughing, "but I'm going to say it again." She
pointed and said, "There!"
Henry was coming up the path. | Jessie is up bright and early to tidy up. She goes to retrieve the milk from the "refrigerator," which is a cold nook in the waterfall. The nook worked, and the milk is ready to drink. Over breakfast, Henry tells the group he plans to go into town and find work. Henry sets off for town, promising to be back by lunchtime. Jessie leads the other two children on a treasure hunt, and with that, they set off to find a dump. Benny wants to know if the stuff at the dump really qualifies as treasure. Good question, Benny. Benny also wants to know if there will be wheels at the dump. This seems oddly specific, but Violet thinks there probably will be. Watch is still hopping around on three legs, but he's in high spirits. He likes the Boxcar Children. The kids walk for a while and finally find a dump, which is conveniently filled with wheels and dishes. The kids gather some of the dishes. Benny has four wheels and a pink cup that he declares as his. Everyone makes their way back to camp, where Jessie washes the dishes using soap and sand. When Henry returns, they'll boil some water to rinse everything a final time. Violet has spotted some pegs in the boxcar on which they can build a shelf. Once they do, Jessie arranges the dishes and some flowers on the new shelf to make the boxcar more homey. She's very pleased with herself. Here's Henry. He's carrying all sorts of stuff, but he won't reveal what he has yet. The children tell Henry about their big day at the dump, and then Henry builds a fire so they can boil water to rinse the dishes. |
It has left off raining down in Lincolnshire at last, and Chesney
Wold has taken heart. Mrs. Rouncewell is full of hospitable cares,
for Sir Leicester and my Lady are coming home from Paris. The
fashionable intelligence has found it out and communicates the glad
tidings to benighted England. It has also found out that they will
entertain a brilliant and distinguished circle of the ELITE of the
BEAU MONDE (the fashionable intelligence is weak in English, but a
giant refreshed in French) at the ancient and hospitable family seat
in Lincolnshire.
For the greater honour of the brilliant and distinguished circle, and
of Chesney Wold into the bargain, the broken arch of the bridge in
the park is mended; and the water, now retired within its proper
limits and again spanned gracefully, makes a figure in the prospect
from the house. The clear, cold sunshine glances into the brittle
woods and approvingly beholds the sharp wind scattering the leaves
and drying the moss. It glides over the park after the moving shadows
of the clouds, and chases them, and never catches them, all day. It
looks in at the windows and touches the ancestral portraits with bars
and patches of brightness never contemplated by the painters. Athwart
the picture of my Lady, over the great chimney-piece, it throws a
broad bend-sinister of light that strikes down crookedly into the
hearth and seems to rend it.
Through the same cold sunshine and the same sharp wind, my Lady and
Sir Leicester, in their travelling chariot (my Lady's woman and Sir
Leicester's man affectionate in the rumble), start for home. With a
considerable amount of jingling and whip-cracking, and many plunging
demonstrations on the part of two bare-backed horses and two centaurs
with glazed hats, jack-boots, and flowing manes and tails, they
rattle out of the yard of the Hotel Bristol in the Place Vendome and
canter between the sun-and-shadow-chequered colonnade of the Rue de
Rivoli and the garden of the ill-fated palace of a headless king and
queen, off by the Place of Concord, and the Elysian Fields, and the
Gate of the Star, out of Paris.
Sooth to say, they cannot go away too fast, for even here my Lady
Dedlock has been bored to death. Concert, assembly, opera, theatre,
drive, nothing is new to my Lady under the worn-out heavens. Only
last Sunday, when poor wretches were gay--within the walls playing
with children among the clipped trees and the statues in the Palace
Garden; walking, a score abreast, in the Elysian Fields, made more
Elysian by performing dogs and wooden horses; between whiles
filtering (a few) through the gloomy Cathedral of Our Lady to say a
word or two at the base of a pillar within flare of a rusty little
gridiron-full of gusty little tapers; without the walls encompassing
Paris with dancing, love-making, wine-drinking, tobacco-smoking,
tomb-visiting, billiard card and domino playing, quack-doctoring, and
much murderous refuse, animate and inanimate--only last Sunday, my
Lady, in the desolation of Boredom and the clutch of Giant Despair,
almost hated her own maid for being in spirits.
She cannot, therefore, go too fast from Paris. Weariness of soul lies
before her, as it lies behind--her Ariel has put a girdle of it round
the whole earth, and it cannot be unclasped--but the imperfect remedy
is always to fly from the last place where it has been experienced.
Fling Paris back into the distance, then, exchanging it for endless
avenues and cross-avenues of wintry trees! And, when next beheld, let
it be some leagues away, with the Gate of the Star a white speck
glittering in the sun, and the city a mere mound in a plain--two dark
square towers rising out of it, and light and shadow descending on it
aslant, like the angels in Jacob's dream!
Sir Leicester is generally in a complacent state, and rarely bored.
When he has nothing else to do, he can always contemplate his own
greatness. It is a considerable advantage to a man to have so
inexhaustible a subject. After reading his letters, he leans back in
his corner of the carriage and generally reviews his importance to
society.
"You have an unusual amount of correspondence this morning?" says my
Lady after a long time. She is fatigued with reading. Has almost read
a page in twenty miles.
"Nothing in it, though. Nothing whatever."
"I saw one of Mr. Tulkinghorn's long effusions, I think?"
"You see everything," says Sir Leicester with admiration.
"Ha!" sighs my Lady. "He is the most tiresome of men!"
"He sends--I really beg your pardon--he sends," says Sir Leicester,
selecting the letter and unfolding it, "a message to you. Our
stopping to change horses as I came to his postscript drove it out of
my memory. I beg you'll excuse me. He says--" Sir Leicester is so
long in taking out his eye-glass and adjusting it that my Lady looks
a little irritated. "He says 'In the matter of the right of way--' I
beg your pardon, that's not the place. He says--yes! Here I have it!
He says, 'I beg my respectful compliments to my Lady, who, I hope,
has benefited by the change. Will you do me the favour to mention (as
it may interest her) that I have something to tell her on her return
in reference to the person who copied the affidavit in the Chancery
suit, which so powerfully stimulated her curiosity. I have seen
him.'"
My Lady, leaning forward, looks out of her window.
"That's the message," observes Sir Leicester.
"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady, still looking out of
her window.
"Walk?" repeats Sir Leicester in a tone of surprise.
"I should like to walk a little," says my Lady with unmistakable
distinctness. "Please to stop the carriage."
The carriage is stopped, the affectionate man alights from the
rumble, opens the door, and lets down the steps, obedient to an
impatient motion of my Lady's hand. My Lady alights so quickly and
walks away so quickly that Sir Leicester, for all his scrupulous
politeness, is unable to assist her, and is left behind. A space of a
minute or two has elapsed before he comes up with her. She smiles,
looks very handsome, takes his arm, lounges with him for a quarter of
a mile, is very much bored, and resumes her seat in the carriage.
The rattle and clatter continue through the greater part of three
days, with more or less of bell-jingling and whip-cracking, and more
or less plunging of centaurs and bare-backed horses. Their courtly
politeness to each other at the hotels where they tarry is the theme
of general admiration. Though my Lord IS a little aged for my Lady,
says Madame, the hostess of the Golden Ape, and though he might be
her amiable father, one can see at a glance that they love each
other. One observes my Lord with his white hair, standing, hat in
hand, to help my Lady to and from the carriage. One observes my Lady,
how recognisant of my Lord's politeness, with an inclination of her
gracious head and the concession of her so-genteel fingers! It is
ravishing!
The sea has no appreciation of great men, but knocks them about like
the small fry. It is habitually hard upon Sir Leicester, whose
countenance it greenly mottles in the manner of sage-cheese and in
whose aristocratic system it effects a dismal revolution. It is the
Radical of Nature to him. Nevertheless, his dignity gets over it
after stopping to refit, and he goes on with my Lady for Chesney
Wold, lying only one night in London on the way to Lincolnshire.
Through the same cold sunlight, colder as the day declines, and
through the same sharp wind, sharper as the separate shadows of bare
trees gloom together in the woods, and as the Ghost's Walk, touched
at the western corner by a pile of fire in the sky, resigns itself to
coming night, they drive into the park. The rooks, swinging in their
lofty houses in the elm-tree avenue, seem to discuss the question of
the occupancy of the carriage as it passes underneath, some agreeing
that Sir Leicester and my Lady are come down, some arguing with
malcontents who won't admit it, now all consenting to consider the
question disposed of, now all breaking out again in violent debate,
incited by one obstinate and drowsy bird who will persist in putting
in a last contradictory croak. Leaving them to swing and caw, the
travelling chariot rolls on to the house, where fires gleam warmly
through some of the windows, though not through so many as to give an
inhabited expression to the darkening mass of front. But the
brilliant and distinguished circle will soon do that.
Mrs. Rouncewell is in attendance and receives Sir Leicester's
customary shake of the hand with a profound curtsy.
"How do you do, Mrs. Rouncewell? I am glad to see you."
"I hope I have the honour of welcoming you in good health, Sir
Leicester?"
"In excellent health, Mrs. Rouncewell."
"My Lady is looking charmingly well," says Mrs. Rouncewell with
another curtsy.
My Lady signifies, without profuse expenditure of words, that she is
as wearily well as she can hope to be.
But Rosa is in the distance, behind the housekeeper; and my Lady, who
has not subdued the quickness of her observation, whatever else she
may have conquered, asks, "Who is that girl?"
"A young scholar of mine, my Lady. Rosa."
"Come here, Rosa!" Lady Dedlock beckons her, with even an appearance
of interest. "Why, do you know how pretty you are, child?" she says,
touching her shoulder with her two forefingers.
Rosa, very much abashed, says, "No, if you please, my Lady!" and
glances up, and glances down, and don't know where to look, but looks
all the prettier.
"How old are you?"
"Nineteen, my Lady."
"Nineteen," repeats my Lady thoughtfully. "Take care they don't spoil
you by flattery."
"Yes, my Lady."
My Lady taps her dimpled cheek with the same delicate gloved fingers
and goes on to the foot of the oak staircase, where Sir Leicester
pauses for her as her knightly escort. A staring old Dedlock in a
panel, as large as life and as dull, looks as if he didn't know what
to make of it, which was probably his general state of mind in the
days of Queen Elizabeth.
That evening, in the housekeeper's room, Rosa can do nothing but
murmur Lady Dedlock's praises. She is so affable, so graceful, so
beautiful, so elegant; has such a sweet voice and such a thrilling
touch that Rosa can feel it yet! Mrs. Rouncewell confirms all this,
not without personal pride, reserving only the one point of
affability. Mrs. Rouncewell is not quite sure as to that. Heaven
forbid that she should say a syllable in dispraise of any member of
that excellent family, above all, of my Lady, whom the whole world
admires; but if my Lady would only be "a little more free," not quite
so cold and distant, Mrs. Rouncewell thinks she would be more
affable.
"'Tis almost a pity," Mrs. Rouncewell adds--only "almost" because it
borders on impiety to suppose that anything could be better than it
is, in such an express dispensation as the Dedlock affairs--"that my
Lady has no family. If she had had a daughter now, a grown young
lady, to interest her, I think she would have had the only kind of
excellence she wants."
"Might not that have made her still more proud, grandmother?" says
Watt, who has been home and come back again, he is such a good
grandson.
"More and most, my dear," returns the housekeeper with dignity, "are
words it's not my place to use--nor so much as to hear--applied to
any drawback on my Lady."
"I beg your pardon, grandmother. But she is proud, is she not?"
"If she is, she has reason to be. The Dedlock family have always
reason to be."
"Well," says Watt, "it's to be hoped they line out of their
prayer-books a certain passage for the common people about pride and
vainglory. Forgive me, grandmother! Only a joke!"
"Sir Leicester and Lady Dedlock, my dear, are not fit subjects for
joking."
"Sir Leicester is no joke by any means," says Watt, "and I humbly ask
his pardon. I suppose, grandmother, that even with the family and
their guests down here, there is no objection to my prolonging my
stay at the Dedlock Arms for a day or two, as any other traveller
might?"
"Surely, none in the world, child."
"I am glad of that," says Watt, "because I have an inexpressible
desire to extend my knowledge of this beautiful neighbourhood."
He happens to glance at Rosa, who looks down and is very shy indeed.
But according to the old superstition, it should be Rosa's ears that
burn, and not her fresh bright cheeks, for my Lady's maid is holding
forth about her at this moment with surpassing energy.
My Lady's maid is a Frenchwoman of two and thirty, from somewhere in
the southern country about Avignon and Marseilles, a large-eyed brown
woman with black hair who would be handsome but for a certain feline
mouth and general uncomfortable tightness of face, rendering the jaws
too eager and the skull too prominent. There is something indefinably
keen and wan about her anatomy, and she has a watchful way of looking
out of the corners of her eyes without turning her head which could
be pleasantly dispensed with, especially when she is in an ill humour
and near knives. Through all the good taste of her dress and little
adornments, these objections so express themselves that she seems to
go about like a very neat she-wolf imperfectly tamed. Besides being
accomplished in all the knowledge appertaining to her post, she is
almost an Englishwoman in her acquaintance with the language;
consequently, she is in no want of words to shower upon Rosa for
having attracted my Lady's attention, and she pours them out with
such grim ridicule as she sits at dinner that her companion, the
affectionate man, is rather relieved when she arrives at the spoon
stage of that performance.
Ha, ha, ha! She, Hortense, been in my Lady's service since five years
and always kept at the distance, and this doll, this puppet,
caressed--absolutely caressed--by my Lady on the moment of her
arriving at the house! Ha, ha, ha! "And do you know how pretty you
are, child?" "No, my Lady." You are right there! "And how old are
you, child! And take care they do not spoil you by flattery, child!"
Oh, how droll! It is the BEST thing altogether.
In short, it is such an admirable thing that Mademoiselle Hortense
can't forget it; but at meals for days afterwards, even among her
countrywomen and others attached in like capacity to the troop of
visitors, relapses into silent enjoyment of the joke--an enjoyment
expressed, in her own convivial manner, by an additional tightness of
face, thin elongation of compressed lips, and sidewise look, which
intense appreciation of humour is frequently reflected in my Lady's
mirrors when my Lady is not among them.
All the mirrors in the house are brought into action now, many of
them after a long blank. They reflect handsome faces, simpering
faces, youthful faces, faces of threescore and ten that will not
submit to be old; the entire collection of faces that have come to
pass a January week or two at Chesney Wold, and which the fashionable
intelligence, a mighty hunter before the Lord, hunts with a keen
scent, from their breaking cover at the Court of St. James's to their
being run down to death. The place in Lincolnshire is all alive. By
day guns and voices are heard ringing in the woods, horsemen and
carriages enliven the park roads, servants and hangers-on pervade the
village and the Dedlock Arms. Seen by night from distant openings in
the trees, the row of windows in the long drawing-room, where my
Lady's picture hangs over the great chimney-piece, is like a row of
jewels set in a black frame. On Sunday the chill little church is
almost warmed by so much gallant company, and the general flavour of
the Dedlock dust is quenched in delicate perfumes.
The brilliant and distinguished circle comprehends within it no
contracted amount of education, sense, courage, honour, beauty, and
virtue. Yet there is something a little wrong about it in despite of
its immense advantages. What can it be?
Dandyism? There is no King George the Fourth now (more the pity) to
set the dandy fashion; there are no clear-starched jack-towel
neckcloths, no short-waisted coats, no false calves, no stays. There
are no caricatures, now, of effeminate exquisites so arrayed,
swooning in opera boxes with excess of delight and being revived by
other dainty creatures poking long-necked scent-bottles at their
noses. There is no beau whom it takes four men at once to shake into
his buckskins, or who goes to see all the executions, or who is
troubled with the self-reproach of having once consumed a pea. But is
there dandyism in the brilliant and distinguished circle
notwithstanding, dandyism of a more mischievous sort, that has got
below the surface and is doing less harmless things than
jack-towelling itself and stopping its own digestion, to which no
rational person need particularly object?
Why, yes. It cannot be disguised. There ARE at Chesney Wold this
January week some ladies and gentlemen of the newest fashion, who
have set up a dandyism--in religion, for instance. Who in mere
lackadaisical want of an emotion have agreed upon a little dandy talk
about the vulgar wanting faith in things in general, meaning in the
things that have been tried and found wanting, as though a low fellow
should unaccountably lose faith in a bad shilling after finding it
out! Who would make the vulgar very picturesque and faithful by
putting back the hands upon the clock of time and cancelling a few
hundred years of history.
There are also ladies and gentlemen of another fashion, not so new,
but very elegant, who have agreed to put a smooth glaze on the world
and to keep down all its realities. For whom everything must be
languid and pretty. Who have found out the perpetual stoppage. Who
are to rejoice at nothing and be sorry for nothing. Who are not to be
disturbed by ideas. On whom even the fine arts, attending in powder
and walking backward like the Lord Chamberlain, must array themselves
in the milliners' and tailors' patterns of past generations and be
particularly careful not to be in earnest or to receive any impress
from the moving age.
Then there is my Lord Boodle, of considerable reputation with his
party, who has known what office is and who tells Sir Leicester
Dedlock with much gravity, after dinner, that he really does not see
to what the present age is tending. A debate is not what a debate
used to be; the House is not what the House used to be; even a
Cabinet is not what it formerly was. He perceives with astonishment
that supposing the present government to be overthrown, the limited
choice of the Crown, in the formation of a new ministry, would lie
between Lord Coodle and Sir Thomas Doodle--supposing it to be
impossible for the Duke of Foodle to act with Goodle, which may be
assumed to be the case in consequence of the breach arising out of
that affair with Hoodle. Then, giving the Home Department and the
leadership of the House of Commons to Joodle, the Exchequer to
Koodle, the Colonies to Loodle, and the Foreign Office to Moodle,
what are you to do with Noodle? You can't offer him the Presidency of
the Council; that is reserved for Poodle. You can't put him in the
Woods and Forests; that is hardly good enough for Quoodle. What
follows? That the country is shipwrecked, lost, and gone to pieces
(as is made manifest to the patriotism of Sir Leicester Dedlock)
because you can't provide for Noodle!
On the other hand, the Right Honourable William Buffy, M.P., contends
across the table with some one else that the shipwreck of the
country--about which there is no doubt; it is only the manner of it
that is in question--is attributable to Cuffy. If you had done with
Cuffy what you ought to have done when he first came into Parliament,
and had prevented him from going over to Duffy, you would have got
him into alliance with Fuffy, you would have had with you the weight
attaching as a smart debater to Guffy, you would have brought to bear
upon the elections the wealth of Huffy, you would have got in for
three counties Juffy, Kuffy, and Luffy, and you would have
strengthened your administration by the official knowledge and the
business habits of Muffy. All this, instead of being as you now are,
dependent on the mere caprice of Puffy!
As to this point, and as to some minor topics, there are differences
of opinion; but it is perfectly clear to the brilliant and
distinguished circle, all round, that nobody is in question but
Boodle and his retinue, and Buffy and HIS retinue. These are the
great actors for whom the stage is reserved. A People there are, no
doubt--a certain large number of supernumeraries, who are to be
occasionally addressed, and relied upon for shouts and choruses, as
on the theatrical stage; but Boodle and Buffy, their followers and
families, their heirs, executors, administrators, and assigns, are
the born first-actors, managers, and leaders, and no others can
appear upon the scene for ever and ever.
In this, too, there is perhaps more dandyism at Chesney Wold than the
brilliant and distinguished circle will find good for itself in the
long run. For it is, even with the stillest and politest circles, as
with the circle the necromancer draws around him--very strange
appearances may be seen in active motion outside. With this
difference, that being realities and not phantoms, there is the
greater danger of their breaking in.
Chesney Wold is quite full anyhow, so full that a burning sense of
injury arises in the breasts of ill-lodged ladies'-maids, and is not
to be extinguished. Only one room is empty. It is a turret chamber of
the third order of merit, plainly but comfortably furnished and
having an old-fashioned business air. It is Mr. Tulkinghorn's room,
and is never bestowed on anybody else, for he may come at any time.
He is not come yet. It is his quiet habit to walk across the park
from the village in fine weather, to drop into this room as if he had
never been out of it since he was last seen there, to request a
servant to inform Sir Leicester that he is arrived in case he should
be wanted, and to appear ten minutes before dinner in the shadow of
the library-door. He sleeps in his turret with a complaining
flag-staff over his head, and has some leads outside on which, any
fine morning when he is down here, his black figure may be seen
walking before breakfast like a larger species of rook.
Every day before dinner, my Lady looks for him in the dusk of the
library, but he is not there. Every day at dinner, my Lady glances
down the table for the vacant place that would be waiting to receive
him if he had just arrived, but there is no vacant place. Every night
my Lady casually asks her maid, "Is Mr. Tulkinghorn come?"
Every night the answer is, "No, my Lady, not yet."
One night, while having her hair undressed, my Lady loses herself in
deep thought after this reply until she sees her own brooding face in
the opposite glass, and a pair of black eyes curiously observing her.
"Be so good as to attend," says my Lady then, addressing the
reflection of Hortense, "to your business. You can contemplate your
beauty at another time."
"Pardon! It was your Ladyship's beauty."
"That," says my Lady, "you needn't contemplate at all."
At length, one afternoon a little before sunset, when the bright
groups of figures which have for the last hour or two enlivened the
Ghost's Walk are all dispersed and only Sir Leicester and my Lady
remain upon the terrace, Mr. Tulkinghorn appears. He comes towards
them at his usual methodical pace, which is never quickened, never
slackened. He wears his usual expressionless mask--if it be a
mask--and carries family secrets in every limb of his body and every
crease of his dress. Whether his whole soul is devoted to the great
or whether he yields them nothing beyond the services he sells is his
personal secret. He keeps it, as he keeps the secrets of his clients;
he is his own client in that matter, and will never betray himself.
"How do you do, Mr. Tulkinghorn?" says Sir Leicester, giving him his
hand.
Mr. Tulkinghorn is quite well. Sir Leicester is quite well. My Lady
is quite well. All highly satisfactory. The lawyer, with his hands
behind him, walks at Sir Leicester's side along the terrace. My Lady
walks upon the other side.
"We expected you before," says Sir Leicester. A gracious observation.
As much as to say, "Mr. Tulkinghorn, we remember your existence when
you are not here to remind us of it by your presence. We bestow a
fragment of our minds upon you, sir, you see!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn, comprehending it, inclines his head and says he is
much obliged.
"I should have come down sooner," he explains, "but that I have been
much engaged with those matters in the several suits between yourself
and Boythorn."
"A man of a very ill-regulated mind," observes Sir Leicester with
severity. "An extremely dangerous person in any community. A man of a
very low character of mind."
"He is obstinate," says Mr. Tulkinghorn.
"It is natural to such a man to be so," says Sir Leicester, looking
most profoundly obstinate himself. "I am not at all surprised to hear
it."
"The only question is," pursues the lawyer, "whether you will give up
anything."
"No, sir," replies Sir Leicester. "Nothing. I give up?"
"I don't mean anything of importance. That, of course, I know you
would not abandon. I mean any minor point."
"Mr. Tulkinghorn," returns Sir Leicester, "there can be no minor
point between myself and Mr. Boythorn. If I go farther, and observe
that I cannot readily conceive how ANY right of mine can be a minor
point, I speak not so much in reference to myself as an individual as
in reference to the family position I have it in charge to maintain."
Mr. Tulkinghorn inclines his head again. "I have now my
instructions," he says. "Mr. Boythorn will give us a good deal of
trouble--"
"It is the character of such a mind, Mr. Tulkinghorn," Sir Leicester
interrupts him, "TO give trouble. An exceedingly ill-conditioned,
levelling person. A person who, fifty years ago, would probably have
been tried at the Old Bailey for some demagogue proceeding, and
severely punished--if not," adds Sir Leicester after a moment's
pause, "if not hanged, drawn, and quartered."
Sir Leicester appears to discharge his stately breast of a burden in
passing this capital sentence, as if it were the next satisfactory
thing to having the sentence executed.
"But night is coming on," says he, "and my Lady will take cold. My
dear, let us go in."
As they turn towards the hall-door, Lady Dedlock addresses Mr.
Tulkinghorn for the first time.
"You sent me a message respecting the person whose writing I happened
to inquire about. It was like you to remember the circumstance; I had
quite forgotten it. Your message reminded me of it again. I can't
imagine what association I had with a hand like that, but I surely
had some."
"You had some?" Mr. Tulkinghorn repeats.
"Oh, yes!" returns my Lady carelessly. "I think I must have had some.
And did you really take the trouble to find out the writer of that
actual thing--what is it!--affidavit?"
"Yes."
"How very odd!"
They pass into a sombre breakfast-room on the ground floor, lighted
in the day by two deep windows. It is now twilight. The fire glows
brightly on the panelled wall and palely on the window-glass, where,
through the cold reflection of the blaze, the colder landscape
shudders in the wind and a grey mist creeps along, the only traveller
besides the waste of clouds.
My Lady lounges in a great chair in the chimney-corner, and Sir
Leicester takes another great chair opposite. The lawyer stands
before the fire with his hand out at arm's length, shading his face.
He looks across his arm at my Lady.
"Yes," he says, "I inquired about the man, and found him. And, what
is very strange, I found him--"
"Not to be any out-of-the-way person, I am afraid!" Lady Dedlock
languidly anticipates.
"I found him dead."
"Oh, dear me!" remonstrated Sir Leicester. Not so much shocked by the
fact as by the fact of the fact being mentioned.
"I was directed to his lodging--a miserable, poverty-stricken
place--and I found him dead."
"You will excuse me, Mr. Tulkinghorn," observes Sir Leicester. "I
think the less said--"
"Pray, Sir Leicester, let me hear the story out" (it is my Lady
speaking). "It is quite a story for twilight. How very shocking!
Dead?"
Mr. Tulkinghorn re-asserts it by another inclination of his head.
"Whether by his own hand--"
"Upon my honour!" cries Sir Leicester. "Really!"
"Do let me hear the story!" says my Lady.
"Whatever you desire, my dear. But, I must say--"
"No, you mustn't say! Go on, Mr. Tulkinghorn."
Sir Leicester's gallantry concedes the point, though he still feels
that to bring this sort of squalor among the upper classes is
really--really--
"I was about to say," resumes the lawyer with undisturbed calmness,
"that whether he had died by his own hand or not, it was beyond my
power to tell you. I should amend that phrase, however, by saying
that he had unquestionably died of his own act, though whether by his
own deliberate intention or by mischance can never certainly be
known. The coroner's jury found that he took the poison
accidentally."
"And what kind of man," my Lady asks, "was this deplorable creature?"
"Very difficult to say," returns the lawyer, shaking his head. "He
had lived so wretchedly and was so neglected, with his gipsy colour
and his wild black hair and beard, that I should have considered him
the commonest of the common. The surgeon had a notion that he had
once been something better, both in appearance and condition."
"What did they call the wretched being?"
"They called him what he had called himself, but no one knew his
name."
"Not even any one who had attended on him?"
"No one had attended on him. He was found dead. In fact, I found
him."
"Without any clue to anything more?"
"Without any; there was," says the lawyer meditatively, "an old
portmanteau, but--No, there were no papers."
During the utterance of every word of this short dialogue, Lady
Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn, without any other alteration in their
customary deportment, have looked very steadily at one another--as
was natural, perhaps, in the discussion of so unusual a subject. Sir
Leicester has looked at the fire, with the general expression of the
Dedlock on the staircase. The story being told, he renews his stately
protest, saying that as it is quite clear that no association in my
Lady's mind can possibly be traceable to this poor wretch (unless he
was a begging-letter writer), he trusts to hear no more about a
subject so far removed from my Lady's station.
"Certainly, a collection of horrors," says my Lady, gathering up her
mantles and furs, "but they interest one for the moment! Have the
kindness, Mr. Tulkinghorn, to open the door for me."
Mr. Tulkinghorn does so with deference and holds it open while she
passes out. She passes close to him, with her usual fatigued manner
and insolent grace. They meet again at dinner--again, next
day--again, for many days in succession. Lady Dedlock is always the
same exhausted deity, surrounded by worshippers, and terribly liable
to be bored to death, even while presiding at her own shrine. Mr.
Tulkinghorn is always the same speechless repository of noble
confidences, so oddly out of place and yet so perfectly at home. They
appear to take as little note of one another as any two people
enclosed within the same walls could. But whether each evermore
watches and suspects the other, evermore mistrustful of some great
reservation; whether each is evermore prepared at all points for the
other, and never to be taken unawares; what each would give to know
how much the other knows--all this is hidden, for the time, in their
own hearts. | "On the Watch" The narrator describes the rainy scene at Chesney Wold. Lady Dedlock and Sir Leicester are returning from Paris. Lady Dedlock couldn't wait to leave Paris because she was so bored, a common complaint. In the carriage, Sir Leicester tells Lady Dedlock while looking through his mail that Mr. Tulkinghorn sends his greetings and has something to tell her when she returns. At Chesney Wold, Mrs. Rouncewell introduces Rosa to Lady Dedlock, who thinks Rosa is beautiful and strokes her cheek before going upstairs. Later, Lady Dedlock's maid, a Frenchwoman named Hortense, is bitterly jealous of Rosa. Hortense has worked for Lady Dedlock for five years, but Lady Dedlock has always distanced herself from Hortense. Lady Dedlock and Sir Leicester invite many people to Chesney Wold to spend a week or two. Every night, Lady Dedlock asks if Mr. Tulkinghorn has arrived yet; he tends to arrive unannounced and goes straight to the tower room that is always reserved for him. Mr. Tulkinghorn eventually does arrive. The narrator describes Tulkinghorn as looking as though he has secrets everywhere in his body. Mr. Tulkinghorn discusses the lawsuit concerning Mr. Boythorn with Sir Leicester. Sir Leicester is unwilling to compromise in any way. Lady Dedlock asks Mr. Tulkinghorn what he wanted to tell her, and he says it has to do with some handwriting she had asked him about--when he went in search of the writer, he found him dead. They discuss the man and the fact that no one knew anything about him. During this conversation, Lady Dedlock and Mr. Tulkinghorn never look away from each other but seem to take little note of each other in the days that follow |
I
HE was busy, from March to June. He kept himself from the bewilderment
of thinking. His wife and the neighbors were generous. Every evening he
played bridge or attended the movies, and the days were blank of face
and silent.
In June, Mrs. Babbitt and Tinka went East, to stay with relatives, and
Babbitt was free to do--he was not quite sure what.
All day long after their departure he thought of the emancipated house
in which he could, if he desired, go mad and curse the gods without
having to keep up a husbandly front. He considered, "I could have a
reg'lar party to-night; stay out till two and not do any explaining
afterwards. Cheers!" He telephoned to Vergil Gunch, to Eddie Swanson.
Both of them were engaged for the evening, and suddenly he was bored by
having to take so much trouble to be riotous.
He was silent at dinner, unusually kindly to Ted and Verona, hesitating
but not disapproving when Verona stated her opinion of Kenneth Escott's
opinion of Dr. John Jennison Drew's opinion of the opinions of the
evolutionists. Ted was working in a garage through the summer vacation,
and he related his daily triumphs: how he had found a cracked ball-race,
what he had said to the Old Grouch, what he had said to the foreman
about the future of wireless telephony.
Ted and Verona went to a dance after dinner. Even the maid was out.
Rarely had Babbitt been alone in the house for an entire evening. He was
restless. He vaguely wanted something more diverting than the newspaper
comic strips to read. He ambled up to Verona's room, sat on her maidenly
blue and white bed, humming and grunting in a solid-citizen manner as he
examined her books: Conrad's "Rescue," a volume strangely named "Figures
of Earth," poetry (quite irregular poetry, Babbitt thought) by Vachel
Lindsay, and essays by H. L. Mencken--highly improper essays, making fun
of the church and all the decencies. He liked none of the books. In them
he felt a spirit of rebellion against niceness and solid-citizenship.
These authors--and he supposed they were famous ones, too--did not seem
to care about telling a good story which would enable a fellow to forget
his troubles. He sighed. He noted a book, "The Three Black Pennies,"
by Joseph Hergesheimer. Ah, that was something like it! It would be an
adventure story, maybe about counterfeiting--detectives sneaking up on
the old house at night. He tucked the book under his arm, he clumped
down-stairs and solemnly began to read, under the piano-lamp:
"A twilight like blue dust sifted into the shallow fold of the thickly
wooded hills. It was early October, but a crisping frost had already
stamped the maple trees with gold, the Spanish oaks were hung with
patches of wine red, the sumach was brilliant in the darkening
underbrush. A pattern of wild geese, flying low and unconcerned above
the hills, wavered against the serene ashen evening. Howat Penny,
standing in the comparative clearing of a road, decided that the
shifting regular flight would not come close enough for a shot.... He
had no intention of hunting the geese. With the drooping of day
his keenness had evaporated; an habitual indifference strengthened,
permeating him...."
There it was again: discontent with the good common ways. Babbitt laid
down the book and listened to the stillness. The inner doors of the
house were open. He heard from the kitchen the steady drip of the
refrigerator, a rhythm demanding and disquieting. He roamed to the
window. The summer evening was foggy and, seen through the wire
screen, the street lamps were crosses of pale fire. The whole world was
abnormal. While he brooded, Verona and Ted came in and went up to
bed. Silence thickened in the sleeping house. He put on his hat, his
respectable derby, lighted a cigar, and walked up and down before the
house, a portly, worthy, unimaginative figure, humming "Silver Threads
among the Gold." He casually considered, "Might call up Paul." Then he
remembered. He saw Paul in a jailbird's uniform, but while he agonized
he didn't believe the tale. It was part of the unreality of this
fog-enchanted evening.
If she were here Myra would be hinting, "Isn't it late, Georgie?" He
tramped in forlorn and unwanted freedom. Fog hid the house now. The
world was uncreated, a chaos without turmoil or desire.
Through the mist came a man at so feverish a pace that he seemed to
dance with fury as he entered the orb of glow from a street-lamp. At
each step he brandished his stick and brought it down with a crash. His
glasses on their broad pretentious ribbon banged against his stomach.
Babbitt incredulously saw that it was Chum Frink.
Frink stopped, focused his vision, and spoke with gravity:
"There's another fool. George Babbitt. Lives for renting
howshes--houses. Know who I am? I'm traitor to poetry. I'm drunk. I'm
talking too much. I don't care. Know what I could 've been? I could 've
been a Gene Field or a James Whitcomb Riley. Maybe a Stevenson.
I could 've. Whimsies. 'Magination. Lissen. Lissen to this. Just
made it up:
Glittering summery meadowy noise
Of beetles and bums and respectable boys.
Hear that? Whimzh--whimsy. I made that up. I don't know what it means!
Beginning good verse. Chile's Garden Verses. And whadi write? Tripe!
Cheer-up poems. All tripe! Could have written--Too late!"
He darted on with an alarming plunge, seeming always to pitch forward
yet never quite falling. Babbitt would have been no more astonished
and no less had a ghost skipped out of the fog carrying his head.
He accepted Frink with vast apathy; he grunted, "Poor boob!" and
straightway forgot him.
He plodded into the house, deliberately went to the refrigerator and
rifled it. When Mrs. Babbitt was at home, this was one of the major
household crimes. He stood before the covered laundry tubs, eating a
chicken leg and half a saucer of raspberry jelly, and grumbling over a
clammy cold boiled potato. He was thinking. It was coming to him that
perhaps all life as he knew it and vigorously practised it was futile;
that heaven as portrayed by the Reverend Dr. John Jennison Drew was
neither probable nor very interesting; that he hadn't much pleasure out
of making money; that it was of doubtful worth to rear children merely
that they might rear children who would rear children. What was it all
about? What did he want?
He blundered into the living-room, lay on the davenport, hands behind
his head.
What did he want? Wealth? Social position? Travel? Servants? Yes, but
only incidentally.
"I give it up," he sighed.
But he did know that he wanted the presence of Paul Riesling; and from
that he stumbled into the admission that he wanted the fairy girl--in
the flesh. If there had been a woman whom he loved, he would have fled
to her, humbled his forehead on her knees.
He thought of his stenographer, Miss McGoun. He thought of the prettiest
of the manicure girls at the Hotel Thornleigh barber shop. As he fell
asleep on the davenport he felt that he had found something in life, and
that he had made a terrifying, thrilling break with everything that was
decent and normal.
II
He had forgotten, next morning, that he was a conscious rebel, but he
was irritable in the office and at the eleven o'clock drive of telephone
calls and visitors he did something he had often desired and never
dared: he left the office without excuses to those slave-drivers his
employees, and went to the movies. He enjoyed the right to be alone. He
came out with a vicious determination to do what he pleased.
As he approached the Roughnecks' Table at the club, everybody laughed.
"Well, here's the millionaire!" said Sidney Finkelstein.
"Yes, I saw him in his Locomobile!" said Professor Pumphrey.
"Gosh, it must be great to be a smart guy like Georgie!" moaned Vergil
Gunch. "He's probably stolen all of Dorchester. I'd hate to leave a poor
little defenseless piece of property lying around where he could get his
hooks on it!"
They had, Babbitt perceived, "something on him." Also, they "had their
kidding clothes on." Ordinarily he would have been delighted at the
honor implied in being chaffed, but he was suddenly touchy. He grunted,
"Yuh, sure; maybe I'll take you guys on as office boys!" He was
impatient as the jest elaborately rolled on to its denouement.
"Of course he may have been meeting a girl," they said, and "No, I think
he was waiting for his old roommate, Sir Jerusalem Doak."
He exploded, "Oh, spring it, spring it, you boneheads! What's the great
joke?"
"Hurray! George is peeved!" snickered Sidney Finkelstein, while a grin
went round the table. Gunch revealed the shocking truth: He had seen
Babbitt coming out of a motion-picture theater--at noon!
They kept it up. With a hundred variations, a hundred guffaws, they said
that he had gone to the movies during business-hours. He didn't so much
mind Gunch, but he was annoyed by Sidney Finkelstein, that brisk, lean,
red-headed explainer of jokes. He was bothered, too, by the lump of ice
in his glass of water. It was too large; it spun round and burned his
nose when he tried to drink. He raged that Finkelstein was like that
lump of ice. But he won through; he kept up his banter till they grew
tired of the superlative jest and turned to the great problems of the
day.
He reflected, "What's the matter with me to-day? Seems like I've got an
awful grouch. Only they talk so darn much. But I better steer careful
and keep my mouth shut."
As they lighted their cigars he mumbled, "Got to get back," and on a
chorus of "If you WILL go spending your mornings with lady ushers at the
movies!" he escaped. He heard them giggling. He was embarrassed. While
he was most bombastically agreeing with the coat-man that the weather
was warm, he was conscious that he was longing to run childishly with
his troubles to the comfort of the fairy child.
III
He kept Miss McGoun after he had finished dictating. He searched for a
topic which would warm her office impersonality into friendliness.
"Where you going on your vacation?" he purred.
"I think I'll go up-state to a farm do you want me to have the Siddons
lease copied this afternoon?"
"Oh, no hurry about it.... I suppose you have a great time when you get
away from us cranks in the office."
She rose and gathered her pencils. "Oh, nobody's cranky here I think I
can get it copied after I do the letters."
She was gone. Babbitt utterly repudiated the view that he had been
trying to discover how approachable was Miss McGoun. "Course! knew there
was nothing doing!" he said.
IV
Eddie Swanson, the motor-car agent who lived across the street from
Babbitt, was giving a Sunday supper. His wife Louetta, young Louetta who
loved jazz in music and in clothes and laughter, was at her wildest. She
cried, "We'll have a real party!" as she received the guests. Babbitt
had uneasily felt that to many men she might be alluring; now he
admitted that to himself she was overwhelmingly alluring. Mrs. Babbitt
had never quite approved of Louetta; Babbitt was glad that she was not
here this evening.
He insisted on helping Louetta in the kitchen: taking the chicken
croquettes from the warming-oven, the lettuce sandwiches from the
ice-box. He held her hand, once, and she depressingly didn't notice it.
She caroled, "You're a good little mother's-helper, Georgie. Now trot in
with the tray and leave it on the side-table."
He wished that Eddie Swanson would give them cocktails; that Louetta
would have one. He wanted--Oh, he wanted to be one of these Bohemians
you read about. Studio parties. Wild lovely girls who were independent.
Not necessarily bad. Certainly not! But not tame, like Floral Heights.
How he'd ever stood it all these years--
Eddie did not give them cocktails. True, they supped with mirth, and
with several repetitions by Orville Jones of "Any time Louetta wants to
come sit on my lap I'll tell this sandwich to beat it!" but they
were respectable, as befitted Sunday evening. Babbitt had discreetly
preempted a place beside Louetta on the piano bench. While he talked
about motors, while he listened with a fixed smile to her account of the
film she had seen last Wednesday, while he hoped that she would hurry up
and finish her description of the plot, the beauty of the leading man,
and the luxury of the setting, he studied her. Slim waist girdled
with raw silk, strong brows, ardent eyes, hair parted above a broad
forehead--she meant youth to him and a charm which saddened. He thought
of how valiant a companion she would be on a long motor tour, exploring
mountains, picnicking in a pine grove high above a valley. Her frailness
touched him; he was angry at Eddie Swanson for the incessant family
bickering. All at once he identified Louetta with the fairy girl. He
was startled by the conviction that they had always had a romantic
attraction for each other.
"I suppose you're leading a simply terrible life, now you're a widower,"
she said.
"You bet! I'm a bad little fellow and proud of it. Some evening you slip
Eddie some dope in his coffee and sneak across the road and I'll show
you how to mix a cocktail," he roared.
"Well, now, I might do it! You never can tell!"
"Well, whenever you're ready, you just hang a towel out of the attic
window and I'll jump for the gin!"
Every one giggled at this naughtiness. In a pleased way Eddie Swanson
stated that he would have a physician analyze his coffee daily. The
others were diverted to a discussion of the more agreeable recent
murders, but Babbitt drew Louetta back to personal things:
"That's the prettiest dress I ever saw in my life."
"Do you honestly like it?"
"Like it? Why, say, I'm going to have Kenneth Escott put a piece in the
paper saying that the swellest dressed woman in the U. S. is Mrs. E.
Louetta Swanson."
"Now, you stop teasing me!" But she beamed. "Let's dance a little.
George, you've got to dance with me."
Even as he protested, "Oh, you know what a rotten dancer I am!" he was
lumbering to his feet.
"I'll teach you. I can teach anybody."
Her eyes were moist, her voice was jagged with excitement. He was
convinced that he had won her. He clasped her, conscious of her smooth
warmth, and solemnly he circled in a heavy version of the one-step. He
bumped into only one or two people. "Gosh, I'm not doing so bad; hittin'
'em up like a regular stage dancer!" he gloated; and she answered
busily, "Yes--yes--I told you I could teach anybody--DON'T TAKE SUCH
LONG STEPS!"
For a moment he was robbed of confidence; with fearful concentration
he sought to keep time to the music. But he was enveloped again by her
enchantment. "She's got to like me; I'll make her!" he vowed. He tried
to kiss the lock beside her ear. She mechanically moved her head to
avoid it, and mechanically she murmured, "Don't!"
For a moment he hated her, but after the moment he was as urgent as
ever. He danced with Mrs. Orville Jones, but he watched Louetta swooping
down the length of the room with her husband. "Careful! You're getting
foolish!" he cautioned himself, the while he hopped and bent his solid
knees in dalliance with Mrs. Jones, and to that worthy lady rumbled,
"Gee, it's hot!" Without reason, he thought of Paul in that shadowy
place where men never dance. "I'm crazy to-night; better go home," he
worried, but he left Mrs. Jones and dashed to Louetta's lovely side,
demanding, "The next is mine."
"Oh, I'm so hot; I'm not going to dance this one."
"Then," boldly, "come out and sit on the porch and get all nice and
cool."
"Well--"
In the tender darkness, with the clamor in the house behind them, he
resolutely took her hand. She squeezed his once, then relaxed.
"Louetta! I think you're the nicest thing I know!"
"Well, I think you're very nice."
"Do you? You got to like me! I'm so lonely!"
"Oh, you'll be all right when your wife comes home."
"No, I'm always lonely."
She clasped her hands under her chin, so that he dared not touch her. He
sighed:
"When I feel punk and--" He was about to bring in the tragedy of Paul,
but that was too sacred even for the diplomacy of love. "--when I get
tired out at the office and everything, I like to look across the street
and think of you. Do you know I dreamed of you, one time!"
"Was it a nice dream?"
"Lovely!"
"Oh, well, they say dreams go by opposites! Now I must run in."
She was on her feet.
"Oh, don't go in yet! Please, Louetta!"
"Yes, I must. Have to look out for my guests."
"Let 'em look out for 'emselves!"
"I couldn't do that." She carelessly tapped his shoulder and slipped
away.
But after two minutes of shamed and childish longing to sneak home he
was snorting, "Certainly I wasn't trying to get chummy with her! Knew
there was nothing doing, all the time!" and he ambled in to dance with
Mrs. Orville Jones, and to avoid Louetta, virtuously and conspicuously. | In June, Myra and Tinka Babbitt travel to visit relatives. On one night when Ted and Verona are both out, George has the house to himself. Unsure what to do with this unusual freedom, he again feels a "discontent with the good common ways". As he broods, Chum Frink walks by the house, drunk, calling George a fool and wallowing in self-pity for the writer that he could have been but will never be. Suddenly, George is struck with the sense that "all life as he knew it and vigorously practiced it was futile". He questions his desires for wealth and social position and falls asleep thinking of pretty young women, sensing that he is making a "terrifying, thrilling break from everything that decent and moral". The next day, he leaves the office to see a mid-day movie. Later that evening, Babbitt attends a Sunday dinner hosted by Eddie Swanson. There, he flirts with Louetta Swanson, who appreciates his compliments and dances with him--but she ultimately rejects him |
SCENE II.
The same. Another Room in the Palace.
[Enter Lady Macbeth and a Servant.]
LADY MACBETH.
Is Banquo gone from court?
SERVANT.
Ay, madam, but returns again to-night.
LADY MACBETH.
Say to the king, I would attend his leisure
For a few words.
SERVANT.
Madam, I will.
[Exit.]
LADY MACBETH.
Naught's had, all's spent,
Where our desire is got without content:
'Tis safer to be that which we destroy,
Than, by destruction, dwell in doubtful joy.
[Enter Macbeth.]
How now, my lord! why do you keep alone,
Of sorriest fancies your companions making;
Using those thoughts which should indeed have died
With them they think on? Things without all remedy
Should be without regard: what's done is done.
MACBETH.
We have scotch'd the snake, not kill'd it;
She'll close, and be herself; whilst our poor malice
Remains in danger of her former tooth.
But let the frame of things disjoint,
Both the worlds suffer,
Ere we will eat our meal in fear, and sleep
In the affliction of these terrible dreams
That shake us nightly: better be with the dead,
Whom we, to gain our peace, have sent to peace,
Than on the torture of the mind to lie
In restless ecstasy. Duncan is in his grave;
After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;
Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,
Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,
Can touch him further.
LADY MACBETH.
Come on;
Gently my lord, sleek o'er your rugged looks;
Be bright and jovial 'mong your guests to-night.
MACBETH.
So shall I, love; and so, I pray, be you:
Let your remembrance apply to Banquo;
Present him eminence, both with eye and tongue:
Unsafe the while, that we
Must lave our honors in these flattering streams;
And make our faces vizards to our hearts,
Disguising what they are.
LADY MACBETH.
You must leave this.
MACBETH.
O, full of scorpions is my mind, dear wife!
Thou know'st that Banquo, and his Fleance, lives.
LADY MACBETH.
But in them nature's copy's not eterne.
MACBETH.
There's comfort yet; they are assailable;
Then be thou jocund: ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight, ere to black Hecate's summons,
The shard-borne beetle, with his drowsy hums,
Hath rung night's yawning peal, there shall be done
A deed of dreadful note.
LADY MACBETH.
What's to be done?
MACBETH.
Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck,
Till thou applaud the deed. Come, seeling night,
Scarf up the tender eye of pitiful day;
And with thy bloody and invisible hand
Cancel and tear to pieces that great bond
Which keeps me pale!--Light thickens; and the crow
Makes wing to the rooky wood:
Good things of day begin to droop and drowse;
Whiles night's black agents to their preys do rouse.--
Thou marvell'st at my words: but hold thee still;
Things bad begun make strong themselves by ill:
So, pr'ythee, go with me.
[Exeunt.] | This scene opens with Lady Macbeth sending a servant to bring her husband to her. She is obviously lonely and curious to know what is going on. While she is waiting on the king's arrival, she reveals her concern for the brooding Macbeth and his fears. In a soliloquy, she states, "Tis safer to be that which we destroy than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy." She knows that her husband is too fearful to gain any pleasure from the crown, and she wants to try and calm him down. She is still the practical advice giver. When Macbeth arrives, she asks him, "Why do you keep alone of sorriest fancies your companions making? ... What's done is done." Macbeth explains that they have wounded the snake, not killed it. He admits to growing fears of retribution for his actions. He also claims that he would rather be dead than to endure the "torture of mind" he is feeling. Lady Macbeth, surprisingly, does not scorn his fearful words as earlier, but gently warns him to appear bright and jovial amongst the guests at dinner. He promises to disguise what is in his heart and asks her to pay special attention to Banquo during the meal. She tells him to quit worrying about Banquo and Fleance, but the audience, like Macbeth, knows this is an impossibility. In fact, the king replies to his wife that his mind is "full of scorpions" and that "there shall be done a deed of dreadful note." When Lady Macbeth asks what is to be done, her husband leaves her in the dark, saying to her, "Be innocent of the knowledge till thou applaud the deed." He is in charge now, not his wife as in earlier scenes; he, however, is still confident that she will agree with the murders after they are accomplished and "applaud the deed. " The scene ends with Macbeth once again asking for night to come quickly. This time he wants the darkness to "cancel and tear to pieces that great bond which keeps me paled." |
IV. BURDENS.
"Oh dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on," sighed
Meg, the morning after the party; for, now the holidays were over, the
week of merry-making did not fit her for going on easily with the task
she never liked.
"I wish it was Christmas or New-Year all the time; wouldn't it be fun?"
answered Jo, yawning dismally.
"We shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now. But it does
seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and
drive home, and read and rest, and not work. It's like other people,
you know, and I always envy girls who do such things; I'm so fond of
luxury," said Meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the
least shabby.
"Well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble, but shoulder our
bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as Marmee does. I'm sure Aunt
March is a regular Old Man of the Sea to me, but I suppose when I've
learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so
light that I sha'n't mind her."
This idea tickled Jo's fancy, and put her in good spirits; but Meg
didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoilt children,
seemed heavier than ever. She hadn't heart enough even to make herself
pretty, as usual, by putting on a blue neck-ribbon, and dressing her
hair in the most becoming way.
"Where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross
midgets, and no one cares whether I'm pretty or not?" she muttered,
shutting her drawer with a jerk. "I shall have to toil and moil all my
days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly
and sour, because I'm poor, and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
It's a shame!"
So Meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable
at breakfast-time. Every one seemed rather out of sorts, and inclined to
croak. Beth had a headache, and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort
herself with the cat and three kittens; Amy was fretting because her
lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers; Jo _would_
whistle and make a great racket getting ready; Mrs. March was very busy
trying to finish a letter, which must go at once; and Hannah had the
grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
"There never _was_ such a cross family!" cried Jo, losing her temper
when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot-lacings, and sat down
upon her hat.
"You're the crossest person in it!" returned Amy, washing out the sum,
that was all wrong, with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
"Beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar I'll have them
drowned," exclaimed Meg angrily, as she tried to get rid of the kitten,
which had scrambled up her back, and stuck like a burr just out of
reach.
Jo laughed, Meg scolded, Beth implored, and Amy wailed, because she
couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.
"Girls, girls, do be quiet one minute! I _must_ get this off by the
early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried Mrs.
March, crossing out the third spoilt sentence in her letter.
There was a momentary lull, broken by Hannah, who stalked in, laid two
hot turn-overs on the table, and stalked out again. These turn-overs
were an institution; and the girls called them "muffs," for they had no
others, and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold
mornings. Hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy
she might be, for the walk was long and bleak; the poor things got no
other lunch, and were seldom home before two.
"Cuddle your cats, and get over your headache, Bethy. Good-by, Marmee;
we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular
angels. Now then, Meg!" and Jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims
were not setting out as they ought to do.
They always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was
always at the window, to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
Somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without
that; for, whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that
motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
"If Marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would
serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never
seen," cried Jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and
bitter wind.
"Don't use such dreadful expressions," said Meg, from the depths of the
vail in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
"I like good strong words, that mean something," replied Jo, catching
her hat as it took a leap off her head, preparatory to flying away
altogether.
"Call yourself any names you like; but _I_ am neither a rascal nor a
wretch, and I don't choose to be called so."
"You're a blighted being, and decidedly cross to-day because you can't
sit in the lap of luxury all the time. Poor dear, just wait till I make
my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice-cream and
high-heeled slippers and posies and red-headed boys to dance with."
"How ridiculous you are, Jo!" but Meg laughed at the nonsense, and felt
better in spite of herself.
"Lucky for you I am; for if I put on crushed airs, and tried to be
dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state. Thank goodness, I can
always find something funny to keep me up. Don't croak any more, but
come home jolly, there's a dear."
Jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for
the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm
turn-over, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather,
hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.
When Mr. March lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate
friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward
their own support, at least. Believing that they could not begin too
early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents
consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good-will which in
spite of all obstacles, is sure to succeed at last. Margaret found a
place as nursery governess, and felt rich with her small salary. As she
said, she _was_ "fond of luxury," and her chief trouble was poverty. She
found it harder to bear than the others, because she could remember a
time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want
of any kind unknown. She tried not to be envious or discontented, but it
was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay
friends, accomplishments, and a happy life. At the Kings' she daily saw
all she wanted, for the children's older sisters were just out, and Meg
caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball-dresses and bouquets, heard
lively gossip about theatres, concerts, sleighing parties, and
merry-makings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which
would have been so precious to her. Poor Meg seldom complained, but a
sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward every one sometimes, for
she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which
alone can make life happy.
Jo happened to suit Aunt March, who was lame, and needed an active
person to wait upon her. The childless old lady had offered to adopt one
of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her
offer was declined. Other friends told the Marches that they had lost
all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will; but the
unworldly Marches only said,--
"We can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes. Rich or poor, we will
keep together and be happy in one another."
The old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet Jo
at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck
the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion. This
did not suit Jo at all; but she accepted the place since nothing better
appeared, and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her
irascible relative. There was an occasional tempest, and once Jo had
marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it any longer; but Aunt March
always cleared up quickly, and sent for her back again with such urgency
that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery
old lady.
I suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books,
which was left to dust and spiders since Uncle March died. Jo remembered
the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges
with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about the queer pictures in
his Latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in
the street. The dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the
tall book-cases, the cosy chairs, the globes, and, best of all, the
wilderness of books, in which she could wander where she liked, made the
library a region of bliss to her. The moment Aunt March took her nap, or
was busy with company, Jo hurried to this quiet place, and, curling
herself up in the easy-chair, devoured poetry, romance, history,
travels, and pictures, like a regular book-worm. But, like all
happiness, it did not last long; for as sure as she had just reached the
heart of the story, the sweetest verse of the song, or the most perilous
adventure of her traveller, a shrill voice called, "Josy-phine!
Josy-phine!" and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the
poodle, or read Belsham's Essays by the hour together.
[Illustration: Curling herself up in the big chair]
Jo's ambition was to do something very splendid; what it was she had no
idea, as yet, but left it for time to tell her; and, meanwhile, found
her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and
ride as much as she liked. A quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless
spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series
of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic. But the training
she received at Aunt March's was just what she needed; and the thought
that she was doing something to support herself made her happy, in spite
of the perpetual "Josy-phine!"
Beth was too bashful to go to school; it had been tried, but she
suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home,
with her father. Even when he went away, and her mother was called to
devote her skill and energy to Soldiers' Aid Societies, Beth went
faithfully on by herself, and did the best she could. She was a
housewifely little creature, and helped Hannah keep home neat and
comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be
loved. Long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little
world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy
bee. There were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for
Beth was a child still, and loved her pets as well as ever. Not one
whole or handsome one among them; all were outcasts till Beth took them
in; for, when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her,
because Amy would have nothing old or ugly. Beth cherished them all the
more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm
dolls. No pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals; no harsh words
or blows were ever given them; no neglect ever saddened the heart of the
most repulsive: but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed, with
an affection which never failed. One forlorn fragment of _dollanity_ had
belonged to Jo; and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in
the rag-bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by Beth, and
taken to her refuge. Having no top to its head, she tied on a neat
little cap, and, as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these
deficiencies by folding it in a blanket, and devoting her best bed to
this chronic invalid. If any one had known the care lavished on that
dolly, I think it would have touched their hearts, even while they
laughed. She brought it bits of bouquets; she read to it, took it out to
breathe the air, hidden under her coat; she sung it lullabys, and never
went to bed without kissing its dirty face, and whispering tenderly, "I
hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."
Beth had her troubles as well as the others; and not being an angel, but
a very human little girl, she often "wept a little weep," as Jo said,
because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano. She loved
music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practised away so patiently
at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if some one (not to
hint Aunt March) ought to help her. Nobody did, however, and nobody saw
Beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune,
when she was all alone. She sang like a little lark about her work,
never was too tired to play for Marmee and the girls, and day after day
said hopefully to herself, "I know I'll get my music some time, if I'm
good."
There are many Beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners
till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the
sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the
sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
If anybody had asked Amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she
would have answered at once, "My nose." When she was a baby, Jo had
accidentally dropped her into the coal-hod, and Amy insisted that the
fall had ruined her nose forever. It was not big, nor red, like poor
"Petrea's"; it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world
could not give it an aristocratic point. No one minded it but herself,
and it was doing its best to grow, but Amy felt deeply the want of a
Grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.
"Little Raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for
drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing
fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art. Her
teachers complained that, instead of doing her sums, she covered her
slate with animals; the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps
on; and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering
out of all her books at unlucky moments. She got through her lessons as
well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of
deportment. She was a great favorite with her mates, being
good-tempered, and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
Her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her
accomplishments; for beside her drawing, she could play twelve tunes,
crochet, and read French without mispronouncing more than two thirds of
the words. She had a plaintive way of saying, "When papa was rich we did
so-and-so," which was very touching; and her long words were considered
"perfectly elegant" by the girls.
Amy was in a fair way to be spoilt; for every one petted her, and her
small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely. One thing,
however, rather quenched the vanities; she had to wear her cousin's
clothes. Now Florence's mamma hadn't a particle of taste, and Amy
suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet,
unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit. Everything was
good, well made, and little worn; but Amy's artistic eyes were much
afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull
purple, with yellow dots, and no trimming.
"My only comfort," she said to Meg, with tears in her eyes, "is, that
mother don't take tucks in my dresses whenever I'm naughty, as Maria
Parks' mother does. My dear, it's really dreadful; for sometimes she is
so bad, her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school. When
I think of this _deggerredation_, I feel that I can bear even my flat
nose and purple gown, with yellow sky-rockets on it."
Meg was Amy's confidant and monitor, and, by some strange attraction of
opposites, Jo was gentle Beth's. To Jo alone did the shy child tell her
thoughts; and over her big, harum-scarum sister, Beth unconsciously
exercised more influence than any one in the family. The two older girls
were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger into
her keeping, and watched over her in her own way; "playing mother" they
called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls, with
the maternal instinct of little women.
"Has anybody got anything to tell? It's been such a dismal day I'm
really dying for some amusement," said Meg, as they sat sewing together
that evening.
"I had a queer time with aunt to-day, and, as I got the best of it, I'll
tell you about it," began Jo, who dearly loved to tell stories. "I was
reading that everlasting Belsham, and droning away as I always do, for
aunt soon drops off, and then I take out some nice book, and read like
fury till she wakes up. I actually made myself sleepy; and, before she
began to nod, I gave such a gape that she asked me what I meant by
opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once.
[Illustration: Reading that everlasting Belsham]
"'I wish I could, and be done with it,' said I, trying not to be saucy.
"Then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and
think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment. She never
finds herself very soon; so the minute her cap began to bob, like a
top-heavy dahlia, I whipped the 'Vicar of Wakefield' out of my pocket,
and read away, with one eye on him, and one on aunt. I'd just got to
where they all tumbled into the water, when I forgot, and laughed out
loud. Aunt woke up; and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me
to read a bit, and show what frivolous work I preferred to the worthy
and instructive Belsham. I did my very best, and she liked it, though
she only said,--
"'I don't understand what it's all about. Go back and begin it, child.'
"Back I went, and made the Primroses as interesting as ever I could.
Once I was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly,
'I'm afraid it tires you, ma'am; sha'n't I stop now?'
"She caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me
a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way,--
"'Finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss.'"
"Did she own she liked it?" asked Meg.
"Oh, bless you, no! but she let old Belsham rest; and, when I ran back
after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the Vicar that
she didn't hear me laugh as I danced a jig in the hall, because of the
good time coming. What a pleasant life she might have, if she only
chose. I don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich
people have about as many worries as poor ones, I think," added Jo.
"That reminds me," said Meg, "that I've got something to tell. It isn't
funny, like Jo's story, but I thought about it a good deal as I came
home. At the Kings to-day I found everybody in a flurry, and one of the
children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and
papa had sent him away. I heard Mrs. King crying and Mr. King talking
very loud, and Grace and Ellen turned away their faces when they passed
me, so I shouldn't see how red their eyes were. I didn't ask any
questions, of course; but I felt so sorry for them, and was rather glad
I hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family."
"I think being disgraced in school is a great deal try_inger_ than
anything bad boys can do," said Amy, shaking her head, as if her
experience of life had been a deep one. "Susie Perkins came to school
to-day with a lovely red carnelian ring; I wanted it dreadfully, and
wished I was her with all my might. Well, she drew a picture of Mr.
Davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, 'Young ladies,
my eye is upon you!' coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing. We were
laughing over it, when all of a sudden his eye _was_ on us, and he
ordered Susie to bring up her slate. She was _parry_lized with fright,
but she went, and oh, what _do_ you think he did? He took her by the
ear, the ear! just fancy how horrid!--and led her to the recitation
platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding that slate so
every one could see."
[Illustration: He took her by the ear! by the ear!]
"Didn't the girls laugh at the picture?" asked Jo, who relished the
scrape.
"Laugh? Not one! They sat as still as mice; and Susie cried quarts, I
know she did. I didn't envy her then; for I felt that millions of
carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy, after that. I never, never
should have got over such a agonizing mortification." And Amy went on
with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue, and the successful
utterance of two long words in a breath.
"I saw something that I liked this morning, and I meant to tell it at
dinner, but I forgot," said Beth, putting Jo's topsy-turvy basket in
order as she talked. "When I went to get some oysters for Hannah, Mr.
Laurence was in the fish-shop; but he didn't see me, for I kept behind a
barrel, and he was busy with Mr. Cutter, the fish-man. A poor woman came
in, with a pail and a mop, and asked Mr. Cutter if he would let her do
some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any dinner for her
children, and had been disappointed of a day's work. Mr. Cutter was in a
hurry, and said 'No,' rather crossly; so she was going away, looking
hungry and sorry, when Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish with the
crooked end of his cane, and held it out to her. She was so glad and
surprised, she took it right in her arms, and thanked him over and over.
He told her to 'go along and cook it,' and she hurried off, so happy!
Wasn't it good of him? Oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big,
slippery fish, and hoping Mr. Laurence's bed in heaven would be 'aisy.'"
[Illustration: Mr. Laurence hooked up a big fish]
When they had laughed at Beth's story, they asked their mother for one;
and, after a moment's thought, she said soberly,--
"As I sat cutting out blue flannel jackets to-day, at the rooms, I felt
very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should
be, if anything happened to him. It was not a wise thing to do; but I
kept on worrying, till an old man came in, with an order for some
clothes. He sat down near me, and I began to talk to him; for he looked
poor and tired and anxious.
"'Have you sons in the army?' I asked; for the note he brought was not
to me.
"'Yes, ma'am. I had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and
I'm going to the other, who is very sick in a Washington hospital,' he
answered quietly.
"'You have done a great deal for your country, sir,' I said, feeling
respect now, instead of pity.
"'Not a mite more than I ought, ma'am. I'd go myself, if I was any use;
as I ain't, I give my boys, and give 'em free.'
"He spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give
his all, that I was ashamed of myself. I'd given one man, and thought it
too much, while he gave four, without grudging them. I had all my girls
to comfort me at home; and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say
'good by' to him, perhaps! I felt so rich, so happy, thinking of my
blessings, that I made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and
thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."
"Tell another story, mother,--one with a moral to it, like this. I like
to think about them afterwards, if they are real, and not too preachy,"
said Jo, after a minute's silence.
Mrs. March smiled, and began at once; for she had told stories to this
little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.
"Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and
drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and
parents, who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here
the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew
diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good, and made many
excellent resolutions; but they did not keep them very well, and were
constantly saying, 'If we only had this,' or 'If we could only do that,'
quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many pleasant things
they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could
use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel discontented, think
over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as
if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not
done yet.)
"Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were
surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money
couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses; another
that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth,
health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady, who
couldn't enjoy her comforts; a third that, disagreeable as it was to
help get dinner, it was harder still to have to go begging for it; and
the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good
behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings
already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken
away entirely, instead of increased; and I believe they were never
disappointed, or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."
"Now, Marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories
against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!" cried Meg.
"I like that kind of sermon. It's the sort father used to tell us," said
Beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on Jo's cushion.
"I don't complain near as much as the others do, and I shall be more
careful than ever now; for I've had warning from Susie's downfall," said
Amy morally.
"We needed that lesson, and we won't forget it. If we do, you just say
to us, as old Chloe did in 'Uncle Tom,' 'Tink ob yer marcies, chillen!
tink ob yer marcies!'" added Jo, who could not, for the life of her,
help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took
it to heart as much as any of them.
[Illustration: Tail-piece] | Burdens Everyone is grumpy on returning to the first day of work after the holidays. Meg is particularly frustrated that some people enjoy restful days and nice parties all the time, while she must work because she is poor. Meg remembers when her family had more wealth and comforts, before Mr. March lost his property trying to help a friend. When that happened, Meg and Jo both asked their parents to let them work. As a governess for the wealthy King family, Meg daily sees all the luxuries she longs for and struggles to stay content. Jo works as a companion for her cranky Great Aunt March, reading to her and helping with small chores. She enjoys stealing away to Aunt March's library when she can. Beth, too shy for school, spends her days at home working tirelessly to help Hannah, caring for her dolls and cats with deep tenderness, and quietly pining for a nice piano. The narrator points out that we often take the Beths in the world for granted, quietly making our lives lovely, until they are gone. Amy is a pretty favorite among her classmates, and, like Meg, she longs to be an elegant, aristocratic lady. She looks up to and confides in Meg, and Jo has a special friendship with Beth. She laments her flat nose and the used, ugly clothes she inherits from her cousin Florence. At the end of the day, the girls relate stories. Jo tells how Aunt March chastised her for reading rubbish while Aunt March slept, but allowed Jo to read her the story, and enjoyed it despite herself. Jo laments that Aunt March has chosen to have a life devoid of enjoyable things, despite being rich. Meg describes how an elder son of the King family disgraced his house by gambling, and she is grateful that her family acts properly and loves each other. Amy describes a friend at school whose nice ring she envied, until the friend got into trouble and was humiliated, and Amy no longer envied her. Beth recounts seeing their neighbor Mr. Laurence hook a fish on his cane and give it to a woman at the market who was trying to work in return for food. Lastly, Marmee describes meeting a man at the Soldier's Aid Society whose four sons had all gone to war yet he was cheerful and proud. Marmee felt bad for missing Father and gave the man a nice bundle and some money, thanking him for reminding her to be grateful and sacrifice willingly for the good cause. At Jo's request, Marmee tells another story, of four girls who were safe and comfortable, yet discontented. They meet an old woman who tells them that to be contented, they must remember their blessings. This works, for one girl finds that wealth cannot keep sorrow out of families, another that youth and spirit are greater blessings than riches, another that begging would be even harder than errands, and the last that character is better than nice rings. Seeing this, the girls vow to complain less and work to deserve the blessings they have |
Half a minute conducted them through the pump-yard to the archway,
opposite Union Passage; but here they were stopped. Everybody acquainted
with Bath may remember the difficulties of crossing Cheap Street at
this point; it is indeed a street of so impertinent a nature, so
unfortunately connected with the great London and Oxford roads, and the
principal inn of the city, that a day never passes in which parties of
ladies, however important their business, whether in quest of pastry,
millinery, or even (as in the present case) of young men, are not
detained on one side or other by carriages, horsemen, or carts. This
evil had been felt and lamented, at least three times a day, by Isabella
since her residence in Bath; and she was now fated to feel and lament it
once more, for at the very moment of coming opposite to Union Passage,
and within view of the two gentlemen who were proceeding through the
crowds, and threading the gutters of that interesting alley, they
were prevented crossing by the approach of a gig, driven along on bad
pavement by a most knowing-looking coachman with all the vehemence that
could most fitly endanger the lives of himself, his companion, and his
horse.
"Oh, these odious gigs!" said Isabella, looking up. "How I detest them."
But this detestation, though so just, was of short duration, for she
looked again and exclaimed, "Delightful! Mr. Morland and my brother!"
"Good heaven! 'Tis James!" was uttered at the same moment by Catherine;
and, on catching the young men's eyes, the horse was immediately checked
with a violence which almost threw him on his haunches, and the servant
having now scampered up, the gentlemen jumped out, and the equipage was
delivered to his care.
Catherine, by whom this meeting was wholly unexpected, received her
brother with the liveliest pleasure; and he, being of a very amiable
disposition, and sincerely attached to her, gave every proof on his
side of equal satisfaction, which he could have leisure to do, while the
bright eyes of Miss Thorpe were incessantly challenging his notice;
and to her his devoirs were speedily paid, with a mixture of joy and
embarrassment which might have informed Catherine, had she been more
expert in the development of other people's feelings, and less simply
engrossed by her own, that her brother thought her friend quite as
pretty as she could do herself.
John Thorpe, who in the meantime had been giving orders about the
horses, soon joined them, and from him she directly received the amends
which were her due; for while he slightly and carelessly touched the
hand of Isabella, on her he bestowed a whole scrape and half a short
bow. He was a stout young man of middling height, who, with a plain face
and ungraceful form, seemed fearful of being too handsome unless he wore
the dress of a groom, and too much like a gentleman unless he were easy
where he ought to be civil, and impudent where he might be allowed to be
easy. He took out his watch: "How long do you think we have been running
it from Tetbury, Miss Morland?"
"I do not know the distance." Her brother told her that it was
twenty-three miles.
"Three and twenty!" cried Thorpe. "Five and twenty if it is an inch."
Morland remonstrated, pleaded the authority of road-books, innkeepers,
and milestones; but his friend disregarded them all; he had a surer test
of distance. "I know it must be five and twenty," said he, "by the time
we have been doing it. It is now half after one; we drove out of the
inn-yard at Tetbury as the town clock struck eleven; and I defy any man
in England to make my horse go less than ten miles an hour in harness;
that makes it exactly twenty-five."
"You have lost an hour," said Morland; "it was only ten o'clock when we
came from Tetbury."
"Ten o'clock! It was eleven, upon my soul! I counted every stroke. This
brother of yours would persuade me out of my senses, Miss Morland; do
but look at my horse; did you ever see an animal so made for speed in
your life?" (The servant had just mounted the carriage and was driving
off.) "Such true blood! Three hours and and a half indeed coming only
three and twenty miles! Look at that creature, and suppose it possible
if you can."
"He does look very hot, to be sure."
"Hot! He had not turned a hair till we came to Walcot Church; but look
at his forehand; look at his loins; only see how he moves; that horse
cannot go less than ten miles an hour: tie his legs and he will get on.
What do you think of my gig, Miss Morland? A neat one, is not it?
Well hung; town-built; I have not had it a month. It was built for a
Christchurch man, a friend of mine, a very good sort of fellow; he ran
it a few weeks, till, I believe, it was convenient to have done with it.
I happened just then to be looking out for some light thing of the kind,
though I had pretty well determined on a curricle too; but I chanced to
meet him on Magdalen Bridge, as he was driving into Oxford, last term:
'Ah! Thorpe,' said he, 'do you happen to want such a little thing as
this? It is a capital one of the kind, but I am cursed tired of it.'
'Oh! D--,' said I; 'I am your man; what do you ask?' And how much do you
think he did, Miss Morland?"
"I am sure I cannot guess at all."
"Curricle-hung, you see; seat, trunk, sword-case, splashing-board,
lamps, silver moulding, all you see complete; the iron-work as good
as new, or better. He asked fifty guineas; I closed with him directly,
threw down the money, and the carriage was mine."
"And I am sure," said Catherine, "I know so little of such things that I
cannot judge whether it was cheap or dear."
"Neither one nor t'other; I might have got it for less, I dare say; but
I hate haggling, and poor Freeman wanted cash."
"That was very good-natured of you," said Catherine, quite pleased.
"Oh! D---- it, when one has the means of doing a kind thing by a friend,
I hate to be pitiful."
An inquiry now took place into the intended movements of the young
ladies; and, on finding whither they were going, it was decided that
the gentlemen should accompany them to Edgar's Buildings, and pay their
respects to Mrs. Thorpe. James and Isabella led the way; and so
well satisfied was the latter with her lot, so contentedly was she
endeavouring to ensure a pleasant walk to him who brought the double
recommendation of being her brother's friend, and her friend's brother,
so pure and uncoquettish were her feelings, that, though they overtook
and passed the two offending young men in Milsom Street, she was so far
from seeking to attract their notice, that she looked back at them only
three times.
John Thorpe kept of course with Catherine, and, after a few minutes'
silence, renewed the conversation about his gig. "You will find,
however, Miss Morland, it would be reckoned a cheap thing by some
people, for I might have sold it for ten guineas more the next day;
Jackson, of Oriel, bid me sixty at once; Morland was with me at the
time."
"Yes," said Morland, who overheard this; "but you forget that your horse
was included."
"My horse! Oh, d---- it! I would not sell my horse for a hundred. Are
you fond of an open carriage, Miss Morland?"
"Yes, very; I have hardly ever an opportunity of being in one; but I am
particularly fond of it."
"I am glad of it; I will drive you out in mine every day."
"Thank you," said Catherine, in some distress, from a doubt of the
propriety of accepting such an offer.
"I will drive you up Lansdown Hill tomorrow."
"Thank you; but will not your horse want rest?"
"Rest! He has only come three and twenty miles today; all nonsense;
nothing ruins horses so much as rest; nothing knocks them up so soon.
No, no; I shall exercise mine at the average of four hours every day
while I am here."
"Shall you indeed!" said Catherine very seriously. "That will be forty
miles a day."
"Forty! Aye, fifty, for what I care. Well, I will drive you up Lansdown
tomorrow; mind, I am engaged."
"How delightful that will be!" cried Isabella, turning round. "My
dearest Catherine, I quite envy you; but I am afraid, brother, you will
not have room for a third."
"A third indeed! No, no; I did not come to Bath to drive my sisters
about; that would be a good joke, faith! Morland must take care of you."
This brought on a dialogue of civilities between the other two; but
Catherine heard neither the particulars nor the result. Her companion's
discourse now sunk from its hitherto animated pitch to nothing more than
a short decisive sentence of praise or condemnation on the face of every
woman they met; and Catherine, after listening and agreeing as long as
she could, with all the civility and deference of the youthful female
mind, fearful of hazarding an opinion of its own in opposition to that
of a self-assured man, especially where the beauty of her own sex is
concerned, ventured at length to vary the subject by a question which
had been long uppermost in her thoughts; it was, "Have you ever read
Udolpho, Mr. Thorpe?"
"Udolpho! Oh, Lord! Not I; I never read novels; I have something else to
do."
Catherine, humbled and ashamed, was going to apologize for her question,
but he prevented her by saying, "Novels are all so full of nonsense
and stuff; there has not been a tolerably decent one come out since
Tom Jones, except The Monk; I read that t'other day; but as for all the
others, they are the stupidest things in creation."
"I think you must like Udolpho, if you were to read it; it is so very
interesting."
"Not I, faith! No, if I read any, it shall be Mrs. Radcliffe's; her
novels are amusing enough; they are worth reading; some fun and nature
in them."
"Udolpho was written by Mrs. Radcliffe," said Catherine, with some
hesitation, from the fear of mortifying him.
"No sure; was it? Aye, I remember, so it was; I was thinking of that
other stupid book, written by that woman they make such a fuss about,
she who married the French emigrant."
"I suppose you mean Camilla?"
"Yes, that's the book; such unnatural stuff! An old man playing at
see-saw, I took up the first volume once and looked it over, but I soon
found it would not do; indeed I guessed what sort of stuff it must be
before I saw it: as soon as I heard she had married an emigrant, I was
sure I should never be able to get through it."
"I have never read it."
"You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man's playing at
see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not."
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe's lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. "Ah, Mother!
How do you do?" said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. "Where
did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must look
out for a couple of good beds somewhere near." And this address seemed
to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother's heart, for she
received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his
two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
they both looked very ugly.
These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James's friend
and Isabella's brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
Isabella's assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John's
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen's, and James, as
the door was closed on them, said, "Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?" instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, "I do not like
him at all," she directly replied, "I like him very much; he seems very
agreeable."
"He is as good-natured a fellow as ever lived; a little of a rattle; but
that will recommend him to your sex, I believe: and how do you like the
rest of the family?"
"Very, very much indeed: Isabella particularly."
"I am very glad to hear you say so; she is just the kind of young woman
I could wish to see you attached to; she has so much good sense, and is
so thoroughly unaffected and amiable; I always wanted you to know her;
and she seems very fond of you. She said the highest things in your
praise that could possibly be; and the praise of such a girl as Miss
Thorpe even you, Catherine," taking her hand with affection, "may be
proud of."
"Indeed I am," she replied; "I love her exceedingly, and am delighted
to find that you like her too. You hardly mentioned anything of her when
you wrote to me after your visit there."
"Because I thought I should soon see you myself. I hope you will be a
great deal together while you are in Bath. She is a most amiable girl;
such a superior understanding! How fond all the family are of her; she
is evidently the general favourite; and how much she must be admired in
such a place as this--is not she?"
"Yes, very much indeed, I fancy; Mr. Allen thinks her the prettiest girl
in Bath."
"I dare say he does; and I do not know any man who is a better judge of
beauty than Mr. Allen. I need not ask you whether you are happy here, my
dear Catherine; with such a companion and friend as Isabella Thorpe, it
would be impossible for you to be otherwise; and the Allens, I am sure,
are very kind to you?"
"Yes, very kind; I never was so happy before; and now you are come it
will be more delightful than ever; how good it is of you to come so far
on purpose to see me."
James accepted this tribute of gratitude, and qualified his conscience
for accepting it too, by saying with perfect sincerity, "Indeed,
Catherine, I love you dearly."
Inquiries and communications concerning brothers and sisters, the
situation of some, the growth of the rest, and other family matters now
passed between them, and continued, with only one small digression
on James's part, in praise of Miss Thorpe, till they reached Pulteney
Street, where he was welcomed with great kindness by Mr. and Mrs. Allen,
invited by the former to dine with them, and summoned by the latter
to guess the price and weigh the merits of a new muff and tippet.
A pre-engagement in Edgar's Buildings prevented his accepting the
invitation of one friend, and obliged him to hurry away as soon as he
had satisfied the demands of the other. The time of the two parties
uniting in the Octagon Room being correctly adjusted, Catherine was then
left to the luxury of a raised, restless, and frightened imagination
over the pages of Udolpho, lost from all worldly concerns of dressing
and dinner, incapable of soothing Mrs. Allen's fears on the delay of an
expected dressmaker, and having only one minute in sixty to bestow even
on the reflection of her own felicity, in being already engaged for the
evening. | Catherine and Isabella pursue two young men down the street. They are surprised to see their brothers, James Morland and John Thorpe, coming down the street in a carriage. James and John join their sisters. James pays his respects to Isabella. He seems romantically interested in her, which Catherine does not notice. John tries to show off to Catherine by bragging about his horse and carriage, but she is only mildly impressed. John offers to take Catherine for rides in his carriage, an offer she accepts timidly, for she is uncertain whether such a thing is proper. Catherine is dismayed to find that John does not like novels, but she is also slightly ashamed of herself for reading them. John asks Catherine to dance with him at the ball, thus "engaging" Catherine for that night, which greatly pleases her. James and Catherine then discuss the Thorpes, and James clearly hints at his love for Isabella, but Catherine misses the clues entirely. In fact, Catherine thanks James for coming to Bath to visit her. Catherine reads the Gothic novel The Mysteries of Udolpho in the brief time she has before the ball, engrossed to the exclusion of everything around her |
The ball was over, and the breakfast was soon over too; the last kiss
was given, and William was gone. Mr. Crawford had, as he foretold, been
very punctual, and short and pleasant had been the meal.
After seeing William to the last moment, Fanny walked back to the
breakfast-room with a very saddened heart to grieve over the melancholy
change; and there her uncle kindly left her to cry in peace, conceiving,
perhaps, that the deserted chair of each young man might exercise her
tender enthusiasm, and that the remaining cold pork bones and mustard in
William's plate might but divide her feelings with the broken egg-shells
in Mr. Crawford's. She sat and cried _con_ _amore_ as her uncle
intended, but it was _con_ _amore_ fraternal and no other. William was
gone, and she now felt as if she had wasted half his visit in idle cares
and selfish solicitudes unconnected with him.
Fanny's disposition was such that she could never even think of her
aunt Norris in the meagreness and cheerlessness of her own small house,
without reproaching herself for some little want of attention to her
when they had been last together; much less could her feelings acquit
her of having done and said and thought everything by William that was
due to him for a whole fortnight.
It was a heavy, melancholy day. Soon after the second breakfast, Edmund
bade them good-bye for a week, and mounted his horse for Peterborough,
and then all were gone. Nothing remained of last night but remembrances,
which she had nobody to share in. She talked to her aunt Bertram--she
must talk to somebody of the ball; but her aunt had seen so little of
what had passed, and had so little curiosity, that it was heavy work.
Lady Bertram was not certain of anybody's dress or anybody's place at
supper but her own. "She could not recollect what it was that she had
heard about one of the Miss Maddoxes, or what it was that Lady Prescott
had noticed in Fanny: she was not sure whether Colonel Harrison had been
talking of Mr. Crawford or of William when he said he was the finest
young man in the room--somebody had whispered something to her; she had
forgot to ask Sir Thomas what it could be." And these were her longest
speeches and clearest communications: the rest was only a languid "Yes,
yes; very well; did you? did he? I did not see _that_; I should not know
one from the other." This was very bad. It was only better than Mrs.
Norris's sharp answers would have been; but she being gone home with
all the supernumerary jellies to nurse a sick maid, there was peace
and good-humour in their little party, though it could not boast much
beside.
The evening was heavy like the day. "I cannot think what is the matter
with me," said Lady Bertram, when the tea-things were removed. "I feel
quite stupid. It must be sitting up so late last night. Fanny, you must
do something to keep me awake. I cannot work. Fetch the cards; I feel so
very stupid."
The cards were brought, and Fanny played at cribbage with her aunt till
bedtime; and as Sir Thomas was reading to himself, no sounds were
heard in the room for the next two hours beyond the reckonings of the
game--"And _that_ makes thirty-one; four in hand and eight in crib. You
are to deal, ma'am; shall I deal for you?" Fanny thought and thought
again of the difference which twenty-four hours had made in that room,
and all that part of the house. Last night it had been hope and smiles,
bustle and motion, noise and brilliancy, in the drawing-room, and out
of the drawing-room, and everywhere. Now it was languor, and all but
solitude.
A good night's rest improved her spirits. She could think of William the
next day more cheerfully; and as the morning afforded her an opportunity
of talking over Thursday night with Mrs. Grant and Miss Crawford, in a
very handsome style, with all the heightenings of imagination, and
all the laughs of playfulness which are so essential to the shade of a
departed ball, she could afterwards bring her mind without much effort
into its everyday state, and easily conform to the tranquillity of the
present quiet week.
They were indeed a smaller party than she had ever known there for
a whole day together, and _he_ was gone on whom the comfort and
cheerfulness of every family meeting and every meal chiefly depended.
But this must be learned to be endured. He would soon be always gone;
and she was thankful that she could now sit in the same room with her
uncle, hear his voice, receive his questions, and even answer them,
without such wretched feelings as she had formerly known.
"We miss our two young men," was Sir Thomas's observation on both the
first and second day, as they formed their very reduced circle after
dinner; and in consideration of Fanny's swimming eyes, nothing more was
said on the first day than to drink their good health; but on the
second it led to something farther. William was kindly commended and
his promotion hoped for. "And there is no reason to suppose," added Sir
Thomas, "but that his visits to us may now be tolerably frequent. As to
Edmund, we must learn to do without him. This will be the last winter of
his belonging to us, as he has done."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram, "but I wish he was not going away. They are
all going away, I think. I wish they would stay at home."
This wish was levelled principally at Julia, who had just applied for
permission to go to town with Maria; and as Sir Thomas thought it best
for each daughter that the permission should be granted, Lady Bertram,
though in her own good-nature she would not have prevented it, was
lamenting the change it made in the prospect of Julia's return, which
would otherwise have taken place about this time. A great deal of good
sense followed on Sir Thomas's side, tending to reconcile his wife to
the arrangement. Everything that a considerate parent _ought_ to feel
was advanced for her use; and everything that an affectionate mother
_must_ feel in promoting her children's enjoyment was attributed to her
nature. Lady Bertram agreed to it all with a calm "Yes"; and at the end
of a quarter of an hour's silent consideration spontaneously observed,
"Sir Thomas, I have been thinking--and I am very glad we took Fanny as
we did, for now the others are away we feel the good of it."
Sir Thomas immediately improved this compliment by adding, "Very true.
We shew Fanny what a good girl we think her by praising her to her face,
she is now a very valuable companion. If we have been kind to _her_, she
is now quite as necessary to _us_."
"Yes," said Lady Bertram presently; "and it is a comfort to think that
we shall always have _her_."
Sir Thomas paused, half smiled, glanced at his niece, and then gravely
replied, "She will never leave us, I hope, till invited to some other
home that may reasonably promise her greater happiness than she knows
here."
"And _that_ is not very likely to be, Sir Thomas. Who should invite her?
Maria might be very glad to see her at Sotherton now and then, but she
would not think of asking her to live there; and I am sure she is better
off here; and besides, I cannot do without her."
The week which passed so quietly and peaceably at the great house in
Mansfield had a very different character at the Parsonage. To the young
lady, at least, in each family, it brought very different feelings. What
was tranquillity and comfort to Fanny was tediousness and vexation to
Mary. Something arose from difference of disposition and habit: one so
easily satisfied, the other so unused to endure; but still more might be
imputed to difference of circumstances. In some points of interest they
were exactly opposed to each other. To Fanny's mind, Edmund's absence
was really, in its cause and its tendency, a relief. To Mary it was
every way painful. She felt the want of his society every day, almost
every hour, and was too much in want of it to derive anything but
irritation from considering the object for which he went. He could not
have devised anything more likely to raise his consequence than this
week's absence, occurring as it did at the very time of her brother's
going away, of William Price's going too, and completing the sort of
general break-up of a party which had been so animated. She felt it
keenly. They were now a miserable trio, confined within doors by a
series of rain and snow, with nothing to do and no variety to hope for.
Angry as she was with Edmund for adhering to his own notions, and acting
on them in defiance of her (and she had been so angry that they had
hardly parted friends at the ball), she could not help thinking of
him continually when absent, dwelling on his merit and affection, and
longing again for the almost daily meetings they lately had. His absence
was unnecessarily long. He should not have planned such an absence--he
should not have left home for a week, when her own departure from
Mansfield was so near. Then she began to blame herself. She wished she
had not spoken so warmly in their last conversation. She was afraid she
had used some strong, some contemptuous expressions in speaking of the
clergy, and that should not have been. It was ill-bred; it was wrong.
She wished such words unsaid with all her heart.
Her vexation did not end with the week. All this was bad, but she had
still more to feel when Friday came round again and brought no Edmund;
when Saturday came and still no Edmund; and when, through the slight
communication with the other family which Sunday produced, she learned
that he had actually written home to defer his return, having promised
to remain some days longer with his friend.
If she had felt impatience and regret before--if she had been sorry for
what she said, and feared its too strong effect on him--she now felt
and feared it all tenfold more. She had, moreover, to contend with one
disagreeable emotion entirely new to her--jealousy. His friend Mr.
Owen had sisters; he might find them attractive. But, at any rate, his
staying away at a time when, according to all preceding plans, she was
to remove to London, meant something that she could not bear. Had Henry
returned, as he talked of doing, at the end of three or four days, she
should now have been leaving Mansfield. It became absolutely necessary
for her to get to Fanny and try to learn something more. She could not
live any longer in such solitary wretchedness; and she made her way
to the Park, through difficulties of walking which she had deemed
unconquerable a week before, for the chance of hearing a little in
addition, for the sake of at least hearing his name.
The first half-hour was lost, for Fanny and Lady Bertram were together,
and unless she had Fanny to herself she could hope for nothing. But
at last Lady Bertram left the room, and then almost immediately Miss
Crawford thus began, with a voice as well regulated as she could--"And
how do _you_ like your cousin Edmund's staying away so long? Being the
only young person at home, I consider _you_ as the greatest sufferer.
You must miss him. Does his staying longer surprise you?"
"I do not know," said Fanny hesitatingly. "Yes; I had not particularly
expected it."
"Perhaps he will always stay longer than he talks of. It is the general
way all young men do."
"He did not, the only time he went to see Mr. Owen before."
"He finds the house more agreeable _now_. He is a very--a very pleasing
young man himself, and I cannot help being rather concerned at not
seeing him again before I go to London, as will now undoubtedly be the
case. I am looking for Henry every day, and as soon as he comes there
will be nothing to detain me at Mansfield. I should like to have seen
him once more, I confess. But you must give my compliments to him. Yes;
I think it must be compliments. Is not there a something wanted,
Miss Price, in our language--a something between compliments and--and
love--to suit the sort of friendly acquaintance we have had together? So
many months' acquaintance! But compliments may be sufficient here.
Was his letter a long one? Does he give you much account of what he is
doing? Is it Christmas gaieties that he is staying for?"
"I only heard a part of the letter; it was to my uncle; but I believe
it was very short; indeed I am sure it was but a few lines. All that I
heard was that his friend had pressed him to stay longer, and that he
had agreed to do so. A _few_ days longer, or _some_ days longer; I am
not quite sure which."
"Oh! if he wrote to his father; but I thought it might have been to Lady
Bertram or you. But if he wrote to his father, no wonder he was concise.
Who could write chat to Sir Thomas? If he had written to you, there
would have been more particulars. You would have heard of balls
and parties. He would have sent you a description of everything and
everybody. How many Miss Owens are there?"
"Three grown up."
"Are they musical?"
"I do not at all know. I never heard."
"That is the first question, you know," said Miss Crawford, trying to
appear gay and unconcerned, "which every woman who plays herself is sure
to ask about another. But it is very foolish to ask questions about
any young ladies--about any three sisters just grown up; for one knows,
without being told, exactly what they are: all very accomplished and
pleasing, and one very pretty. There is a beauty in every family; it is
a regular thing. Two play on the pianoforte, and one on the harp; and
all sing, or would sing if they were taught, or sing all the better for
not being taught; or something like it."
"I know nothing of the Miss Owens," said Fanny calmly.
"You know nothing and you care less, as people say. Never did tone
express indifference plainer. Indeed, how can one care for those one has
never seen? Well, when your cousin comes back, he will find Mansfield
very quiet; all the noisy ones gone, your brother and mine and myself. I
do not like the idea of leaving Mrs. Grant now the time draws near. She
does not like my going."
Fanny felt obliged to speak. "You cannot doubt your being missed by
many," said she. "You will be very much missed."
Miss Crawford turned her eye on her, as if wanting to hear or see more,
and then laughingly said, "Oh yes! missed as every noisy evil is missed
when it is taken away; that is, there is a great difference felt. But I
am not fishing; don't compliment me. If I _am_ missed, it will appear.
I may be discovered by those who want to see me. I shall not be in any
doubtful, or distant, or unapproachable region."
Now Fanny could not bring herself to speak, and Miss Crawford was
disappointed; for she had hoped to hear some pleasant assurance of her
power from one who she thought must know, and her spirits were clouded
again.
"The Miss Owens," said she, soon afterwards; "suppose you were to have
one of the Miss Owens settled at Thornton Lacey; how should you like it?
Stranger things have happened. I dare say they are trying for it. And
they are quite in the right, for it would be a very pretty establishment
for them. I do not at all wonder or blame them. It is everybody's duty
to do as well for themselves as they can. Sir Thomas Bertram's son is
somebody; and now he is in their own line. Their father is a clergyman,
and their brother is a clergyman, and they are all clergymen together.
He is their lawful property; he fairly belongs to them. You don't speak,
Fanny; Miss Price, you don't speak. But honestly now, do not you rather
expect it than otherwise?"
"No," said Fanny stoutly, "I do not expect it at all."
"Not at all!" cried Miss Crawford with alacrity. "I wonder at that. But
I dare say you know exactly--I always imagine you are--perhaps you do
not think him likely to marry at all--or not at present."
"No, I do not," said Fanny softly, hoping she did not err either in the
belief or the acknowledgment of it.
Her companion looked at her keenly; and gathering greater spirit from
the blush soon produced from such a look, only said, "He is best off as
he is," and turned the subject.
Miss Crawford's uneasiness was much lightened by this conversation, and
she walked home again in spirits which might have defied almost another
week of the same small party in the same bad weather, had they been put
to the proof; but as that very evening brought her brother down from
London again in quite, or more than quite, his usual cheerfulness, she
had nothing farther to try her own. His still refusing to tell her what
he had gone for was but the promotion of gaiety; a day before it might
have irritated, but now it was a pleasant joke--suspected only of
concealing something planned as a pleasant surprise to herself. And the
next day _did_ bring a surprise to her. Henry had said he should just
go and ask the Bertrams how they did, and be back in ten minutes, but
he was gone above an hour; and when his sister, who had been waiting for
him to walk with her in the garden, met him at last most impatiently in
the sweep, and cried out, "My dear Henry, where can you have been
all this time?" he had only to say that he had been sitting with Lady
Bertram and Fanny.
"Sitting with them an hour and a half!" exclaimed Mary.
But this was only the beginning of her surprise.
"Yes, Mary," said he, drawing her arm within his, and walking along
the sweep as if not knowing where he was: "I could not get away sooner;
Fanny looked so lovely! I am quite determined, Mary. My mind is entirely
made up. Will it astonish you? No: you must be aware that I am quite
determined to marry Fanny Price."
The surprise was now complete; for, in spite of whatever his
consciousness might suggest, a suspicion of his having any such views
had never entered his sister's imagination; and she looked so truly the
astonishment she felt, that he was obliged to repeat what he had said,
and more fully and more solemnly. The conviction of his determination
once admitted, it was not unwelcome. There was even pleasure with the
surprise. Mary was in a state of mind to rejoice in a connexion with the
Bertram family, and to be not displeased with her brother's marrying a
little beneath him.
"Yes, Mary," was Henry's concluding assurance. "I am fairly caught.
You know with what idle designs I began; but this is the end of them.
I have, I flatter myself, made no inconsiderable progress in her
affections; but my own are entirely fixed."
"Lucky, lucky girl!" cried Mary, as soon as she could speak; "what a
match for her! My dearest Henry, this must be my _first_ feeling; but
my _second_, which you shall have as sincerely, is, that I approve your
choice from my soul, and foresee your happiness as heartily as I wish
and desire it. You will have a sweet little wife; all gratitude and
devotion. Exactly what you deserve. What an amazing match for her! Mrs.
Norris often talks of her luck; what will she say now? The delight
of all the family, indeed! And she has some _true_ friends in it! How
_they_ will rejoice! But tell me all about it! Talk to me for ever. When
did you begin to think seriously about her?"
Nothing could be more impossible than to answer such a question, though
nothing could be more agreeable than to have it asked. "How the pleasing
plague had stolen on him" he could not say; and before he had expressed
the same sentiment with a little variation of words three times over,
his sister eagerly interrupted him with, "Ah, my dear Henry, and this
is what took you to London! This was your business! You chose to consult
the Admiral before you made up your mind."
But this he stoutly denied. He knew his uncle too well to consult him on
any matrimonial scheme. The Admiral hated marriage, and thought it never
pardonable in a young man of independent fortune.
"When Fanny is known to him," continued Henry, "he will doat on her.
She is exactly the woman to do away every prejudice of such a man as
the Admiral, for she he would describe, if indeed he has now delicacy
of language enough to embody his own ideas. But till it is absolutely
settled--settled beyond all interference, he shall know nothing of the
matter. No, Mary, you are quite mistaken. You have not discovered my
business yet."
"Well, well, I am satisfied. I know now to whom it must relate, and am
in no hurry for the rest. Fanny Price! wonderful, quite wonderful! That
Mansfield should have done so much for--that _you_ should have found
your fate in Mansfield! But you are quite right; you could not have
chosen better. There is not a better girl in the world, and you do not
want for fortune; and as to her connexions, they are more than good. The
Bertrams are undoubtedly some of the first people in this country. She
is niece to Sir Thomas Bertram; that will be enough for the world. But
go on, go on. Tell me more. What are your plans? Does she know her own
happiness?"
"No."
"What are you waiting for?"
"For--for very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain."
"Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing--supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)--you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but ask
her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse."
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny's charms.
Fanny's beauty of face and figure, Fanny's graces of manner and goodness
of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty, and
sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness
which makes so essential a part of every woman's worth in the judgment
of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never
believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually exercised
her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently strong. To
see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove that the
warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be more
encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her understanding
was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her manners were the
mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was this all. Henry
Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of good principles
in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to serious reflection to
know them by their proper name; but when he talked of her having such a
steadiness and regularity of conduct, such a high notion of honour, and
such an observance of decorum as might warrant any man in the fullest
dependence on her faith and integrity, he expressed what was inspired by
the knowledge of her being well principled and religious.
"I could so wholly and absolutely confide in her," said he; "and _that_
is what I want."
Well might his sister, believing as she really did that his opinion of
Fanny Price was scarcely beyond her merits, rejoice in her prospects.
"The more I think of it," she cried, "the more am I convinced that you
are doing quite right; and though I should never have selected Fanny
Price as the girl most likely to attach you, I am now persuaded she is
the very one to make you happy. Your wicked project upon her peace turns
out a clever thought indeed. You will both find your good in it."
"It was bad, very bad in me against such a creature; but I did not know
her then; and she shall have no reason to lament the hour that first put
it into my head. I will make her very happy, Mary; happier than she has
ever yet been herself, or ever seen anybody else. I will not take her
from Northamptonshire. I shall let Everingham, and rent a place in this
neighbourhood; perhaps Stanwix Lodge. I shall let a seven years' lease
of Everingham. I am sure of an excellent tenant at half a word. I could
name three people now, who would give me my own terms and thank me."
"Ha!" cried Mary; "settle in Northamptonshire! That is pleasant! Then we
shall be all together."
When she had spoken it, she recollected herself, and wished it unsaid;
but there was no need of confusion; for her brother saw her only as the
supposed inmate of Mansfield parsonage, and replied but to invite her in
the kindest manner to his own house, and to claim the best right in her.
"You must give us more than half your time," said he. "I cannot admit
Mrs. Grant to have an equal claim with Fanny and myself, for we shall
both have a right in you. Fanny will be so truly your sister!"
Mary had only to be grateful and give general assurances; but she was
now very fully purposed to be the guest of neither brother nor sister
many months longer.
"You will divide your year between London and Northamptonshire?"
"Yes."
"That's right; and in London, of course, a house of your own: no longer
with the Admiral. My dearest Henry, the advantage to you of getting away
from the Admiral before your manners are hurt by the contagion of his,
before you have contracted any of his foolish opinions, or learned to
sit over your dinner as if it were the best blessing of life! _You_ are
not sensible of the gain, for your regard for him has blinded you; but,
in my estimation, your marrying early may be the saving of you. To have
seen you grow like the Admiral in word or deed, look or gesture, would
have broken my heart."
"Well, well, we do not think quite alike here. The Admiral has his
faults, but he is a very good man, and has been more than a father to
me. Few fathers would have let me have my own way half so much. You must
not prejudice Fanny against him. I must have them love one another."
Mary refrained from saying what she felt, that there could not be two
persons in existence whose characters and manners were less accordant:
time would discover it to him; but she could not help _this_ reflection
on the Admiral. "Henry, I think so highly of Fanny Price, that if I
could suppose the next Mrs. Crawford would have half the reason which
my poor ill-used aunt had to abhor the very name, I would prevent the
marriage, if possible; but I know you: I know that a wife you _loved_
would be the happiest of women, and that even when you ceased to
love, she would yet find in you the liberality and good-breeding of a
gentleman."
The impossibility of not doing everything in the world to make Fanny
Price happy, or of ceasing to love Fanny Price, was of course the
groundwork of his eloquent answer.
"Had you seen her this morning, Mary," he continued, "attending with
such ineffable sweetness and patience to all the demands of her aunt's
stupidity, working with her, and for her, her colour beautifully
heightened as she leant over the work, then returning to her seat to
finish a note which she was previously engaged in writing for that
stupid woman's service, and all this with such unpretending gentleness,
so much as if it were a matter of course that she was not to have a
moment at her own command, her hair arranged as neatly as it always is,
and one little curl falling forward as she wrote, which she now and then
shook back, and in the midst of all this, still speaking at intervals to
_me_, or listening, and as if she liked to listen, to what I said. Had
you seen her so, Mary, you would not have implied the possibility of her
power over my heart ever ceasing."
"My dearest Henry," cried Mary, stopping short, and smiling in his face,
"how glad I am to see you so much in love! It quite delights me. But
what will Mrs. Rushworth and Julia say?"
"I care neither what they say nor what they feel. They will now see what
sort of woman it is that can attach me, that can attach a man of sense.
I wish the discovery may do them any good. And they will now see their
cousin treated as she ought to be, and I wish they may be heartily
ashamed of their own abominable neglect and unkindness. They will be
angry," he added, after a moment's silence, and in a cooler tone; "Mrs.
Rushworth will be very angry. It will be a bitter pill to her; that is,
like other bitter pills, it will have two moments' ill flavour, and then
be swallowed and forgotten; for I am not such a coxcomb as to suppose
her feelings more lasting than other women's, though _I_ was the object
of them. Yes, Mary, my Fanny will feel a difference indeed: a daily,
hourly difference, in the behaviour of every being who approaches her;
and it will be the completion of my happiness to know that I am the doer
of it, that I am the person to give the consequence so justly her due.
Now she is dependent, helpless, friendless, neglected, forgotten."
"Nay, Henry, not by all; not forgotten by all; not friendless or
forgotten. Her cousin Edmund never forgets her."
"Edmund! True, I believe he is, generally speaking, kind to her, and
so is Sir Thomas in his way; but it is the way of a rich, superior,
long-worded, arbitrary uncle. What can Sir Thomas and Edmund together
do, what do they _do_ for her happiness, comfort, honour, and dignity in
the world, to what I _shall_ do?"
Henry Crawford was at Mansfield Park again the next morning, and at an
earlier hour than common visiting warrants. The two ladies were together
in the breakfast-room, and, fortunately for him, Lady Bertram was on the
very point of quitting it as he entered. She was almost at the door, and
not chusing by any means to take so much trouble in vain, she still went
on, after a civil reception, a short sentence about being waited for,
and a "Let Sir Thomas know" to the servant.
Henry, overjoyed to have her go, bowed and watched her off, and without
losing another moment, turned instantly to Fanny, and, taking out some
letters, said, with a most animated look, "I must acknowledge myself
infinitely obliged to any creature who gives me such an opportunity
of seeing you alone: I have been wishing it more than you can have any
idea. Knowing as I do what your feelings as a sister are, I could hardly
have borne that any one in the house should share with you in the
first knowledge of the news I now bring. He is made. Your brother is a
lieutenant. I have the infinite satisfaction of congratulating you on
your brother's promotion. Here are the letters which announce it, this
moment come to hand. You will, perhaps, like to see them."
Fanny could not speak, but he did not want her to speak. To see the
expression of her eyes, the change of her complexion, the progress of
her feelings, their doubt, confusion, and felicity, was enough. She took
the letters as he gave them. The first was from the Admiral to inform
his nephew, in a few words, of his having succeeded in the object he had
undertaken, the promotion of young Price, and enclosing two more, one
from the Secretary of the First Lord to a friend, whom the Admiral had
set to work in the business, the other from that friend to himself,
by which it appeared that his lordship had the very great happiness of
attending to the recommendation of Sir Charles; that Sir Charles was
much delighted in having such an opportunity of proving his regard
for Admiral Crawford, and that the circumstance of Mr. William Price's
commission as Second Lieutenant of H.M. Sloop Thrush being made out was
spreading general joy through a wide circle of great people.
While her hand was trembling under these letters, her eye running from
one to the other, and her heart swelling with emotion, Crawford thus
continued, with unfeigned eagerness, to express his interest in the
event--
"I will not talk of my own happiness," said he, "great as it is, for I
think only of yours. Compared with you, who has a right to be happy? I
have almost grudged myself my own prior knowledge of what you ought to
have known before all the world. I have not lost a moment, however.
The post was late this morning, but there has not been since a moment's
delay. How impatient, how anxious, how wild I have been on the subject,
I will not attempt to describe; how severely mortified, how cruelly
disappointed, in not having it finished while I was in London! I was
kept there from day to day in the hope of it, for nothing less dear
to me than such an object would have detained me half the time from
Mansfield. But though my uncle entered into my wishes with all the
warmth I could desire, and exerted himself immediately, there were
difficulties from the absence of one friend, and the engagements of
another, which at last I could no longer bear to stay the end of, and
knowing in what good hands I left the cause, I came away on Monday,
trusting that many posts would not pass before I should be followed by
such very letters as these. My uncle, who is the very best man in
the world, has exerted himself, as I knew he would, after seeing your
brother. He was delighted with him. I would not allow myself yesterday
to say how delighted, or to repeat half that the Admiral said in his
praise. I deferred it all till his praise should be proved the praise of
a friend, as this day _does_ prove it. _Now_ I may say that even I could
not require William Price to excite a greater interest, or be followed
by warmer wishes and higher commendation, than were most voluntarily
bestowed by my uncle after the evening they had passed together."
"Has this been all _your_ doing, then?" cried Fanny. "Good heaven! how
very, very kind! Have you really--was it by _your_ desire? I beg your
pardon, but I am bewildered. Did Admiral Crawford apply? How was it? I
am stupefied."
Henry was most happy to make it more intelligible, by beginning at an
earlier stage, and explaining very particularly what he had done. His
last journey to London had been undertaken with no other view than that
of introducing her brother in Hill Street, and prevailing on the Admiral
to exert whatever interest he might have for getting him on. This had
been his business. He had communicated it to no creature: he had not
breathed a syllable of it even to Mary; while uncertain of the issue,
he could not have borne any participation of his feelings, but this had
been his business; and he spoke with such a glow of what his solicitude
had been, and used such strong expressions, was so abounding in the
_deepest_ _interest_, in _twofold_ _motives_, in _views_ _and_ _wishes_
_more_ _than_ _could_ _be_ _told_, that Fanny could not have remained
insensible of his drift, had she been able to attend; but her heart was
so full and her senses still so astonished, that she could listen but
imperfectly even to what he told her of William, and saying only when
he paused, "How kind! how very kind! Oh, Mr. Crawford, we are infinitely
obliged to you! Dearest, dearest William!" She jumped up and moved in
haste towards the door, crying out, "I will go to my uncle. My uncle
ought to know it as soon as possible." But this could not be suffered.
The opportunity was too fair, and his feelings too impatient. He was
after her immediately. "She must not go, she must allow him five minutes
longer," and he took her hand and led her back to her seat, and was in
the middle of his farther explanation, before she had suspected for what
she was detained. When she did understand it, however, and found herself
expected to believe that she had created sensations which his heart had
never known before, and that everything he had done for William was to
be placed to the account of his excessive and unequalled attachment
to her, she was exceedingly distressed, and for some moments unable
to speak. She considered it all as nonsense, as mere trifling and
gallantry, which meant only to deceive for the hour; she could not but
feel that it was treating her improperly and unworthily, and in such a
way as she had not deserved; but it was like himself, and entirely of a
piece with what she had seen before; and she would not allow herself to
shew half the displeasure she felt, because he had been conferring an
obligation, which no want of delicacy on his part could make a trifle
to her. While her heart was still bounding with joy and gratitude on
William's behalf, she could not be severely resentful of anything that
injured only herself; and after having twice drawn back her hand, and
twice attempted in vain to turn away from him, she got up, and said
only, with much agitation, "Don't, Mr. Crawford, pray don't! I beg you
would not. This is a sort of talking which is very unpleasant to me. I
must go away. I cannot bear it." But he was still talking on, describing
his affection, soliciting a return, and, finally, in words so plain as
to bear but one meaning even to her, offering himself, hand, fortune,
everything, to her acceptance. It was so; he had said it. Her
astonishment and confusion increased; and though still not knowing
how to suppose him serious, she could hardly stand. He pressed for an
answer.
"No, no, no!" she cried, hiding her face. "This is all nonsense. Do not
distress me. I can hear no more of this. Your kindness to William makes
me more obliged to you than words can express; but I do not want, I
cannot bear, I must not listen to such--No, no, don't think of me. But
you are _not_ thinking of me. I know it is all nothing."
She had burst away from him, and at that moment Sir Thomas was heard
speaking to a servant in his way towards the room they were in. It was
no time for farther assurances or entreaty, though to part with her at
a moment when her modesty alone seemed, to his sanguine and preassured
mind, to stand in the way of the happiness he sought, was a cruel
necessity. She rushed out at an opposite door from the one her uncle
was approaching, and was walking up and down the East room in the
utmost confusion of contrary feeling, before Sir Thomas's politeness
or apologies were over, or he had reached the beginning of the joyful
intelligence which his visitor came to communicate.
She was feeling, thinking, trembling about everything; agitated, happy,
miserable, infinitely obliged, absolutely angry. It was all beyond
belief! He was inexcusable, incomprehensible! But such were his habits
that he could do nothing without a mixture of evil. He had previously
made her the happiest of human beings, and now he had insulted--she knew
not what to say, how to class, or how to regard it. She would not have
him be serious, and yet what could excuse the use of such words and
offers, if they meant but to trifle?
But William was a lieutenant. _That_ was a fact beyond a doubt, and
without an alloy. She would think of it for ever and forget all the
rest. Mr. Crawford would certainly never address her so again: he must
have seen how unwelcome it was to her; and in that case, how gratefully
she could esteem him for his friendship to William!
She would not stir farther from the East room than the head of the great
staircase, till she had satisfied herself of Mr. Crawford's having left
the house; but when convinced of his being gone, she was eager to go
down and be with her uncle, and have all the happiness of his joy
as well as her own, and all the benefit of his information or his
conjectures as to what would now be William's destination. Sir Thomas
was as joyful as she could desire, and very kind and communicative; and
she had so comfortable a talk with him about William as to make her
feel as if nothing had occurred to vex her, till she found, towards the
close, that Mr. Crawford was engaged to return and dine there that
very day. This was a most unwelcome hearing, for though he might think
nothing of what had passed, it would be quite distressing to her to see
him again so soon.
She tried to get the better of it; tried very hard, as the dinner hour
approached, to feel and appear as usual; but it was quite impossible for
her not to look most shy and uncomfortable when their visitor entered
the room. She could not have supposed it in the power of any concurrence
of circumstances to give her so many painful sensations on the first day
of hearing of William's promotion.
Mr. Crawford was not only in the room--he was soon close to her. He
had a note to deliver from his sister. Fanny could not look at him, but
there was no consciousness of past folly in his voice. She opened her
note immediately, glad to have anything to do, and happy, as she read
it, to feel that the fidgetings of her aunt Norris, who was also to dine
there, screened her a little from view.
"My dear Fanny,--for so I may now always call you, to the infinite
relief of a tongue that has been stumbling at _Miss_ _Price_ for at
least the last six weeks--I cannot let my brother go without sending you
a few lines of general congratulation, and giving my most joyful consent
and approval. Go on, my dear Fanny, and without fear; there can be no
difficulties worth naming. I chuse to suppose that the assurance of my
consent will be something; so you may smile upon him with your sweetest
smiles this afternoon, and send him back to me even happier than he
goes.--Yours affectionately, M. C."
These were not expressions to do Fanny any good; for though she read
in too much haste and confusion to form the clearest judgment of Miss
Crawford's meaning, it was evident that she meant to compliment her on
her brother's attachment, and even to _appear_ to believe it serious.
She did not know what to do, or what to think. There was wretchedness in
the idea of its being serious; there was perplexity and agitation every
way. She was distressed whenever Mr. Crawford spoke to her, and he spoke
to her much too often; and she was afraid there was a something in his
voice and manner in addressing her very different from what they were
when he talked to the others. Her comfort in that day's dinner was
quite destroyed: she could hardly eat anything; and when Sir Thomas
good-humouredly observed that joy had taken away her appetite, she
was ready to sink with shame, from the dread of Mr. Crawford's
interpretation; for though nothing could have tempted her to turn
her eyes to the right hand, where he sat, she felt that _his_ were
immediately directed towards her.
She was more silent than ever. She would hardly join even when William
was the subject, for his commission came all from the right hand too,
and there was pain in the connexion.
She thought Lady Bertram sat longer than ever, and began to be in
despair of ever getting away; but at last they were in the drawing-room,
and she was able to think as she would, while her aunts finished the
subject of William's appointment in their own style.
Mrs. Norris seemed as much delighted with the saving it would be to
Sir Thomas as with any part of it. "_Now_ William would be able to keep
himself, which would make a vast difference to his uncle, for it was
unknown how much he had cost his uncle; and, indeed, it would make some
difference in _her_ presents too. She was very glad that she had given
William what she did at parting, very glad, indeed, that it had been in
her power, without material inconvenience, just at that time to give him
something rather considerable; that is, for _her_, with _her_ limited
means, for now it would all be useful in helping to fit up his cabin.
She knew he must be at some expense, that he would have many things to
buy, though to be sure his father and mother would be able to put him in
the way of getting everything very cheap; but she was very glad she had
contributed her mite towards it."
"I am glad you gave him something considerable," said Lady Bertram, with
most unsuspicious calmness, "for _I_ gave him only 10 pounds."
"Indeed!" cried Mrs. Norris, reddening. "Upon my word, he must have gone
off with his pockets well lined, and at no expense for his journey to
London either!"
"Sir Thomas told me 10 pounds would be enough."
Mrs. Norris, being not at all inclined to question its sufficiency,
began to take the matter in another point.
"It is amazing," said she, "how much young people cost their friends,
what with bringing them up and putting them out in the world! They
little think how much it comes to, or what their parents, or their
uncles and aunts, pay for them in the course of the year. Now, here are
my sister Price's children; take them all together, I dare say nobody
would believe what a sum they cost Sir Thomas every year, to say nothing
of what _I_ do for them."
"Very true, sister, as you say. But, poor things! they cannot help
it; and you know it makes very little difference to Sir Thomas. Fanny,
William must not forget my shawl if he goes to the East Indies; and I
shall give him a commission for anything else that is worth having. I
wish he may go to the East Indies, that I may have my shawl. I think I
will have two shawls, Fanny."
Fanny, meanwhile, speaking only when she could not help it, was very
earnestly trying to understand what Mr. and Miss Crawford were at. There
was everything in the world _against_ their being serious but his words
and manner. Everything natural, probable, reasonable, was against it;
all their habits and ways of thinking, and all her own demerits. How
could _she_ have excited serious attachment in a man who had seen so
many, and been admired by so many, and flirted with so many, infinitely
her superiors; who seemed so little open to serious impressions, even
where pains had been taken to please him; who thought so slightly, so
carelessly, so unfeelingly on all such points; who was everything to
everybody, and seemed to find no one essential to him? And farther,
how could it be supposed that his sister, with all her high and worldly
notions of matrimony, would be forwarding anything of a serious nature
in such a quarter? Nothing could be more unnatural in either. Fanny
was ashamed of her own doubts. Everything might be possible rather than
serious attachment, or serious approbation of it toward her. She had
quite convinced herself of this before Sir Thomas and Mr. Crawford
joined them. The difficulty was in maintaining the conviction quite so
absolutely after Mr. Crawford was in the room; for once or twice a
look seemed forced on her which she did not know how to class among the
common meaning; in any other man, at least, she would have said that
it meant something very earnest, very pointed. But she still tried to
believe it no more than what he might often have expressed towards her
cousins and fifty other women.
She thought he was wishing to speak to her unheard by the rest. She
fancied he was trying for it the whole evening at intervals, whenever
Sir Thomas was out of the room, or at all engaged with Mrs. Norris, and
she carefully refused him every opportunity.
At last--it seemed an at last to Fanny's nervousness, though not
remarkably late--he began to talk of going away; but the comfort of the
sound was impaired by his turning to her the next moment, and saying,
"Have you nothing to send to Mary? No answer to her note? She will be
disappointed if she receives nothing from you. Pray write to her, if it
be only a line."
"Oh yes! certainly," cried Fanny, rising in haste, the haste of
embarrassment and of wanting to get away--"I will write directly."
She went accordingly to the table, where she was in the habit of writing
for her aunt, and prepared her materials without knowing what in the
world to say. She had read Miss Crawford's note only once, and how to
reply to anything so imperfectly understood was most distressing.
Quite unpractised in such sort of note-writing, had there been time for
scruples and fears as to style she would have felt them in abundance:
but something must be instantly written; and with only one decided
feeling, that of wishing not to appear to think anything really
intended, she wrote thus, in great trembling both of spirits and hand--
"I am very much obliged to you, my dear Miss Crawford, for your kind
congratulations, as far as they relate to my dearest William. The rest
of your note I know means nothing; but I am so unequal to anything of
the sort, that I hope you will excuse my begging you to take no farther
notice. I have seen too much of Mr. Crawford not to understand his
manners; if he understood me as well, he would, I dare say, behave
differently. I do not know what I write, but it would be a great favour
of you never to mention the subject again. With thanks for the honour of
your note, I remain, dear Miss Crawford, etc., etc."
The conclusion was scarcely intelligible from increasing fright, for
she found that Mr. Crawford, under pretence of receiving the note, was
coming towards her.
"You cannot think I mean to hurry you," said he, in an undervoice,
perceiving the amazing trepidation with which she made up the note, "you
cannot think I have any such object. Do not hurry yourself, I entreat."
"Oh! I thank you; I have quite done, just done; it will be ready in a
moment; I am very much obliged to you; if you will be so good as to give
_that_ to Miss Crawford."
The note was held out, and must be taken; and as she instantly and with
averted eyes walked towards the fireplace, where sat the others, he had
nothing to do but to go in good earnest.
Fanny thought she had never known a day of greater agitation, both of
pain and pleasure; but happily the pleasure was not of a sort to die
with the day; for every day would restore the knowledge of William's
advancement, whereas the pain, she hoped, would return no more. She had
no doubt that her note must appear excessively ill-written, that
the language would disgrace a child, for her distress had allowed no
arrangement; but at least it would assure them both of her being neither
imposed on nor gratified by Mr. Crawford's attentions. | William and Henry leave, followed a few days later by Edmund, who is to take orders. Those remaining at Mansfield Park are melancholy, particularly since Julia is delaying her return home to go to London with Maria and Rushworth. Sir Thomas and Lady Bertram begin to appreciate Fanny more than ever. Mary Crawford, in the meantime, is beside herself with anxiety. Stuck in the Parsonage by bad weather, she misses Edmund and regrets her behavior. Finally, she braves the rain to visit Fanny, hoping to learn something about Edmund. She finds out that he is staying with a friend who has two attractive sisters, and this distresses her. Her feelings for Edmund become clear to Fanny, who is again conflicted. That night, Henry returns from London. He visits Fanny, then returns to the Parsonage to tell Mary that he has decided to marry Fanny. Mary, seeing that the marriage would only help her chances with Edmund, is delighted, but wonders what Maria and Julia will say. Henry seems glad that they will be disappointed. Both Henry and Mary are sure that Fanny will accept the proposal. The next morning, Henry goes to Mansfield Park. He has news for Fanny: William has been made a lieutenant through the influence of Henry's uncle the Admiral. Fanny is overjoyed and grateful to Henry for his involvement. Henry then makes his own proposal. Fanny is embarrassed and disappointed that he would mix a good deed--William's promotion--with an evil one---his lovemaking. Henry also brings a letter from his sister, which congratulates her on the match. Fanny writes her a brief note refuting her intentions; she also unequivocally rejects Henry's proposal. |
Alexandria. A Room in the Monument.
[Enter CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, and IRAS.]
CLEOPATRA.
My desolation does begin to make
A better life. 'Tis paltry to be Caesar;
Not being Fortune, he's but Fortune's knave,
A minister of her will: and it is great
To do that thing that ends all other deeds;
Which shackles accidents and bolts up change;
Which sleeps, and never palates more the dug,
The beggar's nurse and Caesar's.
[Enter, to the gates of the Monument, PROCULEIUS, GALLUS, and
Soldiers.]
PROCULEIUS.
Caesar sends greetings to the queen of Egypt;
And bids thee study on what fair demands
Thou mean'st to have him grant thee.
CLEOPATRA.
What's thy name?
PROCULEIUS.
My name is Proculeius.
CLEOPATRA.
Antony
Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but
I do not greatly care to be deceiv'd,
That have no use for trusting. If your master
Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him
That majesty, to keep decorum, must
No less beg than a kingdom: if he please
To give me conquer'd Egypt for my son,
He gives me so much of mine own as I
Will kneel to him with thanks.
PROCULEIUS.
Be of good cheer;
You are fallen into a princely hand; fear nothing:
Make your full reference freely to my lord,
Who is so full of grace that it flows over
On all that need: let me report to him
Your sweet dependency; and you shall find
A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness
Where he for grace is kneel'd to.
CLEOPATRA.
Pray you, tell him
I am his fortune's vassal and I send him
The greatness he has got. I hourly learn
A doctrine of obedience; and would gladly
Look him i' the face.
PROCULEIUS.
This I'll report, dear lady.
Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied
Of him that caus'd it.
GALLUS.
You see how easily she may be surpris'd:
[Here PROCULEIUS and two of the Guard ascend the Monument by a
ladder placed against a window, and, having ascended, come behind
CLEOPATRA. Some of the Guard unbar and open the gates.]
[To PROCULEIUS. and the Guear.] Guard her till Caesar come.
[Exit.]
IRAS.
Royal queen!
CHARMIAN.
O Cleopatra! thou art taken, queen!
CLEOPATRA.
Quick, quick, good hands.
[Drawing a dagger.]
PROCULEIUS.
Hold, worthy lady, hold;
[Seizes and disarms her.]
Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this
Reliev'd, but not betray'd.
CLEOPATRA.
What, of death too,
That rids our dogs of languish?
PROCULEIUS.
Cleopatra,
Do not abuse my master's bounty by
Theundoing of yourself: let the world see
His nobleness well acted, which your death
Will never let come forth.
CLEOPATRA.
Where art thou, death?
Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen
Worth many babes and beggars!
PROCULEIUS.
O, temperance, lady!
CLEOPATRA.
Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir;
If idle talk will once be accessary,
I'll not sleep neither: this mortal house I'll ruin,
Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I
Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court;
Nor once be chastis'd with the sober eye
Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up,
And show me to the shouting varletry
Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt
Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus' mud
Lay me stark-nak'd, and let the water-flies
Blow me into abhorring! rather make
My country's high pyramides my gibbet,
And hang me up in chains!
PROCULEIUS.
You do extend
These thoughts of horror further than you shall
Find cause in Caesar.
[Enter DOLABELLA.]
DOLABELLA.
Proculeius,
What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows,
And he hath sent for thee: as for the queen,
I'll take her to my guard.
PROCULEIUS.
So, Dolabella,
It shall content me best: be gentle to her.--
[To CLEOPATRA.] To Caesar I will speak what you shall please,
If you'll employ me to him.
CLEOPATRA.
Say I would die.
[Exeunt PROCULEIUS and Soldiers.]
DOLABELLA.
Most noble empress, you have heard of me?
CLEOPATRA.
I cannot tell.
DOLABELLA.
Assuredly you know me.
CLEOPATRA.
No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;
Is't not your trick?
DOLABELLA.
I understand not, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
I dream'd there was an Emperor Antony:--
O, such another sleep, that I might see
But such another man!
DOLABELLA.
If it might please you,--
CLEOPATRA.
His face was as the heavens; and therein stuck
A sun and moon, which kept their course, and lighted
The little O, the earth.
DOLABELLA.
Most sovereign creature,--
CLEOPATRA.
His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear'd arm
Crested the world: his voice was propertied
As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,
He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas
That grew the more by reaping: his delights
Were dolphin-like; they show'd his back above
The element they liv'd in: in his livery
Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands were
As plates dropp'd from his pocket.
DOLABELLA.
Cleopatra,--
CLEOPATRA.
Think you there was or might be such a man
As this I dream'd of?
DOLABELLA.
Gentle madam, no.
CLEOPATRA.
You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.
But if there be, or ever were, one such,
It's past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff
To vie strange forms with fancy: yet to imagine
An Antony were nature's piece 'gainst fancy,
Condemning shadows quite.
DOLABELLA.
Hear me, good madam.
Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it
As answering to the weight: would I might never
O'ertake pursu'd success, but I do feel,
By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites
My very heart at root.
CLEOPATRA.
I thank you, sir.
Know you what Caesar means to do with me?
DOLABELLA.
I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, pray you, sir,--
DOLABELLA.
Though he be honourable,--
CLEOPATRA.
He'll lead me, then, in triumph?
DOLABELLA.
Madam, he will;
I know it.
[Flourish within.]
[Within.] Make way there,--Caesar!
[Enter CAESAR, GALLUS, PROCULEIUS, MAECENAS, SELEUCUS, and
Attendants.]
CAESAR.
Which is the queen of Egypt?
DOLABELLA.
It is the emperor, madam.
[CLEOPATRA kneels.]
CAESAR.
Arise, you shall not kneel:--
I pray you, rise; rise, Egypt.
CLEOPATRA.
Sir, the gods
Will have it thus; my master and my lord
I must obey.
CAESAR.
Take to you no hard thoughts;
The record of what injuries you did us,
Though written in our flesh, we shall remember
As things but done by chance.
CLEOPATRA.
Sole sir o' the world,
I cannot project mine own cause so well
To make it clear: but do confess I have
Been laden with like frailties which before
Have often sham'd our sex.
CAESAR.
Cleopatra, know
We will extenuate rather than enforce:
If you apply yourself to our intents,--
Which towards you are most gentle,--you shall find
A benefit in this change; but if you seek
To lay on me a cruelty, by taking
Antony's course, you shall bereave yourself
Of my good purposes, and put your children
To that destruction which I'll guard them from,
If thereon you rely. I'll take my leave.
CLEOPATRA.
And may, through all the world: 'tis yours, and we,
Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall
Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.
CAESAR.
You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.
CLEOPATRA.
This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels,
I am possess'd of: 'tis exactly valued;
Not petty things admitted.--Where's Seleucus?
SELEUCUS.
Here, madam.
CLEOPATRA.
This is my treasurer: let him speak, my lord,
Upon his peril, that I have reserv'd
To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.
SELEUCUS.
Madam,
I had rather seal my lips than to my peril
Speak that which is not.
CLEOPATRA.
What have I kept back?
SELEUCUS.
Enough to purchase what you have made known.
CAESAR.
Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve
Your wisdom in the deed.
CLEOPATRA.
See, Caesar! O, behold,
How pomp is follow'd! Mine will now be yours;
And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine.
The ingratitude of this Seleucus does
Even make me wild: O slave, of no more trust
Than love that's hir'd!--What, goest thou back? thou shalt
Go back, I warrant thee; but I'll catch thine eyes
Though they had wings; slave, soulless villain, dog!
O rarely base!
CAESAR.
Good queen, let us entreat you.
CLEOPATRA.
O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this,--
That thou vouchsafing here to visit me,
Doing the honour of thy lordliness
To one so meek, that mine own servant should
Parcel the sum of my disgraces by
Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar,
That I some lady trifles have reserv'd,
Immoment toys, things of such dignity
As we greet modern friends withal; and say,
Some nobler token I have kept apart
For Livia and Octavia, to induce
Their mediation;--must I be unfolded
With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me
Beneath the fall I have.
[To SELEUCUS.] Pr'ythee go hence;
Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits
Through theashes of my chance.--Wert thou a man,
Thou wouldst have mercy on me.
CAESAR.
Forbear, Seleucus.
[Exit SELEUCUS.]
CLEOPATRA.
Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought
For things that others do; and when we fall
We answer others' merits in our name,
Are therefore to be pitied.
CAESAR.
Cleopatra,
Not what you have reserv'd, nor what acknowledg'd,
Put we i' the roll of conquest: still be't yours,
Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe
Caesar's no merchant, to make prize with you
Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer'd;
Make not your thoughts your prisons: no, dear queen;
For we intend so to dispose you as
Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep:
Our care and pity is so much upon you
That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.
CLEOPATRA.
My master and my lord!
CAESAR.
Not so. Adieu.
[Flourish. Exeunt CAESAR and his Train.]
CLEOPATRA.
He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not
Be noble to myself: but hark thee, Charmian!
[Whispers CHARMIAN.]
IRAS.
Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,
And we are for the dark.
CLEOPATRA.
Hie thee again:
I have spoke already, and it is provided;
Go put it to the haste.
CHARMIAN.
Madam, I will.
[Re-enter DOLABELLA.]
DOLABELLA.
Where's the queen?
CHARMIAN.
Behold, sir.
[Exit.]
CLEOPATRA.
Dolabella!
DOLABELLA.
Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,
Which my love makes religion to obey,
I tell you this: Caesar through Syria
Intends his journey; and within three days
You with your children will he send before:
Make your best use of this: I have perform'd
Your pleasure and my promise.
CLEOPATRA.
Dolabella,
I shall remain your debtor.
DOLABELLA.
I your servant.
Adieu, good queen; I must attend on Caesar.
CLEOPATRA.
Farewell, and thanks.
[Exit DOLABELLA.]
Now, Iras, what think'st thou?
Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shall be shown
In Rome as well as I: mechanic slaves,
With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,
Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
And forc'd to drink their vapour.
IRAS.
The gods forbid!
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras:--saucy lictors
Will catch at us like strumpets; and scald rhymers
Ballad us out o' tune: the quick comedians
Extemporally will stage us, and present
Our Alexandrian revels; Antony
Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see
Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness
I' the posture of a whore.
IRAS.
O the good gods!
CLEOPATRA.
Nay, that's certain.
IRAS.
I'll never see't; for I am sure mine nails
Are stronger than mine eyes.
CLEOPATRA.
Why, that's the way
To fool their preparation and to conquer
Their most absurd intents.
[Enter CHARMIAN.]
Now, Charmian!--
Show me, my women, like a queen.--Go fetch
My best attires;--I am again for Cydnus,
To meet Mark Antony:--sirrah, Iras, go.--
Now, noble Charmian, we'll despatch indeed;
And when thou hast done this chare, I'll give thee leave
To play till doomsday.--Bring our crown and all.
[Exit IRAS. A noise within.]
Wherefore's this noise?
[Enter one of the Guard.]
GUARD.
Here is a rural fellow
That will not be denied your highness' presence:
He brings you figs.
CLEOPATRA.
Let him come in.
[Exit Guard.]
What poor an instrument
May do a noble deed! he brings me liberty.
My resolution's plac'd, and I have nothing
Of woman in me: now from head to foot
I am marble-constant; now the fleeting moon
No planet is of mine.
[Re-enter Guard, with Clown bringing a basket.]
GUARD.
This is the man.
CLEOPATRA.
Avoid, and leave him.
[Exit Guard.]
Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there
That kills and pains not?
CLOWN.
Truly, I have him. But I would not be the party that should
desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that
do die of it do seldom or never recover.
CLEOPATRA.
Remember'st thou any that have died on't?
CLOWN.
Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no longer
than yesterday: a very honest woman, but something given to lie;
as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty: how she died
of the biting of it, what pain she felt,--truly she makes a very
good report o' the worm; but he that will believe all that they
say shall never be saved by half that they do: but this is most
falliable, the worm's an odd worm.
CLEOPATRA.
Get thee hence; farewell.
CLOWN.
I wish you all joy of the worm.
[Sets down the basket.]
CLEOPATRA.
Farewell.
CLOWN.
You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his kind.
CLEOPATRA.
Ay, ay; farewell.
CLOWN.
Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping of
wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.
CLEOPATRA.
Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.
CLOWN.
Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth the
feeding.
CLEOPATRA.
Will it eat me?
CLOWN.
You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil himself
will not eat a woman: I know that a woman is a dish for the gods,
if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same whoreson devils
do the gods great harm in their women, for in every ten that they
make the devils mar five.
CLEOPATRA.
Well, get thee gone; farewell.
CLOWN.
Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o' the worm.
[Exit.]
[Re-enter IRAS, with a robe, crown, &c.]
CLEOPATRA.
Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
Immortal longings in me: now no more
The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip:--
Yare, yare, good Iras; quick.--Methinks I hear
Antony call; I see him rouse himself
To praise my noble act; I hear him mock
The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come:
Now to that name my courage prove my title!
I am fire and air; my other elements
I give to baser life.--So,--have you done?
Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
Farewell, kind Charmian;--Iras, long farewell.
[Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies.]
Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
If thus thou and nature can so gently part,
The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still?
If thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
It is not worth leave-taking.
CHARMIAN.
Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain; that I may say
The gods themselves do weep!
CLEOPATRA.
This proves me base:
If she first meet the curled Antony,
He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
Which is my heaven to have.--Come, thou mortal wretch,
[To an asp, which she applies to her breast.]
With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool,
Be angry and despatch. O couldst thou speak,
That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
Unpolicied!
CHARMIAN.
O eastern star!
CLEOPATRA.
Peace, peace!
Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
That sucks the nurse asleep?
CHARMIAN.
O, break! O, break!
CLEOPATRA.
As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle:--
O Antony! Nay, I will take thee too:--
[Applying another asp to her arm.]
What should I stay,--
[Falls on a bed and dies.]
CHARMIAN.
In this vile world?--So, fare thee well.--
Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
A lass unparallel'd.--Downy windows, close;
And golden Phoebus never be beheld
Of eyes again so royal! Your crown's awry;
I'll mend it and then play.
[Enter the guard, rushing in.]
FIRST GUARD.
Where's the queen?
CHARMIAN.
Speak softly, wake her not.
FIRST GUARD.
Caesar hath sent,--
CHARMIAN.
Too slow a messenger.
[Applies an asp.]
O, come apace, despatch: I partly feel thee.
FIRST GUARD.
Approach, ho! all's not well: Caesar's beguil'd.
SECOND GUARD.
There's Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him.
FIRST GUARD.
What work is here!--Charmian, is this well done?
CHARMIAN.
It is well done, and fitting for a princess
Descended of so many royal kings.
Ah, soldier!
[CHARMIAN dies.]
[Re-enter DOLABELLA.]
DOLABELLA.
How goes it here?
SECOND GUARD.
All dead.
DOLABELLA.
Caesar, thy thoughts
Touch their effects in this: thyself art coming
To see perform'd the dreaded act which thou
So sought'st to hinder.
[Within.] A way there, a way for Caesar!
[Re-enter CAESAR and his Train.]
DOLABELLA.
O sir, you are too sure an augurer;
That you did fear is done.
CAESAR.
Bravest at the last,
She levell'd at our purposes, and being royal,
Took her own way.--The manner of their deaths?
I do not see them bleed.
DOLABELLA.
Who was last with them?
FIRST GUARD.
A simple countryman that brought her figs.
This was his basket.
CAESAR.
Poison'd then.
FIRST GUARD.
O Caesar,
This Charmian liv'd but now; she stood and spake:
I found her trimming up the diadem
On her dead mistress; tremblingly she stood,
And on the sudden dropp'd.
CAESAR.
O noble weakness!--
If they had swallow'd poison 'twould appear
By external swelling: but she looks like sleep,--
As she would catch another Antony
In her strong toil of grace.
DOLABELLA.
Here on her breast
There is a vent of blood, and something blown:
The like is on her arm.
FIRST GUARD.
This is an aspic's trail: and these fig-leaves
Have slime upon them, such as the aspic leaves
Upon the caves of Nile.
CAESAR.
Most probable
That so she died; for her physician tells me
She hath pursu'd conclusions infinite
Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed,
And bear her women from the monument:--
She shall be buried by her Antony:
No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
A pair so famous. High events as these
Strike those that make them; and their story is
No less in pity than his glory which
Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall
In solemn show attend this funeral;
And then to Rome.--Come, Dolabella, see
High order in this great solemnity.
[Exeunt.] | One of Caesar's minions enters and reassures Cleopatra that she will be met by Caesar with kindness. She vows to be thankful to him if he keeps his word. While he is speaking his words of assurance, soldiers enter and seize her. Cleopatra tries to kill herself but the knife she uses is snatched from her. Dollabella, another of Caesar's men takes charge of her, and she tells him of Antony and all his good attributes. She asks then what Caesar means to do with her, and he says that he will lead her in triumph through Rome tied to the back of his chariot. Caesar comes and threatens her not to kill herself because he would do harm to her children. Cleopatra then hands over a list of her belongings, but when her treasurer is brought forth, he states that many very valuable things are missing. Caesar leaves her with words of kindness, but after he goes, she gives instructions to her maids. Dollabella returns and tells her more of Caesar's intent. She thanks him and he leaves. Her servants come and she gives them directions telling them to bring her finest clothes and her crown. A man from the country enters bringing her figs and asps. She dons her best clothes and crown, and places asps on her. She dies after killing one of her maids with a kiss. Her other maid, after she made sure her mistress was dead also lets the serpent bite her. Caesar enters and learns of her death and declares she should be buried beside Antony |
When Archer walked down the sandy main street of St. Augustine to the
house which had been pointed out to him as Mr. Welland's, and saw May
Welland standing under a magnolia with the sun in her hair, he wondered
why he had waited so long to come.
Here was the truth, here was reality, here was the life that belonged
to him; and he, who fancied himself so scornful of arbitrary
restraints, had been afraid to break away from his desk because of what
people might think of his stealing a holiday!
Her first exclamation was: "Newland--has anything happened?" and it
occurred to him that it would have been more "feminine" if she had
instantly read in his eyes why he had come. But when he answered:
"Yes--I found I had to see you," her happy blushes took the chill from
her surprise, and he saw how easily he would be forgiven, and how soon
even Mr. Letterblair's mild disapproval would be smiled away by a
tolerant family.
Early as it was, the main street was no place for any but formal
greetings, and Archer longed to be alone with May, and to pour out all
his tenderness and his impatience. It still lacked an hour to the late
Welland breakfast-time, and instead of asking him to come in she
proposed that they should walk out to an old orange-garden beyond the
town. She had just been for a row on the river, and the sun that
netted the little waves with gold seemed to have caught her in its
meshes. Across the warm brown of her cheek her blown hair glittered
like silver wire; and her eyes too looked lighter, almost pale in their
youthful limpidity. As she walked beside Archer with her long swinging
gait her face wore the vacant serenity of a young marble athlete.
To Archer's strained nerves the vision was as soothing as the sight of
the blue sky and the lazy river. They sat down on a bench under the
orange-trees and he put his arm about her and kissed her. It was like
drinking at a cold spring with the sun on it; but his pressure may have
been more vehement than he had intended, for the blood rose to her face
and she drew back as if he had startled her.
"What is it?" he asked, smiling; and she looked at him with surprise,
and answered: "Nothing."
A slight embarrassment fell on them, and her hand slipped out of his.
It was the only time that he had kissed her on the lips except for
their fugitive embrace in the Beaufort conservatory, and he saw that
she was disturbed, and shaken out of her cool boyish composure.
"Tell me what you do all day," he said, crossing his arms under his
tilted-back head, and pushing his hat forward to screen the sun-dazzle.
To let her talk about familiar and simple things was the easiest way of
carrying on his own independent train of thought; and he sat listening
to her simple chronicle of swimming, sailing and riding, varied by an
occasional dance at the primitive inn when a man-of-war came in. A few
pleasant people from Philadelphia and Baltimore were picknicking at the
inn, and the Selfridge Merrys had come down for three weeks because
Kate Merry had had bronchitis. They were planning to lay out a lawn
tennis court on the sands; but no one but Kate and May had racquets,
and most of the people had not even heard of the game.
All this kept her very busy, and she had not had time to do more than
look at the little vellum book that Archer had sent her the week before
(the "Sonnets from the Portuguese"); but she was learning by heart "How
they brought the Good News from Ghent to Aix," because it was one of
the first things he had ever read to her; and it amused her to be able
to tell him that Kate Merry had never even heard of a poet called
Robert Browning.
Presently she started up, exclaiming that they would be late for
breakfast; and they hurried back to the tumble-down house with its
pointless porch and unpruned hedge of plumbago and pink geraniums where
the Wellands were installed for the winter. Mr. Welland's sensitive
domesticity shrank from the discomforts of the slovenly southern hotel,
and at immense expense, and in face of almost insuperable difficulties,
Mrs. Welland was obliged, year after year, to improvise an
establishment partly made up of discontented New York servants and
partly drawn from the local African supply.
"The doctors want my husband to feel that he is in his own home;
otherwise he would be so wretched that the climate would not do him any
good," she explained, winter after winter, to the sympathising
Philadelphians and Baltimoreans; and Mr. Welland, beaming across a
breakfast table miraculously supplied with the most varied delicacies,
was presently saying to Archer: "You see, my dear fellow, we camp--we
literally camp. I tell my wife and May that I want to teach them how
to rough it."
Mr. and Mrs. Welland had been as much surprised as their daughter by
the young man's sudden arrival; but it had occurred to him to explain
that he had felt himself on the verge of a nasty cold, and this seemed
to Mr. Welland an all-sufficient reason for abandoning any duty.
"You can't be too careful, especially toward spring," he said, heaping
his plate with straw-coloured griddle-cakes and drowning them in golden
syrup. "If I'd only been as prudent at your age May would have been
dancing at the Assemblies now, instead of spending her winters in a
wilderness with an old invalid."
"Oh, but I love it here, Papa; you know I do. If only Newland could
stay I should like it a thousand times better than New York."
"Newland must stay till he has quite thrown off his cold," said Mrs.
Welland indulgently; and the young man laughed, and said he supposed
there was such a thing as one's profession.
He managed, however, after an exchange of telegrams with the firm, to
make his cold last a week; and it shed an ironic light on the situation
to know that Mr. Letterblair's indulgence was partly due to the
satisfactory way in which his brilliant young junior partner had
settled the troublesome matter of the Olenski divorce. Mr. Letterblair
had let Mrs. Welland know that Mr. Archer had "rendered an invaluable
service" to the whole family, and that old Mrs. Manson Mingott had been
particularly pleased; and one day when May had gone for a drive with
her father in the only vehicle the place produced Mrs. Welland took
occasion to touch on a topic which she always avoided in her daughter's
presence.
"I'm afraid Ellen's ideas are not at all like ours. She was barely
eighteen when Medora Manson took her back to Europe--you remember the
excitement when she appeared in black at her coming-out ball? Another
of Medora's fads--really this time it was almost prophetic! That must
have been at least twelve years ago; and since then Ellen has never
been to America. No wonder she is completely Europeanised."
"But European society is not given to divorce: Countess Olenska thought
she would be conforming to American ideas in asking for her freedom."
It was the first time that the young man had pronounced her name since
he had left Skuytercliff, and he felt the colour rise to his cheek.
Mrs. Welland smiled compassionately. "That is just like the
extraordinary things that foreigners invent about us. They think we
dine at two o'clock and countenance divorce! That is why it seems to
me so foolish to entertain them when they come to New York. They
accept our hospitality, and then they go home and repeat the same
stupid stories."
Archer made no comment on this, and Mrs. Welland continued: "But we do
most thoroughly appreciate your persuading Ellen to give up the idea.
Her grandmother and her uncle Lovell could do nothing with her; both of
them have written that her changing her mind was entirely due to your
influence--in fact she said so to her grandmother. She has an
unbounded admiration for you. Poor Ellen--she was always a wayward
child. I wonder what her fate will be?"
"What we've all contrived to make it," he felt like answering. "If
you'd all of you rather she should be Beaufort's mistress than some
decent fellow's wife you've certainly gone the right way about it."
He wondered what Mrs. Welland would have said if he had uttered the
words instead of merely thinking them. He could picture the sudden
decomposure of her firm placid features, to which a lifelong mastery
over trifles had given an air of factitious authority. Traces still
lingered on them of a fresh beauty like her daughter's; and he asked
himself if May's face was doomed to thicken into the same middle-aged
image of invincible innocence.
Ah, no, he did not want May to have that kind of innocence, the
innocence that seals the mind against imagination and the heart against
experience!
"I verily believe," Mrs. Welland continued, "that if the horrible
business had come out in the newspapers it would have been my husband's
death-blow. I don't know any of the details; I only ask not to, as I
told poor Ellen when she tried to talk to me about it. Having an
invalid to care for, I have to keep my mind bright and happy. But Mr.
Welland was terribly upset; he had a slight temperature every morning
while we were waiting to hear what had been decided. It was the horror
of his girl's learning that such things were possible--but of course,
dear Newland, you felt that too. We all knew that you were thinking of
May."
"I'm always thinking of May," the young man rejoined, rising to cut
short the conversation.
He had meant to seize the opportunity of his private talk with Mrs.
Welland to urge her to advance the date of his marriage. But he could
think of no arguments that would move her, and with a sense of relief
he saw Mr. Welland and May driving up to the door.
His only hope was to plead again with May, and on the day before his
departure he walked with her to the ruinous garden of the Spanish
Mission. The background lent itself to allusions to European scenes;
and May, who was looking her loveliest under a wide-brimmed hat that
cast a shadow of mystery over her too-clear eyes, kindled into
eagerness as he spoke of Granada and the Alhambra.
"We might be seeing it all this spring--even the Easter ceremonies at
Seville," he urged, exaggerating his demands in the hope of a larger
concession.
"Easter in Seville? And it will be Lent next week!" she laughed.
"Why shouldn't we be married in Lent?" he rejoined; but she looked so
shocked that he saw his mistake.
"Of course I didn't mean that, dearest; but soon after Easter--so that
we could sail at the end of April. I know I could arrange it at the
office."
She smiled dreamily upon the possibility; but he perceived that to
dream of it sufficed her. It was like hearing him read aloud out of
his poetry books the beautiful things that could not possibly happen in
real life.
"Oh, do go on, Newland; I do love your descriptions."
"But why should they be only descriptions? Why shouldn't we make them
real?"
"We shall, dearest, of course; next year." Her voice lingered over it.
"Don't you want them to be real sooner? Can't I persuade you to break
away now?"
She bowed her head, vanishing from him under her conniving hat-brim.
"Why should we dream away another year? Look at me, dear! Don't you
understand how I want you for my wife?"
For a moment she remained motionless; then she raised on him eyes of
such despairing dearness that he half-released her waist from his hold.
But suddenly her look changed and deepened inscrutably. "I'm not sure
if I DO understand," she said. "Is it--is it because you're not
certain of continuing to care for me?"
Archer sprang up from his seat. "My God--perhaps--I don't know," he
broke out angrily.
May Welland rose also; as they faced each other she seemed to grow in
womanly stature and dignity. Both were silent for a moment, as if
dismayed by the unforeseen trend of their words: then she said in a low
voice: "If that is it--is there some one else?"
"Some one else--between you and me?" He echoed her words slowly, as
though they were only half-intelligible and he wanted time to repeat
the question to himself. She seemed to catch the uncertainty of his
voice, for she went on in a deepening tone: "Let us talk frankly,
Newland. Sometimes I've felt a difference in you; especially since our
engagement has been announced."
"Dear--what madness!" he recovered himself to exclaim.
She met his protest with a faint smile. "If it is, it won't hurt us to
talk about it." She paused, and added, lifting her head with one of
her noble movements: "Or even if it's true: why shouldn't we speak of
it? You might so easily have made a mistake."
He lowered his head, staring at the black leaf-pattern on the sunny
path at their feet. "Mistakes are always easy to make; but if I had
made one of the kind you suggest, is it likely that I should be
imploring you to hasten our marriage?"
She looked downward too, disturbing the pattern with the point of her
sunshade while she struggled for expression. "Yes," she said at
length. "You might want--once for all--to settle the question: it's
one way."
Her quiet lucidity startled him, but did not mislead him into thinking
her insensible. Under her hat-brim he saw the pallor of her profile,
and a slight tremor of the nostril above her resolutely steadied lips.
"Well--?" he questioned, sitting down on the bench, and looking up at
her with a frown that he tried to make playful.
She dropped back into her seat and went on: "You mustn't think that a
girl knows as little as her parents imagine. One hears and one
notices--one has one's feelings and ideas. And of course, long before
you told me that you cared for me, I'd known that there was some one
else you were interested in; every one was talking about it two years
ago at Newport. And once I saw you sitting together on the verandah at
a dance--and when she came back into the house her face was sad, and I
felt sorry for her; I remembered it afterward, when we were engaged."
Her voice had sunk almost to a whisper, and she sat clasping and
unclasping her hands about the handle of her sunshade. The young man
laid his upon them with a gentle pressure; his heart dilated with an
inexpressible relief.
"My dear child--was THAT it? If you only knew the truth!"
She raised her head quickly. "Then there is a truth I don't know?"
He kept his hand over hers. "I meant, the truth about the old story
you speak of."
"But that's what I want to know, Newland--what I ought to know. I
couldn't have my happiness made out of a wrong--an unfairness--to
somebody else. And I want to believe that it would be the same with
you. What sort of a life could we build on such foundations?"
Her face had taken on a look of such tragic courage that he felt like
bowing himself down at her feet. "I've wanted to say this for a long
time," she went on. "I've wanted to tell you that, when two people
really love each other, I understand that there may be situations which
make it right that they should--should go against public opinion. And
if you feel yourself in any way pledged ... pledged to the person we've
spoken of ... and if there is any way ... any way in which you can
fulfill your pledge ... even by her getting a divorce ... Newland,
don't give her up because of me!"
His surprise at discovering that her fears had fastened upon an episode
so remote and so completely of the past as his love-affair with Mrs.
Thorley Rushworth gave way to wonder at the generosity of her view.
There was something superhuman in an attitude so recklessly unorthodox,
and if other problems had not pressed on him he would have been lost in
wonder at the prodigy of the Wellands' daughter urging him to marry his
former mistress. But he was still dizzy with the glimpse of the
precipice they had skirted, and full of a new awe at the mystery of
young-girlhood.
For a moment he could not speak; then he said: "There is no pledge--no
obligation whatever--of the kind you think. Such cases don't
always--present themselves quite as simply as ... But that's no matter
... I love your generosity, because I feel as you do about those things
... I feel that each case must be judged individually, on its own
merits ... irrespective of stupid conventionalities ... I mean, each
woman's right to her liberty--" He pulled himself up, startled by the
turn his thoughts had taken, and went on, looking at her with a smile:
"Since you understand so many things, dearest, can't you go a little
farther, and understand the uselessness of our submitting to another
form of the same foolish conventionalities? If there's no one and
nothing between us, isn't that an argument for marrying quickly, rather
than for more delay?"
She flushed with joy and lifted her face to his; as he bent to it he
saw that her eyes were full of happy tears. But in another moment she
seemed to have descended from her womanly eminence to helpless and
timorous girlhood; and he understood that her courage and initiative
were all for others, and that she had none for herself. It was evident
that the effort of speaking had been much greater than her studied
composure betrayed, and that at his first word of reassurance she had
dropped back into the usual, as a too-adventurous child takes refuge in
its mother's arms.
Archer had no heart to go on pleading with her; he was too much
disappointed at the vanishing of the new being who had cast that one
deep look at him from her transparent eyes. May seemed to be aware of
his disappointment, but without knowing how to alleviate it; and they
stood up and walked silently home.
"Your cousin the Countess called on mother while you were away," Janey
Archer announced to her brother on the evening of his return.
The young man, who was dining alone with his mother and sister, glanced
up in surprise and saw Mrs. Archer's gaze demurely bent on her plate.
Mrs. Archer did not regard her seclusion from the world as a reason for
being forgotten by it; and Newland guessed that she was slightly
annoyed that he should be surprised by Madame Olenska's visit.
"She had on a black velvet polonaise with jet buttons, and a tiny green
monkey muff; I never saw her so stylishly dressed," Janey continued.
"She came alone, early on Sunday afternoon; luckily the fire was lit in
the drawing-room. She had one of those new card-cases. She said she
wanted to know us because you'd been so good to her."
Newland laughed. "Madame Olenska always takes that tone about her
friends. She's very happy at being among her own people again."
"Yes, so she told us," said Mrs. Archer. "I must say she seems
thankful to be here."
"I hope you liked her, mother."
Mrs. Archer drew her lips together. "She certainly lays herself out to
please, even when she is calling on an old lady."
"Mother doesn't think her simple," Janey interjected, her eyes screwed
upon her brother's face.
"It's just my old-fashioned feeling; dear May is my ideal," said Mrs.
Archer.
"Ah," said her son, "they're not alike."
Archer had left St. Augustine charged with many messages for old Mrs.
Mingott; and a day or two after his return to town he called on her.
The old lady received him with unusual warmth; she was grateful to him
for persuading the Countess Olenska to give up the idea of a divorce;
and when he told her that he had deserted the office without leave, and
rushed down to St. Augustine simply because he wanted to see May, she
gave an adipose chuckle and patted his knee with her puff-ball hand.
"Ah, ah--so you kicked over the traces, did you? And I suppose Augusta
and Welland pulled long faces, and behaved as if the end of the world
had come? But little May--she knew better, I'll be bound?"
"I hoped she did; but after all she wouldn't agree to what I'd gone
down to ask for."
"Wouldn't she indeed? And what was that?"
"I wanted to get her to promise that we should be married in April.
What's the use of our wasting another year?"
Mrs. Manson Mingott screwed up her little mouth into a grimace of mimic
prudery and twinkled at him through malicious lids. "'Ask Mamma,' I
suppose--the usual story. Ah, these Mingotts--all alike! Born in a
rut, and you can't root 'em out of it. When I built this house you'd
have thought I was moving to California! Nobody ever HAD built above
Fortieth Street--no, says I, nor above the Battery either, before
Christopher Columbus discovered America. No, no; not one of them wants
to be different; they're as scared of it as the small-pox. Ah, my dear
Mr. Archer, I thank my stars I'm nothing but a vulgar Spicer; but
there's not one of my own children that takes after me but my little
Ellen." She broke off, still twinkling at him, and asked, with the
casual irrelevance of old age: "Now, why in the world didn't you marry
my little Ellen?"
Archer laughed. "For one thing, she wasn't there to be married."
"No--to be sure; more's the pity. And now it's too late; her life is
finished." She spoke with the cold-blooded complacency of the aged
throwing earth into the grave of young hopes. The young man's heart
grew chill, and he said hurriedly: "Can't I persuade you to use your
influence with the Wellands, Mrs. Mingott? I wasn't made for long
engagements."
Old Catherine beamed on him approvingly. "No; I can see that. You've
got a quick eye. When you were a little boy I've no doubt you liked to
be helped first." She threw back her head with a laugh that made her
chins ripple like little waves. "Ah, here's my Ellen now!" she
exclaimed, as the portieres parted behind her.
Madame Olenska came forward with a smile. Her face looked vivid and
happy, and she held out her hand gaily to Archer while she stooped to
her grandmother's kiss.
"I was just saying to him, my dear: 'Now, why didn't you marry my
little Ellen?'"
Madame Olenska looked at Archer, still smiling. "And what did he
answer?"
"Oh, my darling, I leave you to find that out! He's been down to
Florida to see his sweetheart."
"Yes, I know." She still looked at him. "I went to see your mother,
to ask where you'd gone. I sent a note that you never answered, and I
was afraid you were ill."
He muttered something about leaving unexpectedly, in a great hurry, and
having intended to write to her from St. Augustine.
"And of course once you were there you never thought of me again!" She
continued to beam on him with a gaiety that might have been a studied
assumption of indifference.
"If she still needs me, she's determined not to let me see it," he
thought, stung by her manner. He wanted to thank her for having been
to see his mother, but under the ancestress's malicious eye he felt
himself tongue-tied and constrained.
"Look at him--in such hot haste to get married that he took French
leave and rushed down to implore the silly girl on his knees! That's
something like a lover--that's the way handsome Bob Spicer carried off
my poor mother; and then got tired of her before I was weaned--though
they only had to wait eight months for me! But there--you're not a
Spicer, young man; luckily for you and for May. It's only my poor
Ellen that has kept any of their wicked blood; the rest of them are all
model Mingotts," cried the old lady scornfully.
Archer was aware that Madame Olenska, who had seated herself at her
grandmother's side, was still thoughtfully scrutinising him. The
gaiety had faded from her eyes, and she said with great gentleness:
"Surely, Granny, we can persuade them between us to do as he wishes."
Archer rose to go, and as his hand met Madame Olenska's he felt that
she was waiting for him to make some allusion to her unanswered letter.
"When can I see you?" he asked, as she walked with him to the door of
the room.
"Whenever you like; but it must be soon if you want to see the little
house again. I am moving next week."
A pang shot through him at the memory of his lamplit hours in the
low-studded drawing-room. Few as they had been, they were thick with
memories.
"Tomorrow evening?"
She nodded. "Tomorrow; yes; but early. I'm going out."
The next day was a Sunday, and if she were "going out" on a Sunday
evening it could, of course, be only to Mrs. Lemuel Struthers's. He
felt a slight movement of annoyance, not so much at her going there
(for he rather liked her going where she pleased in spite of the van
der Luydens), but because it was the kind of house at which she was
sure to meet Beaufort, where she must have known beforehand that she
would meet him--and where she was probably going for that purpose.
"Very well; tomorrow evening," he repeated, inwardly resolved that he
would not go early, and that by reaching her door late he would either
prevent her from going to Mrs. Struthers's, or else arrive after she
had started--which, all things considered, would no doubt be the
simplest solution.
It was only half-past eight, after all, when he rang the bell under the
wisteria; not as late as he had intended by half an hour--but a
singular restlessness had driven him to her door. He reflected,
however, that Mrs. Struthers's Sunday evenings were not like a ball,
and that her guests, as if to minimise their delinquency, usually went
early.
The one thing he had not counted on, in entering Madame Olenska's hall,
was to find hats and overcoats there. Why had she bidden him to come
early if she was having people to dine? On a closer inspection of the
garments besides which Nastasia was laying his own, his resentment gave
way to curiosity. The overcoats were in fact the very strangest he had
ever seen under a polite roof; and it took but a glance to assure
himself that neither of them belonged to Julius Beaufort. One was a
shaggy yellow ulster of "reach-me-down" cut, the other a very old and
rusty cloak with a cape--something like what the French called a
"Macfarlane." This garment, which appeared to be made for a person of
prodigious size, had evidently seen long and hard wear, and its
greenish-black folds gave out a moist sawdusty smell suggestive of
prolonged sessions against bar-room walls. On it lay a ragged grey
scarf and an odd felt hat of semiclerical shape.
Archer raised his eyebrows enquiringly at Nastasia, who raised hers in
return with a fatalistic "Gia!" as she threw open the drawing-room door.
The young man saw at once that his hostess was not in the room; then,
with surprise, he discovered another lady standing by the fire. This
lady, who was long, lean and loosely put together, was clad in raiment
intricately looped and fringed, with plaids and stripes and bands of
plain colour disposed in a design to which the clue seemed missing.
Her hair, which had tried to turn white and only succeeded in fading,
was surmounted by a Spanish comb and black lace scarf, and silk
mittens, visibly darned, covered her rheumatic hands.
Beside her, in a cloud of cigar-smoke, stood the owners of the two
overcoats, both in morning clothes that they had evidently not taken
off since morning. In one of the two, Archer, to his surprise,
recognised Ned Winsett; the other and older, who was unknown to him,
and whose gigantic frame declared him to be the wearer of the
"Macfarlane," had a feebly leonine head with crumpled grey hair, and
moved his arms with large pawing gestures, as though he were
distributing lay blessings to a kneeling multitude.
These three persons stood together on the hearth-rug, their eyes fixed
on an extraordinarily large bouquet of crimson roses, with a knot of
purple pansies at their base, that lay on the sofa where Madame Olenska
usually sat.
"What they must have cost at this season--though of course it's the
sentiment one cares about!" the lady was saying in a sighing staccato
as Archer came in.
The three turned with surprise at his appearance, and the lady,
advancing, held out her hand.
"Dear Mr. Archer--almost my cousin Newland!" she said. "I am the
Marchioness Manson."
Archer bowed, and she continued: "My Ellen has taken me in for a few
days. I came from Cuba, where I have been spending the winter with
Spanish friends--such delightful distinguished people: the highest
nobility of old Castile--how I wish you could know them! But I was
called away by our dear great friend here, Dr. Carver. You don't know
Dr. Agathon Carver, founder of the Valley of Love Community?"
Dr. Carver inclined his leonine head, and the Marchioness continued:
"Ah, New York--New York--how little the life of the spirit has reached
it! But I see you do know Mr. Winsett."
"Oh, yes--I reached him some time ago; but not by that route," Winsett
said with his dry smile.
The Marchioness shook her head reprovingly. "How do you know, Mr.
Winsett? The spirit bloweth where it listeth."
"List--oh, list!" interjected Dr. Carver in a stentorian murmur.
"But do sit down, Mr. Archer. We four have been having a delightful
little dinner together, and my child has gone up to dress. She expects
you; she will be down in a moment. We were just admiring these
marvellous flowers, which will surprise her when she reappears."
Winsett remained on his feet. "I'm afraid I must be off. Please tell
Madame Olenska that we shall all feel lost when she abandons our
street. This house has been an oasis."
"Ah, but she won't abandon YOU. Poetry and art are the breath of life
to her. It IS poetry you write, Mr. Winsett?"
"Well, no; but I sometimes read it," said Winsett, including the group
in a general nod and slipping out of the room.
"A caustic spirit--un peu sauvage. But so witty; Dr. Carver, you DO
think him witty?"
"I never think of wit," said Dr. Carver severely.
"Ah--ah--you never think of wit! How merciless he is to us weak
mortals, Mr. Archer! But he lives only in the life of the spirit; and
tonight he is mentally preparing the lecture he is to deliver presently
at Mrs. Blenker's. Dr. Carver, would there be time, before you start
for the Blenkers' to explain to Mr. Archer your illuminating discovery
of the Direct Contact? But no; I see it is nearly nine o'clock, and we
have no right to detain you while so many are waiting for your message."
Dr. Carver looked slightly disappointed at this conclusion, but, having
compared his ponderous gold time-piece with Madame Olenska's little
travelling-clock, he reluctantly gathered up his mighty limbs for
departure.
"I shall see you later, dear friend?" he suggested to the Marchioness,
who replied with a smile: "As soon as Ellen's carriage comes I will
join you; I do hope the lecture won't have begun."
Dr. Carver looked thoughtfully at Archer. "Perhaps, if this young
gentleman is interested in my experiences, Mrs. Blenker might allow you
to bring him with you?"
"Oh, dear friend, if it were possible--I am sure she would be too
happy. But I fear my Ellen counts on Mr. Archer herself."
"That," said Dr. Carver, "is unfortunate--but here is my card." He
handed it to Archer, who read on it, in Gothic characters:
+---------------------------+
| Agathon Carver |
| The Valley of Love |
| Kittasquattamy, N. Y. |
+---------------------------+
Dr. Carver bowed himself out, and Mrs. Manson, with a sigh that might
have been either of regret or relief, again waved Archer to a seat.
"Ellen will be down in a moment; and before she comes, I am so glad of
this quiet moment with you."
Archer murmured his pleasure at their meeting, and the Marchioness
continued, in her low sighing accents: "I know everything, dear Mr.
Archer--my child has told me all you have done for her. Your wise
advice: your courageous firmness--thank heaven it was not too late!"
The young man listened with considerable embarrassment. Was there any
one, he wondered, to whom Madame Olenska had not proclaimed his
intervention in her private affairs?
"Madame Olenska exaggerates; I simply gave her a legal opinion, as she
asked me to."
"Ah, but in doing it--in doing it you were the unconscious instrument
of--of--what word have we moderns for Providence, Mr. Archer?" cried
the lady, tilting her head on one side and drooping her lids
mysteriously. "Little did you know that at that very moment I was
being appealed to: being approached, in fact--from the other side of
the Atlantic!"
She glanced over her shoulder, as though fearful of being overheard,
and then, drawing her chair nearer, and raising a tiny ivory fan to her
lips, breathed behind it: "By the Count himself--my poor, mad, foolish
Olenski; who asks only to take her back on her own terms."
"Good God!" Archer exclaimed, springing up.
"You are horrified? Yes, of course; I understand. I don't defend poor
Stanislas, though he has always called me his best friend. He does not
defend himself--he casts himself at her feet: in my person." She
tapped her emaciated bosom. "I have his letter here."
"A letter?--Has Madame Olenska seen it?" Archer stammered, his brain
whirling with the shock of the announcement.
The Marchioness Manson shook her head softly. "Time--time; I must have
time. I know my Ellen--haughty, intractable; shall I say, just a shade
unforgiving?"
"But, good heavens, to forgive is one thing; to go back into that
hell--"
"Ah, yes," the Marchioness acquiesced. "So she describes it--my
sensitive child! But on the material side, Mr. Archer, if one may
stoop to consider such things; do you know what she is giving up?
Those roses there on the sofa--acres like them, under glass and in the
open, in his matchless terraced gardens at Nice! Jewels--historic
pearls: the Sobieski emeralds--sables,--but she cares nothing for all
these! Art and beauty, those she does care for, she lives for, as I
always have; and those also surrounded her. Pictures, priceless
furniture, music, brilliant conversation--ah, that, my dear young man,
if you'll excuse me, is what you've no conception of here! And she had
it all; and the homage of the greatest. She tells me she is not
thought handsome in New York--good heavens! Her portrait has been
painted nine times; the greatest artists in Europe have begged for the
privilege. Are these things nothing? And the remorse of an adoring
husband?"
As the Marchioness Manson rose to her climax her face assumed an
expression of ecstatic retrospection which would have moved Archer's
mirth had he not been numb with amazement.
He would have laughed if any one had foretold to him that his first
sight of poor Medora Manson would have been in the guise of a messenger
of Satan; but he was in no mood for laughing now, and she seemed to him
to come straight out of the hell from which Ellen Olenska had just
escaped.
"She knows nothing yet--of all this?" he asked abruptly.
Mrs. Manson laid a purple finger on her lips. "Nothing directly--but
does she suspect? Who can tell? The truth is, Mr. Archer, I have been
waiting to see you. From the moment I heard of the firm stand you had
taken, and of your influence over her, I hoped it might be possible to
count on your support--to convince you ..."
"That she ought to go back? I would rather see her dead!" cried the
young man violently.
"Ah," the Marchioness murmured, without visible resentment. For a
while she sat in her arm-chair, opening and shutting the absurd ivory
fan between her mittened fingers; but suddenly she lifted her head and
listened.
"Here she comes," she said in a rapid whisper; and then, pointing to
the bouquet on the sofa: "Am I to understand that you prefer THAT, Mr.
Archer? After all, marriage is marriage ... and my niece is still a
wife..." | When Newland sees May in St. Augustine, he feels assured that their engagement is the right thing to do. He tries to think of an argument to persuade Mrs. Welland to agree to an earlier wedding date, but cannot. Nor can Newland persuade May, who fears that he has changed and innocently asks if he has "someone else" in his life. She says that Newland can end their engagement and she will understand. Newland is momentarily frightened, but then the veil of innocence again covers her eyes and he assures her there is no one else. Returning home, Newland has dinner with his mother and sister Janey, and he learns that the Countess visited them while he was away. He calls on old Mrs. Mingott to intercede on his behalf over the wedding date. During their conversation Ellen arrives, and, as he leaves, Newland quietly makes a time to see her the following evening. When he arrives the next night, the Marchioness Manson, Ned Winsett, and a Dr. Agathon Carver are in the Countess's drawing room. Crimson roses are evidence of Beaufort's continuing pursuit. When the gentlemen leave, Mrs. Manson thanks Newland for his concern over Ellen and begs him to send Ellen back to the Count because she is giving up a huge fortune for an inferior social position. |
During the night of the 5th of December, the train ran south-easterly
for about fifty miles; then rose an equal distance in a north-easterly
direction, towards the Great Salt Lake.
Passepartout, about nine o'clock, went out upon the platform to take
the air. The weather was cold, the heavens grey, but it was not
snowing. The sun's disc, enlarged by the mist, seemed an enormous ring
of gold, and Passepartout was amusing himself by calculating its value
in pounds sterling, when he was diverted from this interesting study by
a strange-looking personage who made his appearance on the platform.
This personage, who had taken the train at Elko, was tall and dark,
with black moustache, black stockings, a black silk hat, a black
waistcoat, black trousers, a white cravat, and dogskin gloves. He
might have been taken for a clergyman. He went from one end of the
train to the other, and affixed to the door of each car a notice
written in manuscript.
Passepartout approached and read one of these notices, which stated
that Elder William Hitch, Mormon missionary, taking advantage of his
presence on train No. 48, would deliver a lecture on Mormonism in car
No. 117, from eleven to twelve o'clock; and that he invited all who
were desirous of being instructed concerning the mysteries of the
religion of the "Latter Day Saints" to attend.
"I'll go," said Passepartout to himself. He knew nothing of Mormonism
except the custom of polygamy, which is its foundation.
The news quickly spread through the train, which contained about one
hundred passengers, thirty of whom, at most, attracted by the notice,
ensconced themselves in car No. 117. Passepartout took one of the
front seats. Neither Mr. Fogg nor Fix cared to attend.
At the appointed hour Elder William Hitch rose, and, in an irritated
voice, as if he had already been contradicted, said, "I tell you that
Joe Smith is a martyr, that his brother Hiram is a martyr, and that the
persecutions of the United States Government against the prophets will
also make a martyr of Brigham Young. Who dares to say the contrary?"
No one ventured to gainsay the missionary, whose excited tone
contrasted curiously with his naturally calm visage. No doubt his
anger arose from the hardships to which the Mormons were actually
subjected. The government had just succeeded, with some difficulty, in
reducing these independent fanatics to its rule. It had made itself
master of Utah, and subjected that territory to the laws of the Union,
after imprisoning Brigham Young on a charge of rebellion and polygamy.
The disciples of the prophet had since redoubled their efforts, and
resisted, by words at least, the authority of Congress. Elder Hitch,
as is seen, was trying to make proselytes on the very railway trains.
Then, emphasising his words with his loud voice and frequent gestures,
he related the history of the Mormons from Biblical times: how that, in
Israel, a Mormon prophet of the tribe of Joseph published the annals of
the new religion, and bequeathed them to his son Mormon; how, many
centuries later, a translation of this precious book, which was written
in Egyptian, was made by Joseph Smith, junior, a Vermont farmer, who
revealed himself as a mystical prophet in 1825; and how, in short, the
celestial messenger appeared to him in an illuminated forest, and gave
him the annals of the Lord.
Several of the audience, not being much interested in the missionary's
narrative, here left the car; but Elder Hitch, continuing his lecture,
related how Smith, junior, with his father, two brothers, and a few
disciples, founded the church of the "Latter Day Saints," which,
adopted not only in America, but in England, Norway and Sweden, and
Germany, counts many artisans, as well as men engaged in the liberal
professions, among its members; how a colony was established in Ohio, a
temple erected there at a cost of two hundred thousand dollars, and a
town built at Kirkland; how Smith became an enterprising banker, and
received from a simple mummy showman a papyrus scroll written by
Abraham and several famous Egyptians.
The Elder's story became somewhat wearisome, and his audience grew
gradually less, until it was reduced to twenty passengers. But this
did not disconcert the enthusiast, who proceeded with the story of
Joseph Smith's bankruptcy in 1837, and how his ruined creditors gave
him a coat of tar and feathers; his reappearance some years afterwards,
more honourable and honoured than ever, at Independence, Missouri, the
chief of a flourishing colony of three thousand disciples, and his
pursuit thence by outraged Gentiles, and retirement into the Far West.
Ten hearers only were now left, among them honest Passepartout, who was
listening with all his ears. Thus he learned that, after long
persecutions, Smith reappeared in Illinois, and in 1839 founded a
community at Nauvoo, on the Mississippi, numbering twenty-five thousand
souls, of which he became mayor, chief justice, and general-in-chief;
that he announced himself, in 1843, as a candidate for the Presidency
of the United States; and that finally, being drawn into ambuscade at
Carthage, he was thrown into prison, and assassinated by a band of men
disguised in masks.
Passepartout was now the only person left in the car, and the Elder,
looking him full in the face, reminded him that, two years after the
assassination of Joseph Smith, the inspired prophet, Brigham Young, his
successor, left Nauvoo for the banks of the Great Salt Lake, where, in
the midst of that fertile region, directly on the route of the
emigrants who crossed Utah on their way to California, the new colony,
thanks to the polygamy practised by the Mormons, had flourished beyond
expectations.
"And this," added Elder William Hitch, "this is why the jealousy of
Congress has been aroused against us! Why have the soldiers of the
Union invaded the soil of Utah? Why has Brigham Young, our chief, been
imprisoned, in contempt of all justice? Shall we yield to force?
Never! Driven from Vermont, driven from Illinois, driven from Ohio,
driven from Missouri, driven from Utah, we shall yet find some
independent territory on which to plant our tents. And you, my
brother," continued the Elder, fixing his angry eyes upon his single
auditor, "will you not plant yours there, too, under the shadow of our
flag?"
"No!" replied Passepartout courageously, in his turn retiring from the
car, and leaving the Elder to preach to vacancy.
During the lecture the train had been making good progress, and towards
half-past twelve it reached the northwest border of the Great Salt
Lake. Thence the passengers could observe the vast extent of this
interior sea, which is also called the Dead Sea, and into which flows
an American Jordan. It is a picturesque expanse, framed in lofty crags
in large strata, encrusted with white salt--a superb sheet of water,
which was formerly of larger extent than now, its shores having
encroached with the lapse of time, and thus at once reduced its breadth
and increased its depth.
The Salt Lake, seventy miles long and thirty-five wide, is situated
three miles eight hundred feet above the sea. Quite different from
Lake Asphaltite, whose depression is twelve hundred feet below the sea,
it contains considerable salt, and one quarter of the weight of its
water is solid matter, its specific weight being 1,170, and, after
being distilled, 1,000. Fishes are, of course, unable to live in it,
and those which descend through the Jordan, the Weber, and other
streams soon perish.
The country around the lake was well cultivated, for the Mormons are
mostly farmers; while ranches and pens for domesticated animals, fields
of wheat, corn, and other cereals, luxuriant prairies, hedges of wild
rose, clumps of acacias and milk-wort, would have been seen six months
later. Now the ground was covered with a thin powdering of snow.
The train reached Ogden at two o'clock, where it rested for six hours,
Mr. Fogg and his party had time to pay a visit to Salt Lake City,
connected with Ogden by a branch road; and they spent two hours in this
strikingly American town, built on the pattern of other cities of the
Union, like a checker-board, "with the sombre sadness of right-angles,"
as Victor Hugo expresses it. The founder of the City of the Saints
could not escape from the taste for symmetry which distinguishes the
Anglo-Saxons. In this strange country, where the people are certainly
not up to the level of their institutions, everything is done
"squarely"--cities, houses, and follies.
The travellers, then, were promenading, at three o'clock, about the
streets of the town built between the banks of the Jordan and the spurs
of the Wahsatch Range. They saw few or no churches, but the prophet's
mansion, the court-house, and the arsenal, blue-brick houses with
verandas and porches, surrounded by gardens bordered with acacias,
palms, and locusts. A clay and pebble wall, built in 1853, surrounded
the town; and in the principal street were the market and several
hotels adorned with pavilions. The place did not seem thickly
populated. The streets were almost deserted, except in the vicinity of
the temple, which they only reached after having traversed several
quarters surrounded by palisades. There were many women, which was
easily accounted for by the "peculiar institution" of the Mormons; but
it must not be supposed that all the Mormons are polygamists. They are
free to marry or not, as they please; but it is worth noting that it is
mainly the female citizens of Utah who are anxious to marry, as,
according to the Mormon religion, maiden ladies are not admitted to the
possession of its highest joys. These poor creatures seemed to be
neither well off nor happy. Some--the more well-to-do, no doubt--wore
short, open, black silk dresses, under a hood or modest shawl; others
were habited in Indian fashion.
Passepartout could not behold without a certain fright these women,
charged, in groups, with conferring happiness on a single Mormon. His
common sense pitied, above all, the husband. It seemed to him a
terrible thing to have to guide so many wives at once across the
vicissitudes of life, and to conduct them, as it were, in a body to the
Mormon paradise with the prospect of seeing them in the company of the
glorious Smith, who doubtless was the chief ornament of that delightful
place, to all eternity. He felt decidedly repelled from such a
vocation, and he imagined--perhaps he was mistaken--that the fair ones
of Salt Lake City cast rather alarming glances on his person. Happily,
his stay there was but brief. At four the party found themselves again
at the station, took their places in the train, and the whistle sounded
for starting. Just at the moment, however, that the locomotive wheels
began to move, cries of "Stop! stop!" were heard.
Trains, like time and tide, stop for no one. The gentleman who uttered
the cries was evidently a belated Mormon. He was breathless with
running. Happily for him, the station had neither gates nor barriers.
He rushed along the track, jumped on the rear platform of the train,
and fell, exhausted, into one of the seats.
Passepartout, who had been anxiously watching this amateur gymnast,
approached him with lively interest, and learned that he had taken
flight after an unpleasant domestic scene.
When the Mormon had recovered his breath, Passepartout ventured to ask
him politely how many wives he had; for, from the manner in which he
had decamped, it might be thought that he had twenty at least.
"One, sir," replied the Mormon, raising his arms heavenward--"one, and
that was enough!" | The train continues on its path. Passepartout steps down at a station, when he sees an interesting man-tall, very dark, who looked like a parson. This man goes from one part of the train to another and announces that he will give a lecture on Mormonism in car No. 117. Thirty people are drawn by the attraction of a lecture, including Passepartout. The Mormon missionary-Elder William Hitch turns out to be a fanatic and one by one, people start leaving the lecture room. Passepartout is the last to escape the tedious preaching. During the lecture, the train had made rapid progress and the landscape is outlined. The train stops at Ogden for a few hours and so the travelers alight. The town is described through the visiting travelers eye and the voyagers do not feel sorry about leaving this City of Saints. Just as the train starts, a breathless Mormon man runs up and he is late because of a domestic fight. Passepartout asks him how many wives he has and they learn that he has only one wife unlike other Mormons. |
Two or three days and nights went by; I reckon I might say they swum
by, they slid along so quiet and smooth and lovely. Here is the way we
put in the time. It was a monstrous big river down there--sometimes a
mile and a half wide; we run nights, and laid up and hid daytimes;
soon as night was most gone we stopped navigating and tied up--nearly
always in the dead water under a towhead; and then cut young
cottonwoods and willows, and hid the raft with them. Then we set out
the lines. Next we slid into the river and had a swim, so as to
freshen up and cool off; then we set down on the sandy bottom where
the water was about knee-deep, and watched the daylight come. Not a
sound anywheres--perfectly still--just like the whole world was
asleep, only sometimes the bullfrogs a-cluttering, maybe. The first
thing to see, looking away over the water, was a kind of dull
line--that was the woods on t'other side; you couldn't make nothing
else out; then a pale place in the sky; then more paleness spreading
around; then the river softened up away off, and warn't black any
more, but gray; you could see little dark spots drifting along ever so
far away--trading-scows, and such things; and long black
streaks--rafts; sometimes you could hear a sweep screaking; or
jumbled-up voices, it was so still, and sounds come so far; and by and
by you could see a streak on the water which you know by the look of
the streak that there's a snag there in a swift current which breaks
on it and makes that streak look that way; and you see the mist curl
up off of the water, and the east reddens up, and the river, and you
make out a log cabin in the edge of the woods, away on the bank on
t'other side of the river, being a wood-yard, likely, and piled by
them cheats so you can throw a dog through it anywheres; then the nice
breeze springs up, and comes fanning you from over there, so cool and
fresh and sweet to smell on account of the woods and the flowers; but
sometimes not that way, because they've left dead fish laying around,
gars and such, and they do get pretty rank; and next you've got the
full day, and everything smiling in the sun, and the song-birds just
going it!
A little smoke couldn't be noticed now, so we would take some fish off
of the lines and cook up a hot breakfast. And afterwards we would
watch the lonesomeness of the river, and kind of lazy along, and by
and by lazy off to sleep. Wake up by and by, and look to see what done
it, and maybe see a steamboat coughing along up-stream, so far off
towards the other side you couldn't tell nothing about her only
whether she was a stern-wheel or side-wheel; then for about an hour
there wouldn't be nothing to hear nor nothing to see--just solid
lonesomeness. Next you'd see a raft sliding by, away off yonder, and
maybe a galoot on it chopping, because they're most always doing it on
a raft; you'd see the ax flash and come down--you don't hear nothing;
you see that ax go up again, and by the time it's above the man's head
then you hear the _k'chunk!_--it had took all that time to come over
the water. So we would put in the day, lazying around, listening to
the stillness. Once there was a thick fog, and the rafts and things
that went by was beating tin pans so the steamboats wouldn't run over
them. A scow or a raft went by so close we could hear them talking and
cussing and laughing--heard them plain; but we couldn't see no sign of
them; it made you feel crawly; it was like spirits carrying on that
way in the air. Jim said he believed it was spirits; but I says:
"No; spirits wouldn't say, 'Dern the dern fog.'"
Soon as it was night out we shoved; when we got her out to about the
middle we let her alone, and let her float wherever the current wanted
her to; then we lit the pipes, and dangled our legs in the water, and
talked about all kinds of things--we was always naked, day and night,
whenever the mosquitoes would let us--the new clothes Buck's folks
made for me was too good to be comfortable, and besides I didn't go
much on clothes, nohow.
Sometimes we'd have that whole river all to ourselves for the longest
time. Yonder was the banks and the islands, across the water; and
maybe a spark--which was a candle in a cabin window; and sometimes on
the water you could see a spark or two--on a raft or a scow, you know;
and maybe you could hear a fiddle or a song coming over from one of
them crafts. It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there,
all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up
at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just
happened. Jim he allowed they was made, but I allowed they happened; I
judged it would have took too long to _make_ so many. Jim said the
moon could 'a' _laid_ them; well, that looked kind of reasonable, so I
didn't say nothing against it, because I've seen a frog lay most as
many, so of course it could be done. We used to watch the stars that
fell, too, and see them streak down. Jim allowed they'd got spoiled
and was hove out of the nest.
Once or twice of a night we would see a steamboat slipping along in
the dark, and now and then she would belch a whole world of sparks up
out of her chimbleys, and they would rain down in the river and look
awful pretty; then she would turn a corner and her lights would wink
out and her powwow shut off and leave the river still again; and by
and by her waves would get to us, a long time after she was gone, and
joggle the raft a bit, and after that you wouldn't hear nothing for
you couldn't tell how long, except maybe frogs or something.
After midnight the people on shore went to bed, and then for two or
three hours the shores was black--no more sparks in the cabin windows.
These sparks was our clock--the first one that showed again meant
morning was coming, so we hunted a place to hide and tie up right
away.
One morning about daybreak I found a canoe and crossed over a chute to
the main shore--it was only two hundred yards--and paddled about a
mile up a crick amongst the cypress woods, to see if I couldn't get
some berries. Just as I was passing a place where a kind of a cowpath
crossed the crick, here comes a couple of men tearing up the path as
tight as they could foot it. I thought I was a goner, for whenever
anybody was after anybody I judged it was _me_--or maybe Jim. I was
about to dig out from there in a hurry, but they was pretty close to
me then, and sung out and begged me to save their lives--said they
hadn't been doing nothing, and was being chased for it--said there was
men and dogs a-coming. They wanted to jump right in, but I says:
"Don't you do it. I don't hear the dogs and horses yet; you've got
time to crowd through the brush and get up the crick a little ways;
then you take to the water and wade down to me and get in--that 'll
throw the dogs off the scent."
They done it, and soon as they was aboard I lit out for our towhead,
and in about five or ten minutes we heard the dogs and the men away
off, shouting. We heard them come along towards the crick, but
couldn't see them; they seemed to stop and fool around awhile; then,
as we got further and further away all the time, we couldn't hardly
hear them at all; by the time we had left a mile of woods behind us
and struck the river, everything was quiet, and we paddled over to the
towhead and hid in the cottonwoods and was safe.
One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head
and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a
greasy blue woolen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed
into his boot-tops, and home-knit galluses--no, he only had one. He
had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung
over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking
carpet-bags.
The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After
breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come
out was that these chaps didn't know one another.
"What got you into trouble?" says the baldhead to t'other chap.
"Well, I'd been selling an article to take the tartar off the
teeth--and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with
it--but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just
in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side
of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you
to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would
scatter out _with_ you. That's the whole yarn--what's yourn?"
"Well, I'd ben a-runnin' a little temperance revival thar 'bout a
week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was
makin' it mighty warm for the rummies, I _tell_ you, and takin' as
much as five or six dollars a night--ten cents a head, children and
niggers free--and business a-growin' all the time, when somehow or
another a little report got around last night that I had a way of
puttin' in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me
out this mornin', and told me the people was getherin' on the quiet
with their dogs and horses, and they'd be along pretty soon and give
me 'bout half an hour's start, and then run me down if they could; and
if they got me they'd tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure.
I didn't wait for no breakfast--I warn't hungry."
"Old man," said the young one, "I reckon we might double-team it
together; what do you think?"
"I ain't undisposed. What's your line--mainly?"
"Jour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines;
theater-actor--tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and
phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a
change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most
anything that comes handy, so it ain't work. What's your lay?"
"I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layin' on o'
hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and
I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find
out the facts for me. Preachin's my line, too, and workin'
camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around."
Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh
and says:
"Alas!"
"What 're you alassin' about?" says the baldhead.
"To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be
degraded down into such company." And he begun to wipe the corner of
his eye with a rag.
"Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?" says the
baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.
"Yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who
fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I don't blame
_you_, gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody. I deserve it
all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a
grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done,
and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it
can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and
my poor broken heart will be at rest." He went on a-wiping.
"Drot your pore broken heart," says the baldhead; "what are you
heaving your pore broken heart at _us_ f'r? _We_ hain't done nothing."
"No, I know you haven't. I ain't blaming you, gentlemen. I
brought myself down--yes, I did it myself. It's right I should
suffer--perfectly right--I don't make any moan."
"Brought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?"
"Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it
pass--'tis no matter. The secret of my birth--"
"The secret of your birth! Do you mean to say--"
"Gentlemen," says the young man, very solemn, "I will reveal it to
you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!"
Jim's eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too.
Then the baldhead says: "No! you can't mean it?"
"Yes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater,
fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the
pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own
father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke
seized the titles and estates--the infant real duke was ignored. I am
the lineal descendant of that infant--I am the rightful Duke of
Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted
of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and
degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!"
Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him,
but he said it warn't much use, he couldn't be much comforted; said if
we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than
most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He
said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say "Your Grace," or
"My Lord," or "Your Lordship"--and he wouldn't mind it if we called
him plain "Bridgewater," which, he said, was a title anyway, and not a
name; and one of us ought to wait on him at dinner, and do any little
thing for him he wanted done.
Well, that was all easy, so we done it. All through dinner Jim stood
around and waited on him, and says, "Will yo' Grace have some o' dis
or some o' dat?" and so on, and a body could see it was mighty
pleasing to him.
But the old man got pretty silent by and by--didn't have much to say,
and didn't look pretty comfortable over all that petting that was
going on around that duke. He seemed to have something on his mind.
So, along in the afternoon, he says:
"Looky here, Bilgewater," he says, "I'm nation sorry for you, but you
ain't the only person that's had troubles like that."
"No?"
"No, you ain't. You ain't the only person that's ben snaked down
wrongfully out'n a high place."
"Alas!"
"No, you ain't the only person that's had a secret of his birth." And,
by jings, _he_ begins to cry.
"Hold! What do you mean?"
"Bilgewater, kin I trust you?" says the old man, still sort of
sobbing.
"To the bitter death!" He took the old man by the hand and squeezed
it, and says, "That secret of your being: speak!"
"Bilgewater, I am the late Dauphin!"
You bet you, Jim and me stared this time. Then the duke says:
"You are what?"
"Yes, my friend, it is too true--your eyes is lookin' at this very
moment on the pore disappeared Dauphin, Looy the Seventeen, son of
Looy the Sixteen and Marry Antonette."
"You! At your age! No! You mean you're the late Charlemagne; you must
be six or seven hundred years old, at the very least."
"Trouble has done it, Bilgewater, trouble has done it; trouble has
brung these gray hairs and this premature balditude. Yes, gentlemen,
you see before you, in blue jeans and misery, the wanderin', exiled,
trampled-on, and sufferin' rightful King of France."
Well, he cried and took on so that me and Jim didn't know hardly what
to do, we was so sorry--and so glad and proud we'd got him with us,
too. So we set in, like we done before with the duke, and tried to
comfort _him._ But he said it warn't no use, nothing but to be dead
and done with it all could do him any good; though he said it often
made him feel easier and better for a while if people treated him
according to his rights, and got down on one knee to speak to him, and
always called him "Your Majesty," and waited on him first at meals,
and didn't set down in his presence till he asked them. So Jim and me
set to majestying him, and doing this and that and t'other for him,
and standing up till he told us we might set down. This done him heaps
of good, and so he got cheerful and comfortable. But the duke kind of
soured on him, and didn't look a bit satisfied with the way things was
going; still, the king acted real friendly towards him, and said the
duke's great-grandfather and all the other Dukes of Bilgewater was a
good deal thought of by _his_ father, and was allowed to come to the
palace considerable; but the duke stayed huffy a good while, till by
and by the king says:
"Like as not we got to be together a blamed long time on this h-yer
raft, Bilgewater, and so what's the use o' your bein' sour? It 'll
only make things oncomfortable. It ain't my fault I warn't born a
duke, it ain't your fault you warn't born a king--so what's the use to
worry? Make the best o' things the way you find 'em, says I--that's my
motto. This ain't no bad thing that we've struck here--plenty grub and
an easy life--come, give us your hand, duke, and le's all be friends."
The duke done it, and Jim and me was pretty glad to see it. It took
away all the uncomfortableness and we felt mighty good over it,
because it would 'a' been a miserable business to have any
unfriendliness on the raft; for what you want, above all things, on a
raft, is for everybody to be satisfied, and feel right and kind
towards the others.
It didn't take me long to make up my mind that these liars warn't no
kings nor dukes at all, but just low-down humbugs and frauds. But I
never said nothing, never let on; kept it to myself; it's the best
way; then you don't have no quarrels, and don't get into no trouble.
If they wanted us to call them kings and dukes, I hadn't no
objections, 'long as it would keep peace in the family; and it warn't
no use to tell Jim, so I didn't tell him. If I never learnt nothing
else out of pap, I learnt that the best way to get along with his kind
of people is to let them have their own way.
They asked us considerable many questions; wanted to know what we
covered up the raft that way for, and laid by in the daytime instead
of running--was Jim a runaway nigger? Says I:
"Goodness sakes! would a runaway nigger run _south?_"
No, they allowed he wouldn't. I had to account for things some way, so
I says:
"My folks was living in Pike County, in Missouri, where I was born,
and they all died off but me and pa and my brother Ike. Pa, he 'lowed
he'd break up and go down and live with Uncle Ben, who's got a little
one-horse place on the river forty-four mile below Orleans. Pa was
pretty poor, and had some debts; so when he'd squared up there warn't
nothing left but sixteen dollars and our nigger, Jim. That warn't
enough to take us fourteen hundred mile, deck passage nor no other
way. Well, when the river rose pa had a streak of luck one day; he
ketched this piece of a raft; so we reckoned we'd go down to Orleans
on it. Pa's luck didn't hold out; a steamboat run over the forrard
corner of the raft one night, and we all went overboard and dove under
the wheel; Jim and me come up all right, but pa was drunk, and Ike was
only four years old, so they never come up no more. Well, for the next
day or two we had considerable trouble, because people was always
coming out in skiffs and trying to take Jim away from me, saying they
believed he was a runaway nigger. We don't run daytimes no more now;
nights they don't bother us."
The duke says:
"Leave me alone to cipher out a way so we can run in the daytime if we
want to. I'll think the thing over--I'll invent a plan that 'll fix
it. We'll let it alone for to-day, because of course we don't want to
go by that town yonder in daylight--it mightn't be healthy."
Towards night it begun to darken up and look like rain; the
heat-lightning was squirting around low down in the sky, and the
leaves was beginning to shiver--it was going to be pretty ugly, it was
easy to see that. So the duke and the king went to overhauling our
wigwam, to see what the beds was like. My bed was a straw tick--better
than Jim's, which was a corn-shuck tick; there's always cobs around
about in a shuck tick, and they poke into you and hurt; and when you
roll over the dry shucks sound like you was rolling over in a pile of
dead leaves; it makes such a rustling that you wake up. Well, the duke
allowed he would take my bed; but the king allowed he wouldn't. He
says:
"I should 'a' reckoned the difference in rank would a sejested to you
that a corn-shuck bed warn't just fitten for me to sleep on. Your
Grace 'll take the shuck bed yourself."
Jim and me was in a sweat again for a minute, being afraid there was
going to be some more trouble amongst them; so we was pretty glad when
the duke says:
"'Tis my fate to be always ground into the mire under the iron heel of
oppression. Misfortune has broken my once haughty spirit; I yield, I
submit; 'tis my fate. I am alone in the world--let me suffer; I can
bear it."
We got away as soon as it was good and dark. The king told us to stand
well out towards the middle of the river, and not show a light till we
got a long ways below the town. We come in sight of the little bunch
of lights by and by--that was the town, you know--and slid by, about a
half a mile out, all right. When we was three-quarters of a mile below
we hoisted up our signal lantern; and about ten o'clock it come on to
rain and blow and thunder and lighten like everything; so the king
told us to both stay on watch till the weather got better; then him
and the duke crawled into the wigwam and turned in for the night. It
was my watch below till twelve, but I wouldn't 'a' turned in anyway if
I'd had a bed, because a body don't see such a storm as that every day
in the week, not by a long sight. My souls, how the wind did scream
along! And every second or two there'd come a glare that lit up the
white-caps for a half a mile around, and you'd see the islands looking
dusty through the rain, and the trees thrashing around in the wind;
then comes a _h-whack!_--bum! bum! bumble-umble-um-bum-bum-bum-bum--and
the thunder would go rumbling and grumbling away, and quit--and then
_rip_ comes another flash and another sock-dolager. The waves most
washed me off the raft sometimes, but I hadn't any clothes on, and
didn't mind. We didn't have no trouble about snags; the lightning
was glaring and flittering around so constant that we could see them
plenty soon enough to throw her head this way or that and miss them.
I had the middle watch, you know, but I was pretty sleepy by that
time, so Jim he said he would stand the first half of it for me; he
was always mighty good that way, Jim was. I crawled into the wigwam,
but the king and the duke had their legs sprawled around so there
warn't no show for me; so I laid outside--I didn't mind the rain,
because it was warm, and the waves warn't running so high now. About
two they come up again, though, and Jim was going to call me; but he
changed his mind, because he reckoned they warn't high enough yet to
do any harm; but he was mistaken about that, for pretty soon all of a
sudden along comes a regular ripper and washed me overboard. It most
killed Jim a-laughing. He was the easiest nigger to laugh that ever
was, anyway.
I took the watch, and Jim he laid down and snored away; and by and by
the storm let up for good and all; and the first cabin-light that
showed I rousted him out, and we slid the raft into hiding-quarters
for the day.
The king got out an old ratty deck of cards after breakfast, and him
and the duke played seven-up awhile, five cents a game. Then they got
tired of it, and allowed they would "lay out a campaign," as they
called it. The duke went down into his carpet-bag, and fetched up a
lot of little printed bills and read them out loud. One bill said,
"The celebrated Dr. Armand de Montalban, of Paris," would "lecture on
the Science of Phrenology" at such and such a place, on the blank day
of blank, at ten cents admission, and "furnish charts of character at
twenty-five cents apiece." The duke said that was _him._ In another
bill he was the "world-renowned Shakespearian tragedian, Garrick the
Younger, of Drury Lane, London." In other bills he had a lot of other
names and done other wonderful things, like finding water and gold
with a "divining-rod," "dissipating witch spells," and so on. By and
by he says:
"But the histrionic muse is the darling. Have you ever trod the
boards, Royalty?"
"No," says the king.
"You shall, then, before you're three days older, Fallen Grandeur,"
says the duke. "The first good town we come to we'll hire a hall and
do the swordfight in 'Richard III.' and the balcony scene in 'Romeo
and Juliet.' How does that strike you?"
"I'm in, up to the hub, for anything that will pay, Bilgewater; but,
you see, I don't know nothing about play-actin', and hain't ever seen
much of it. I was too small when pap used to have 'em at the palace.
Do you reckon you can learn me?"
"Easy!"
"All right. I'm jist a-freezin' for something fresh, anyway. Le's
commence right away."
So the duke he told him all about who Romeo was and who Juliet was,
and said he was used to being Romeo, so the king could be Juliet.
"But if Juliet's such a young gal, duke, my peeled head and my white
whiskers is goin' to look oncommon odd on her, maybe."
"No, don't you worry; these country jakes won't ever think of that.
Besides, you know, you'll be in costume, and that makes all the
difference in the world; Juliet's in a balcony, enjoying the moonlight
before she goes to bed, and she's got on her nightgown and her ruffled
nightcap. Here are the costumes for the parts."
He got out two or three curtain-calico suits, which he said was
meedyevil armor for Richard III. and t'other chap, and a long white
cotton nightshirt and a ruffled nightcap to match. The king was
satisfied; so the duke got out his book and read the parts over in the
most splendid spread-eagle way, prancing around and acting at the same
time, to show how it had got to be done; then he give the book to the
king and told him to get his part by heart.
There was a little one-horse town about three mile down the bend, and
after dinner the duke said he had ciphered out his idea about how to
run in daylight without it being dangersome for Jim; so he allowed he
would go down to the town and fix that thing. The king allowed he
would go, too, and see if he couldn't strike something. We was out of
coffee, so Jim said I better go along with them in the canoe and get
some.
When we got there there warn't nobody stirring; streets empty, and
perfectly dead and still, like Sunday. We found a sick nigger sunning
himself in a back yard, and he said everybody that warn't too young or
too sick or too old was gone to camp-meeting, about two mile back in
the woods. The king got the directions, and allowed he'd go and work
that camp-meeting for all it was worth, and I might go, too.
The duke said what he was after was a printing-office. We found it; a
little bit of a concern, up over a carpenter-shop--carpenters and
printers all gone to the meeting, and no doors locked. It was a dirty,
littered-up place, and had ink-marks, and handbills with pictures of
horses and runaway niggers on them, all over the walls. The duke shed
his coat and said he was all right now. So me and the king lit out for
the camp-meeting.
We got there in about a half an hour fairly dripping, for it was a
most awful hot day. There was as much as a thousand people there from
twenty mile around. The woods was full of teams and wagons, hitched
everywheres, feeding out of the wagon-troughs and stomping to keep off
the flies. There was sheds made out of poles and roofed over with
branches, where they had lemonade and gingerbread to sell, and piles
of watermelons and green corn and such-like truck.
The preaching was going on under the same kinds of sheds, only they
was bigger and held crowds of people. The benches was made out of
outside slabs of logs, with holes bored in the round side to drive
sticks into for legs. They didn't have no backs. The preachers had
high platforms to stand on at one end of the sheds. The women had on
sun-bonnets; and some had linsey-woolsey frocks, some gingham ones,
and a few of the young ones had on calico. Some of the young men was
barefooted, and some of the children didn't have on any clothes but
just a tow-linen shirt. Some of the old women was knitting, and some
of the young folks was courting on the sly.
The first shed we come to the preacher was lining out a hymn. He lined
out two lines, everybody sung it, and it was kind of grand to hear it,
there was so many of them and they done it in such a rousing way; then
he lined out two more for them to sing--and so on. The people woke up
more and more, and sung louder and louder; and towards the end some
begun to groan, and some begun to shout. Then the preacher begun to
preach, and begun in earnest, too; and went weaving first to one side
of the platform and then the other, and then a-leaning down over the
front of it, with his arms and his body going all the time, and
shouting his words out with all his might; and every now and then he
would hold up his Bible and spread it open, and kind of pass it around
this way and that, shouting, "It's the brazen serpent in the
wilderness! Look upon it and live!" And people would shout out,
"Glory!--A-a-_men_!" And so he went on, and the people groaning and
crying and saying amen:
"Oh, come to the mourners' bench! come, black with sin! (_amen!_)
come, sick and sore! (_amen!_) come, lame and halt and blind!
(_amen!_) come, pore and needy, sunk in shame! (_a-a-men!_) come, all
that's worn and soiled and suffering!--come with a broken spirit! come
with a contrite heart! come in your rags and sin and dirt! the waters
that cleanse is free, the door of heaven stands open--oh, enter in and
be at rest!" (_a-a-men! glory, glory hallelujah!_)
And so on. You couldn't make out what the preacher said any more, on
account of the shouting and crying. Folks got up everywheres in the
crowd, and worked their way just by main strength to the mourners'
bench, with the tears running down their faces; and when all the
mourners had got up there to the front benches in a crowd, they sung
and shouted and flung themselves down on the straw, just crazy and
wild.
Well, the first I knowed the king got a-going, and you could hear him
over everybody; and next he went a-charging up onto the platform, and
the preacher he begged him to speak to the people, and he done it. He
told them he was a pirate--been a pirate for thirty years out in the
Indian Ocean--and his crew was thinned out considerable last spring in
a fight, and he was home now to take out some fresh men, and thanks to
goodness he'd been robbed last night and put ashore off of a steamboat
without a cent, and he was glad of it; it was the blessedest thing
that ever happened to him, because he was a changed man now, and happy
for the first time in his life; and, poor as he was, he was going to
start right off and work his way back to the Indian Ocean, and put in
the rest of his life trying to turn the pirates into the true path;
for he could do it better than anybody else, being acquainted with all
pirate crews in that ocean; and though it would take him a long time
to get there without money, he would get there anyway, and every time
he convinced a pirate he would say to him, "Don't you thank me, don't
you give me no credit; it all belongs to them dear people in Pokeville
camp-meeting, natural brothers and benefactors of the race, and that
dear preacher there, the truest friend a pirate ever had!"
And then he busted into tears, and so did everybody. Then somebody
sings out, "Take up a collection for him, take up a collection!" Well,
a half a dozen made a jump to do it, but somebody sings out, "Let
_him_ pass the hat around!" Then everybody said it, the preacher too.
So the king went all through the crowd with his hat, swabbing his
eyes, and blessing the people and praising them and thanking them for
being so good to the poor pirates away off there; and every little
while the prettiest kind of girls, with the tears running down their
cheeks, would up and ask him would he let them kiss him for to
remember him by; and he always done it; and some of them he hugged and
kissed as many as five or six times--and he was invited to stay a
week; and everybody wanted him to live in their houses, and said
they'd think it was an honor; but he said as this was the last day of
the camp-meeting he couldn't do no good, and besides he was in a sweat
to get to the Indian Ocean right off and go to work on the pirates.
When we got back to the raft and he come to count up he found he had
collected eighty-seven dollars and seventy-five cents. And then he had
fetched away a three-gallon jug of whisky, too, that he found under a
wagon when he was starting home through the woods. The king said, take
it all around, it laid over any day he'd ever put in in the
missionarying line. He said it warn't no use talking, heathens don't
amount to shucks alongside of pirates to work a camp-meeting with.
The duke was thinking _he'd_ been doing pretty well till the king
come to show up, but after that he didn't think so so much. He
had set up and printed off two little jobs for farmers in that
printing-office--horse bills--and took the money, four dollars. And he
had got in ten dollars' worth of advertisements for the paper, which
he said he would put in for four dollars if they would pay in
advance--so they done it. The price of the paper was two dollars a
year, but he took in three subscriptions for half a dollar apiece on
condition of them paying him in advance; they were going to pay in
cordwood and onions as usual, but he said he had just bought the
concern and knocked down the price as low as he could afford it, and
was going to run it for cash. He set up a little piece of poetry,
which he made, himself, out of his own head--three verses--kind of
sweet and saddish--the name of it was, "Yes, crush, cold world, this
breaking heart"--and he left that all set up and ready to print in the
paper, and didn't charge nothing for it. Well, he took in nine dollars
and a half, and said he'd done a pretty square day's work for it.
Then he showed us another little job he'd printed and hadn't charged
for, because it was for us. It had a picture of a runaway nigger with
a bundle on a stick over his shoulder, and "$200 reward" under it. The
reading was all about Jim and just described him to a dot. It said he
run away from St. Jacques's plantation, forty mile below New Orleans,
last winter, and likely went north, and whoever would catch him and
send him back he could have the reward and expenses.
"Now," says the duke, "after to-night we can run in the daytime if we
want to. Whenever we see anybody coming we can tie Jim hand and foot
with a rope, and lay him in the wigwam and show this handbill and say
we captured him up the river, and were too poor to travel on a
steamboat, so we got this little raft on credit from our friends and
are going down to get the reward. Handcuffs and chains would look
still better on Jim, but it wouldn't go well with the story of us
being so poor. Too much like jewelry. Ropes are the correct thing--we
must preserve the unities, as we say on the boards."
We all said the duke was pretty smart, and there couldn't be no
trouble about running daytimes. We judged we could make miles enough
that night to get out of the reach of the powwow we reckoned the
duke's work in the printing-office was going to make in that little
town; then we could boom right along if we wanted to.
We laid low and kept still, and never shoved out till nearly ten
o'clock; then we slid by, pretty wide away from the town, and didn't
hoist our lantern till we was clear out of sight of it.
When Jim called me to take the watch at four in the morning, he says:
"Huck, does you reck'n we gwyne to run acrost any mo' kings on dis
trip?"
"No," I says, "I reckon not."
"Well," says he, "dat's all right, den. I doan' mine one er two kings,
but dat's enough. Dis one's powerful drunk, en de duke ain' much
better."
I found Jim had been trying to get him to talk French, so he could
hear what it was like; but he said he had been in this country so
long, and had so much trouble, he'd forgot it. | After two or three peaceful days on the raft, Huck is searching for some berries in a creek when he comes upon two desperate men. The men are obviously being chased, and Huck tells them how to lose the dogs, and they escape. The men, one around 70 and the other around 30 years old, join Huck and Jim on the raft. Each man quickly discovers that they both are con artists, and they decide to work together. Shortly after their agreement, the youngest breaks into tears and claims that he is the Duke of Bridgewater and must be treated with respect. After a thoughtful moment, the oldest uses the same tactic and claims to be the Dauphin, the rightful heir to the French throne. Huck believes the men are simple con men but decides not to challenge them in order to keep the peace. The duke and the king begin scheming, and with new plans, they land the raft below the one-horse town of Pokeville, which is practically deserted because of a nearby camp meeting. When the duke heads off to find a printing shop, the king decides to attend the meeting. At the meeting, the townspeople sing hymns and go up to the pulpit for forgiveness. The king joins the festivities and professes to be an old pirate who has reformed and seen the errors of his past. He burst into tears and passes around his hat and collects $87 dollars and a jug of whisky. When they return to the raft, Huck and Jim find that the duke has printed a handbill that describes Jim as a runaway slave from New Orleans. The handbill, the duke argues, will allow them to run the raft during the day without intrusion. The next morning, Jim says he can abide one or two kings but no more than that. |
A letter, edged with black, announced the day of my master's return.
Isabella was dead; and he wrote to bid me get mourning for his daughter,
and arrange a room, and other accommodations, for his youthful nephew.
Catherine ran wild with joy at the idea of welcoming her father back; and
indulged most sanguine anticipations of the innumerable excellencies of
her 'real' cousin. The evening of their expected arrival came. Since
early morning she had been busy ordering her own small affairs; and now
attired in her new black frock--poor thing! her aunt's death impressed
her with no definite sorrow--she obliged me, by constant worrying, to
walk with her down through the grounds to meet them.
'Linton is just six months younger than I am,' she chattered, as we
strolled leisurely over the swells and hollows of mossy turf, under
shadow of the trees. 'How delightful it will be to have him for a
playfellow! Aunt Isabella sent papa a beautiful lock of his hair; it was
lighter than mine--more flaxen, and quite as fine. I have it carefully
preserved in a little glass box; and I've often thought what a pleasure
it would be to see its owner. Oh! I am happy--and papa, dear, dear papa!
Come, Ellen, let us run! come, run.'
She ran, and returned and ran again, many times before my sober footsteps
reached the gate, and then she seated herself on the grassy bank beside
the path, and tried to wait patiently; but that was impossible: she
couldn't be still a minute.
'How long they are!' she exclaimed. 'Ah, I see, some dust on the
road--they are coming! No! When will they be here? May we not go a
little way--half a mile, Ellen, only just half a mile? Do say Yes: to
that clump of birches at the turn!'
I refused staunchly. At length her suspense was ended: the travelling
carriage rolled in sight. Miss Cathy shrieked and stretched out her arms
as soon as she caught her father's face looking from the window. He
descended, nearly as eager as herself; and a considerable interval
elapsed ere they had a thought to spare for any but themselves. While
they exchanged caresses I took a peep in to see after Linton. He was
asleep in a corner, wrapped in a warm, fur-lined cloak, as if it had been
winter. A pale, delicate, effeminate boy, who might have been taken for
my master's younger brother, so strong was the resemblance: but there was
a sickly peevishness in his aspect that Edgar Linton never had. The
latter saw me looking; and having shaken hands, advised me to close the
door, and leave him undisturbed; for the journey had fatigued him. Cathy
would fain have taken one glance, but her father told her to come, and
they walked together up the park, while I hastened before to prepare the
servants.
'Now, darling,' said Mr. Linton, addressing his daughter, as they halted
at the bottom of the front steps: 'your cousin is not so strong or so
merry as you are, and he has lost his mother, remember, a very short time
since; therefore, don't expect him to play and run about with you
directly. And don't harass him much by talking: let him be quiet this
evening, at least, will you?'
'Yes, yes, papa,' answered Catherine: 'but I do want to see him; and he
hasn't once looked out.'
The carriage stopped; and the sleeper being roused, was lifted to the
ground by his uncle.
'This is your cousin Cathy, Linton,' he said, putting their little hands
together. 'She's fond of you already; and mind you don't grieve her by
crying to-night. Try to be cheerful now; the travelling is at an end,
and you have nothing to do but rest and amuse yourself as you please.'
'Let me go to bed, then,' answered the boy, shrinking from Catherine's
salute; and he put his fingers to remove incipient tears.
'Come, come, there's a good child,' I whispered, leading him in. 'You'll
make her weep too--see how sorry she is for you!'
I do not know whether it was sorrow for him, but his cousin put on as sad
a countenance as himself, and returned to her father. All three entered,
and mounted to the library, where tea was laid ready. I proceeded to
remove Linton's cap and mantle, and placed him on a chair by the table;
but he was no sooner seated than he began to cry afresh. My master
inquired what was the matter.
'I can't sit on a chair,' sobbed the boy.
'Go to the sofa, then, and Ellen shall bring you some tea,' answered his
uncle patiently.
He had been greatly tried, during the journey, I felt convinced, by his
fretful ailing charge. Linton slowly trailed himself off, and lay down.
Cathy carried a footstool and her cup to his side. At first she sat
silent; but that could not last: she had resolved to make a pet of her
little cousin, as she would have him to be; and she commenced stroking
his curls, and kissing his cheek, and offering him tea in her saucer,
like a baby. This pleased him, for he was not much better: he dried his
eyes, and lightened into a faint smile.
'Oh, he'll do very well,' said the master to me, after watching them a
minute. 'Very well, if we can keep him, Ellen. The company of a child
of his own age will instil new spirit into him soon, and by wishing for
strength he'll gain it.'
'Ay, if we can keep him!' I mused to myself; and sore misgivings came
over me that there was slight hope of that. And then, I thought, how
ever will that weakling live at Wuthering Heights? Between his father
and Hareton, what playmates and instructors they'll be. Our doubts were
presently decided--even earlier than I expected. I had just taken the
children up-stairs, after tea was finished, and seen Linton asleep--he
would not suffer me to leave him till that was the case--I had come down,
and was standing by the table in the hall, lighting a bedroom candle for
Mr. Edgar, when a maid stepped out of the kitchen and informed me that
Mr. Heathcliff's servant Joseph was at the door, and wished to speak with
the master.
'I shall ask him what he wants first,' I said, in considerable
trepidation. 'A very unlikely hour to be troubling people, and the
instant they have returned from a long journey. I don't think the master
can see him.'
Joseph had advanced through the kitchen as I uttered these words, and now
presented himself in the hall. He was donned in his Sunday garments,
with his most sanctimonious and sourest face, and, holding his hat in one
hand, and his stick in the other, he proceeded to clean his shoes on the
mat.
'Good-evening, Joseph,' I said, coldly. 'What business brings you here
to-night?'
'It's Maister Linton I mun spake to,' he answered, waving me disdainfully
aside.
'Mr. Linton is going to bed; unless you have something particular to say,
I'm sure he won't hear it now,' I continued. 'You had better sit down in
there, and entrust your message to me.'
'Which is his rahm?' pursued the fellow, surveying the range of closed
doors.
I perceived he was bent on refusing my mediation, so very reluctantly I
went up to the library, and announced the unseasonable visitor, advising
that he should be dismissed till next day. Mr. Linton had no time to
empower me to do so, for Joseph mounted close at my heels, and, pushing
into the apartment, planted himself at the far side of the table, with
his two fists clapped on the head of his stick, and began in an elevated
tone, as if anticipating opposition--
'Hathecliff has sent me for his lad, and I munn't goa back 'bout him.'
Edgar Linton was silent a minute; an expression of exceeding sorrow
overcast his features: he would have pitied the child on his own account;
but, recalling Isabella's hopes and fears, and anxious wishes for her
son, and her commendations of him to his care, he grieved bitterly at the
prospect of yielding him up, and searched in his heart how it might be
avoided. No plan offered itself: the very exhibition of any desire to
keep him would have rendered the claimant more peremptory: there was
nothing left but to resign him. However, he was not going to rouse him
from his sleep.
'Tell Mr. Heathcliff,' he answered calmly, 'that his son shall come to
Wuthering Heights to-morrow. He is in bed, and too tired to go the
distance now. You may also tell him that the mother of Linton desired
him to remain under my guardianship; and, at present, his health is very
precarious.'
'Noa!' said Joseph, giving a thud with his prop on the floor, and
assuming an authoritative air. 'Noa! that means naught. Hathecliff maks
noa 'count o' t' mother, nor ye norther; but he'll heu' his lad; und I
mun tak' him--soa now ye knaw!'
'You shall not to-night!' answered Linton decisively. 'Walk down stairs
at once, and repeat to your master what I have said. Ellen, show him
down. Go--'
And, aiding the indignant elder with a lift by the arm, he rid the room
of him and closed the door.
'Varrah weell!' shouted Joseph, as he slowly drew off. 'To-morn, he's
come hisseln, and thrust _him_ out, if ye darr!' | Isabella died, and Edgar returned home with his half-orphaned nephew, Linton, a "pale, delicate, effeminate boy" with a "sickly peevishness" in his appearance. Cathy was excited to see her cousin, and took to babying him when she saw that he was sickly and childish. That very evening, Joseph came to demand the child on Heathcliff's behalf--Linton was, after all, Heathcliff's son. Ellen told him Edgar was asleep, but Joseph went into Edgar's room and insisted on taking Linton. Edgar wished to keep Linton at the Grange, but could not legally claim him, so he could only put it off until the next morning |
He became aware that the furnace roar of the battle was growing louder.
Great brown clouds had floated to the still heights of air before him.
The noise, too, was approaching. The woods filtered men and the fields
became dotted.
As he rounded a hillock, he perceived that the roadway was now a crying
mass of wagons, teams, and men. From the heaving tangle issued
exhortations, commands, imprecations. Fear was sweeping it all along.
The cracking whips bit and horses plunged and tugged. The white-topped
wagons strained and stumbled in their exertions like fat sheep.
The youth felt comforted in a measure by this sight. They were all
retreating. Perhaps, then, he was not so bad after all. He seated
himself and watched the terror-stricken wagons. They fled like soft,
ungainly animals. All the roarers and lashers served to help him to
magnify the dangers and horrors of the engagement that he might try to
prove to himself that the thing with which men could charge him was in
truth a symmetrical act. There was an amount of pleasure to him in
watching the wild march of this vindication.
Presently the calm head of a forward-going column of infantry appeared
in the road. It came swiftly on. Avoiding the obstructions gave it
the sinuous movement of a serpent. The men at the head butted mules
with their musket stocks. They prodded teamsters indifferent to all
howls. The men forced their way through parts of the dense mass by
strength. The blunt head of the column pushed. The raving teamsters
swore many strange oaths.
The commands to make way had the ring of a great importance in them.
The men were going forward to the heart of the din. They were to
confront the eager rush of the enemy. They felt the pride of their
onward movement when the remainder of the army seemed trying to dribble
down this road. They tumbled teams about with a fine feeling that it
was no matter so long as their column got to the front in time. This
importance made their faces grave and stern. And the backs of the
officers were very rigid.
As the youth looked at them the black weight of his woe returned to
him. He felt that he was regarding a procession of chosen beings. The
separation was as great to him as if they had marched with weapons of
flame and banners of sunlight. He could never be like them. He could
have wept in his longings.
He searched about in his mind for an adequate malediction for the
indefinite cause, the thing upon which men turn the words of final
blame. It--whatever it was--was responsible for him, he said. There
lay the fault.
The haste of the column to reach the battle seemed to the forlorn young
man to be something much finer than stout fighting. Heroes, he
thought, could find excuses in that long seething lane. They could
retire with perfect self-respect and make excuses to the stars.
He wondered what those men had eaten that they could be in such haste
to force their way to grim chances of death. As he watched his envy
grew until he thought that he wished to change lives with one of them.
He would have liked to have used a tremendous force, he said, throw off
himself and become a better. Swift pictures of himself, apart, yet in
himself, came to him--a blue desperate figure leading lurid charges
with one knee forward and a broken blade high--a blue, determined
figure standing before a crimson and steel assault, getting calmly
killed on a high place before the eyes of all. He thought of the
magnificent pathos of his dead body.
These thoughts uplifted him. He felt the quiver of war desire. In his
ears, he heard the ring of victory. He knew the frenzy of a rapid
successful charge. The music of the trampling feet, the sharp voices,
the clanking arms of the column near him made him soar on the red wings
of war. For a few moments he was sublime.
He thought that he was about to start for the front. Indeed, he saw a
picture of himself, dust-stained, haggard, panting, flying to the front
at the proper moment to seize and throttle the dark, leering witch of
calamity.
Then the difficulties of the thing began to drag at him. He hesitated,
balancing awkwardly on one foot.
He had no rifle; he could not fight with his hands, said he resentfully
to his plan. Well, rifles could be had for the picking. They were
extraordinarily profuse.
Also, he continued, it would be a miracle if he found his regiment.
Well, he could fight with any regiment.
He started forward slowly. He stepped as if he expected to tread upon
some explosive thing. Doubts and he were struggling.
He would truly be a worm if any of his comrades should see him
returning thus, the marks of his flight upon him. There was a reply
that the intent fighters did not care for what happened rearward saving
that no hostile bayonets appeared there. In the battle-blur his face
would, in a way be hidden, like the face of a cowled man.
But then he said that his tireless fate would bring forth, when the
strife lulled for a moment, a man to ask of him an explanation. In
imagination he felt the scrutiny of his companions as he painfully
labored through some lies.
Eventually, his courage expended itself upon these objections. The
debates drained him of his fire.
He was not cast down by this defeat of his plan, for, upon studying the
affair carefully, he could not but admit that the objections were very
formidable.
Furthermore, various ailments had begun to cry out. In their presence
he could not persist in flying high with the wings of war; they
rendered it almost impossible for him to see himself in a heroic light.
He tumbled headlong.
He discovered that he had a scorching thirst. His face was so dry and
grimy that he thought he could feel his skin crackle. Each bone of his
body had an ache in it, and seemingly threatened to break with each
movement. His feet were like two sores. Also, his body was calling
for food. It was more powerful than a direct hunger. There was a dull,
weight like feeling in his stomach, and, when he tried to walk, his
head swayed and he tottered. He could not see with distinctness. Small
patches of green mist floated before his vision.
While he had been tossed by many emotions, he had not been aware of
ailments. Now they beset him and made clamor. As he was at last
compelled to pay attention to them, his capacity for self-hate was
multiplied. In despair, he declared that he was not like those others.
He now conceded it to be impossible that he should ever become a hero.
He was a craven loon. Those pictures of glory were piteous things. He
groaned from his heart and went staggering off.
A certain mothlike quality within him kept him in the vicinity of the
battle. He had a great desire to see, and to get news. He wished to
know who was winning.
He told himself that, despite his unprecedented suffering, he had never
lost his greed for a victory, yet, he said, in a half-apologetic manner
to his conscience, he could not but know that a defeat for the army
this time might mean many favorable things for him. The blows of the
enemy would splinter regiments into fragments. Thus, many men of
courage, he considered, would be obliged to desert the colors and
scurry like chickens. He would appear as one of them. They would be
sullen brothers in distress, and he could then easily believe he had
not run any farther or faster than they. And if he himself could
believe in his virtuous perfection, he conceived that there would be
small trouble in convincing all others.
He said, as if in excuse for this hope, that previously the army had
encountered great defeats and in a few months had shaken off all blood
and tradition of them, emerging as bright and valiant as a new one;
thrusting out of sight the memory of disaster, and appearing with the
valor and confidence of unconquered legions. The shrilling voices of
the people at home would pipe dismally for a time, but various generals
were usually compelled to listen to these ditties. He of course felt no
compunctions for proposing a general as a sacrifice. He could not tell
who the chosen for the barbs might be, so he could center no direct
sympathy upon him. The people were afar and he did not conceive public
opinion to be accurate at long range. It was quite probable they would
hit the wrong man who, after he had recovered from his amazement would
perhaps spend the rest of his days in writing replies to the songs of
his alleged failure. It would be very unfortunate, no doubt, but in
this case a general was of no consequence to the youth.
In a defeat there would be a roundabout vindication of himself. He
thought it would prove, in a manner, that he had fled early because of
his superior powers of perception. A serious prophet upon predicting a
flood should be the first man to climb a tree. This would demonstrate
that he was indeed a seer.
A moral vindication was regarded by the youth as a very important
thing. Without salve, he could not, he thought, wear the sore badge of
his dishonor through life. With his heart continually assuring him
that he was despicable, he could not exist without making it, through
his actions, apparent to all men.
If the army had gone gloriously on he would be lost. If the din meant
that now his army's flags were tilted forward he was a condemned
wretch. He would be compelled to doom himself to isolation. If the
men were advancing, their indifferent feet were trampling upon his
chances for a successful life.
As these thoughts went rapidly through his mind, he turned upon them
and tried to thrust them away. He denounced himself as a villain. He
said that he was the most unutterably selfish man in existence. His
mind pictured the soldiers who would place their defiant bodies before
the spear of the yelling battle fiend, and as he saw their dripping
corpses on an imagined field, he said that he was their murderer.
Again he thought that he wished he was dead. He believed that he envied
a corpse. Thinking of the slain, he achieved a great contempt for some
of them, as if they were guilty for thus becoming lifeless. They might
have been killed by lucky chances, he said, before they had had
opportunities to flee or before they had been really tested. Yet they
would receive laurels from tradition. He cried out bitterly that their
crowns were stolen and their robes of glorious memories were shams.
However, he still said that it was a great pity he was not as they.
A defeat of the army had suggested itself to him as a means of escape
from the consequences of his fall. He considered, now, however, that
it was useless to think of such a possibility. His education had been
that success for that mighty blue machine was certain; that it would
make victories as a contrivance turns out buttons. He presently
discarded all his speculations in the other direction. He returned to
the creed of soldiers.
When he perceived again that it was not possible for the army to be
defeated, he tried to bethink him of a fine tale which he could take
back to his regiment, and with it turn the expected shafts of derision.
But, as he mortally feared these shafts, it became impossible for him
to invent a tale he felt he could trust. He experimented with many
schemes, but threw them aside one by one as flimsy. He was quick to
see vulnerable places in them all.
Furthermore, he was much afraid that some arrow of scorn might lay him
mentally low before he could raise his protecting tale.
He imagined the whole regiment saying: "Where's Henry Fleming? He run,
didn't 'e? Oh, my!" He recalled various persons who would be quite
sure to leave him no peace about it. They would doubtless question him
with sneers, and laugh at his stammering hesitation. In the next
engagement they would try to keep watch of him to discover when he
would run.
Wherever he went in camp, he would encounter insolent and lingeringly
cruel stares. As he imagined himself passing near a crowd of comrades,
he could hear some one say, "There he goes!"
Then, as if the heads were moved by one muscle, all the faces were
turned toward him with wide, derisive grins. He seemed to hear some
one make a humorous remark in a low tone. At it the others all crowed
and cackled. He was a slang phrase. | Soon after leaving the tattered soldier, Henry walks up a small hill which overlooks a road. He sees two groups of soldiers on the road, one in retreat and one heading to the front. As he watches the two groups, he continues thinking about his situation. On the one hand, he feels that the retreating soldiers have vindicated his decision to run. On the other hand, he sees the enthusiasm, purpose, and drive of the advancing soldiers, and this inspires him to think about joining their column. He begins mentally arguing whether to join the troops, including assessing that he has no rifle and that he won't able to find his regiment. Just as he overcomes those doubts and is about to rejoin the advancing force, a greater doubt grips him. He wonders how he will explain his disappearance to his comrades once he returns to the front, and the more he considers their reactions to any answers that he might give them, the more he realizes that he will be open to great criticism and ridicule. At the conclusion of this internal debate, his courage is depleted, doubt wins out, and his resolve to rejoin the advancing troops is lost. |
Elinor could not find herself in the carriage with Mrs. Jennings, and
beginning a journey to London under her protection, and as her guest,
without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance
with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and
disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure
only a few days before! But these objections had all, with that happy
ardour of youth which Marianne and her mother equally shared, been
overcome or overlooked; and Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt
of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful
expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of
Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless
her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would
engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same
animating object in view, the same possibility of hope. A short, a
very short time however must now decide what Willoughby's intentions
were; in all probability he was already in town. Marianne's eagerness
to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and Elinor was
resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character
which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her,
but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such
zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant,
before many meetings had taken place. Should the result of her
observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open
the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be
of a different nature--she must then learn to avoid every selfish
comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction
in the happiness of Marianne.
They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they
travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and
companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in
silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely
ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty
within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively
addressed to her sister. To atone for this conduct therefore, Elinor
took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had
assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings,
talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she
could; and Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all
possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and
enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their
own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring
salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets. They reached town by
three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey,
from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury
of a good fire.
The house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies
were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment. It
had formerly been Charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a
landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having
spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
As dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their
arrival, Elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her
mother, and sat down for that purpose. In a few moments Marianne did
the same. "I am writing home, Marianne," said Elinor; "had not you
better defer your letter for a day or two?"
"I am NOT going to write to my mother," replied Marianne, hastily, and
as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry. Elinor said no more; it
immediately struck her that she must then be writing to Willoughby; and
the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however
mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be
engaged. This conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her
pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
Marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no
more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with
eager rapidity. Elinor thought she could distinguish a large W in the
direction; and no sooner was it complete than Marianne, ringing the
bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed
for her to the two-penny post. This decided the matter at once.
Her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them
which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this
agitation increased as the evening drew on. She could scarcely eat any
dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed
anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
It was a great satisfaction to Elinor that Mrs. Jennings, by being much
engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing. The tea
things were brought in, and already had Marianne been disappointed more
than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly
heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, Elinor
felt secure of its announcing Willoughby's approach, and Marianne,
starting up, moved towards the door. Every thing was silent; this
could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few
steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned
into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard
him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that
instant she could not help exclaiming, "Oh, Elinor, it is Willoughby,
indeed it is!" and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms,
when Colonel Brandon appeared.
It was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately
left the room. Elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her
regard for Colonel Brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt
particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive
that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing
him. She instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even
observed Marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and
concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded
towards herself.
"Is your sister ill?" said he.
Elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of
head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which
she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
He heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect
himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of
his pleasure at seeing them in London, making the usual inquiries about
their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
In this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side,
they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts
of both engaged elsewhere. Elinor wished very much to ask whether
Willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by
any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something,
she asked if he had been in London ever since she had seen him last.
"Yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; I have
been once or twice at Delaford for a few days, but it has never been in
my power to return to Barton."
This, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to
her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with
the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to Mrs. Jennings, and she
was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the
subject than she had ever felt.
Mrs. Jennings soon came in. "Oh! Colonel," said she, with her usual
noisy cheerfulness, "I am monstrous glad to see you--sorry I could not
come before--beg your pardon, but I have been forced to look about me a
little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since I have been
at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do
after one has been away for any time; and then I have had Cartwright to
settle with-- Lord, I have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!
But pray, Colonel, how came you to conjure out that I should be in town
today?"
"I had the pleasure of hearing it at Mr. Palmer's, where I have been
dining."
"Oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house? How does
Charlotte do? I warrant you she is a fine size by this time."
"Mrs. Palmer appeared quite well, and I am commissioned to tell you,
that you will certainly see her to-morrow."
"Ay, to be sure, I thought as much. Well, Colonel, I have brought two
young ladies with me, you see--that is, you see but one of them now,
but there is another somewhere. Your friend, Miss Marianne, too--which
you will not be sorry to hear. I do not know what you and Mr.
Willoughby will do between you about her. Ay, it is a fine thing to be
young and handsome. Well! I was young once, but I never was very
handsome--worse luck for me. However, I got a very good husband, and I
don't know what the greatest beauty can do more. Ah! poor man! he has
been dead these eight years and better. But Colonel, where have you
been to since we parted? And how does your business go on? Come,
come, let's have no secrets among friends."
He replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but
without satisfying her in any. Elinor now began to make the tea, and
Marianne was obliged to appear again.
After her entrance, Colonel Brandon became more thoughtful and silent
than he had been before, and Mrs. Jennings could not prevail on him to
stay long. No other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were
unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
Marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
The disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the
expectation of what was to happen that day. They had not long finished
their breakfast before Mrs. Palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and
in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see
them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure
from meeting her mother or the Miss Dashwoods again. So surprised at
their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all
along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having
declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven
them if they had not come!
"Mr. Palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "What do you think
he said when he heard of your coming with Mama? I forget what it was
now, but it was something so droll!"
After an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat,
or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their
acquaintance on Mrs. Jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on
Mrs. Palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all
accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to
which Mrs. Jennings and Elinor readily consented, as having likewise
some purchases to make themselves; and Marianne, though declining it at
first was induced to go likewise.
Wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch. In Bond
Street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in
constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind
was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all
that interested and occupied the others. Restless and dissatisfied
every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article
of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received
no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and
could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of Mrs.
Palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new;
who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her
time in rapture and indecision.
It was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had
they entered the house than Marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when
Elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful
countenance, which declared that no Willoughby had been there.
"Has no letter been left here for me since we went out?" said she to
the footman who then entered with the parcels. She was answered in the
negative. "Are you quite sure of it?" she replied. "Are you certain
that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"
The man replied that none had.
"How very odd!" said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she
turned away to the window.
"How odd, indeed!" repeated Elinor within herself, regarding her sister
with uneasiness. "If she had not known him to be in town she would not
have written to him, as she did; she would have written to Combe Magna;
and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
Oh! my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement
between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in
so doubtful, so mysterious a manner! I long to inquire; and how will
MY interference be borne."
She determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued
many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in
the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious
enquiry into the affair.
Mrs. Palmer and two elderly ladies of Mrs. Jennings's intimate
acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with
them. The former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening
engagements; and Elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table
for the others. Marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she
would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her
own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure
to her than to Elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of
expectation and the pain of disappointment. She sometimes endeavoured
for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she
returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and
forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the
window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap. | Elinor is rather astonished by the situation she finds herself in - going to London with Mrs. Jennings, who she doesn't exactly count among her close acquaintances. Despite the oddness of this setup, Marianne and their mother are both thrilled about the trip, which will no doubt blissfully reunite Marianne with Willoughby. Marianne is as gentle as a lamb all the way to London, and totally without her usual obvious disdain for Mrs. Jennings. She's basically silent the whole way, except for occasional outbursts about the beauty of the landscape. Elinor, to make up for her sister's reticence, chats with Mrs. Jennings the whole way. They reach London after three days of travel, and find themselves in quite a satisfactory setting - Mrs. Jennings' house is pretty and stylish, and the girls are put up in Charlotte's old room. Upon their arrival, the group has some free time before dinner. Elinor decides to fill this time with writing a letter home; Marianne sits down to write as well, but when asks, denies that she's writing home. Elinor assumes that she's writing to Willoughby to announce their arrival. Marianne writes her letter in a rushed tizzy, and then sends it in the local post, which cements Elinor's thought that it's addressed to Willoughby. Marianne then spends the rest of the afternoon nervously awaiting a return letter. Elinor's glad Mrs. Jennings doesn't observe her sister's odd behavior. Finally a visitor arrives - Marianne's sure it's Willoughby! However, it turns out to be Colonel Brandon. Marianne rushes off, distressed. Elinor worried that the Colonel has been offended by her sister's rude behavior, particularly considering the fact that he's in love with Marianne. He asks if Marianne is ill, and Elinor lies to cover for her sister, saying that she's been unwell recently. Colonel Brandon politely makes small talk about London and Barton, saying that he's been home a couple of times, but never had enough time to visit. Elinor wants desperately to ask if Willoughby's in London, but feels that it would be too rude to ask the Colonel about his rival for Marianne's affections. Mrs. Jennings arrives and greets the Colonel enthusiastically. Apparently, he's been hanging out with Mr. and Mrs. Palmer, so the conversation tends that way for a while. Colonel Brandon stays to tea, withstanding Mrs. Jennings' nosy questions about his personal life. Marianne eventually reappears, and the Colonel seems particularly pensive. He leaves, and everyone heads off to bed. The next morning, Marianne seems to have recovered from her bad mood. Charlotte Palmer stops by to visit, and after a couple of hours of gossip, the ladies all go off shopping together. Marianne seems on the lookout for something, and is distracted the whole time they're out. The party returns home late in the morning, only to find that Willoughby has neither visited nor written back. Marianne is disappointed again, and Elinor is confused. If her sister and Willoughby are actually engaged, how come Marianne doesn't know where he is or what he's up to? And how come he won't write back to her? Elinor decides to ask her mother for advice if this odd behavior continues. Charlotte Palmer and two of Mrs. Jennings's friends join them for dinner. Marianne is distracted and socially useless the whole time. |
A few days after the engagement was announced Mrs. Honeychurch made Lucy
and her Fiasco come to a little garden-party in the neighbourhood, for
naturally she wanted to show people that her daughter was marrying a
presentable man.
Cecil was more than presentable; he looked distinguished, and it was
very pleasant to see his slim figure keeping step with Lucy, and his
long, fair face responding when Lucy spoke to him. People congratulated
Mrs. Honeychurch, which is, I believe, a social blunder, but it pleased
her, and she introduced Cecil rather indiscriminately to some stuffy
dowagers.
At tea a misfortune took place: a cup of coffee was upset over Lucy's
figured silk, and though Lucy feigned indifference, her mother feigned
nothing of the sort but dragged her indoors to have the frock treated
by a sympathetic maid. They were gone some time, and Cecil was left with
the dowagers. When they returned he was not as pleasant as he had been.
"Do you go to much of this sort of thing?" he asked when they were
driving home.
"Oh, now and then," said Lucy, who had rather enjoyed herself.
"Is it typical of country society?"
"I suppose so. Mother, would it be?"
"Plenty of society," said Mrs. Honeychurch, who was trying to remember
the hang of one of the dresses.
Seeing that her thoughts were elsewhere, Cecil bent towards Lucy and
said:
"To me it seemed perfectly appalling, disastrous, portentous."
"I am so sorry that you were stranded."
"Not that, but the congratulations. It is so disgusting, the way an
engagement is regarded as public property--a kind of waste place where
every outsider may shoot his vulgar sentiment. All those old women
smirking!"
"One has to go through it, I suppose. They won't notice us so much next
time."
"But my point is that their whole attitude is wrong. An
engagement--horrid word in the first place--is a private matter, and
should be treated as such."
Yet the smirking old women, however wrong individually, were racially
correct. The spirit of the generations had smiled through them,
rejoicing in the engagement of Cecil and Lucy because it promised the
continuance of life on earth. To Cecil and Lucy it promised something
quite different--personal love. Hence Cecil's irritation and Lucy's
belief that his irritation was just.
"How tiresome!" she said. "Couldn't you have escaped to tennis?"
"I don't play tennis--at least, not in public. The neighbourhood is
deprived of the romance of me being athletic. Such romance as I have is
that of the Inglese Italianato."
"Inglese Italianato?"
"E un diavolo incarnato! You know the proverb?"
She did not. Nor did it seem applicable to a young man who had spent a
quiet winter in Rome with his mother. But Cecil, since his engagement,
had taken to affect a cosmopolitan naughtiness which he was far from
possessing.
"Well," said he, "I cannot help it if they do disapprove of me. There
are certain irremovable barriers between myself and them, and I must
accept them."
"We all have our limitations, I suppose," said wise Lucy.
"Sometimes they are forced on us, though," said Cecil, who saw from her
remark that she did not quite understand his position.
"How?"
"It makes a difference doesn't it, whether we fully fence ourselves in,
or whether we are fenced out by the barriers of others?"
She thought a moment, and agreed that it did make a difference.
"Difference?" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, suddenly alert. "I don't see any
difference. Fences are fences, especially when they are in the same
place."
"We were speaking of motives," said Cecil, on whom the interruption
jarred.
"My dear Cecil, look here." She spread out her knees and perched her
card-case on her lap. "This is me. That's Windy Corner. The rest of the
pattern is the other people. Motives are all very well, but the fence
comes here."
"We weren't talking of real fences," said Lucy, laughing.
"Oh, I see, dear--poetry."
She leant placidly back. Cecil wondered why Lucy had been amused.
"I tell you who has no 'fences,' as you call them," she said, "and
that's Mr. Beebe."
"A parson fenceless would mean a parson defenceless."
Lucy was slow to follow what people said, but quick enough to detect
what they meant. She missed Cecil's epigram, but grasped the feeling
that prompted it.
"Don't you like Mr. Beebe?" she asked thoughtfully.
"I never said so!" he cried. "I consider him far above the average. I
only denied--" And he swept off on the subject of fences again, and was
brilliant.
"Now, a clergyman that I do hate," said she wanting to say something
sympathetic, "a clergyman that does have fences, and the most dreadful
ones, is Mr. Eager, the English chaplain at Florence. He was truly
insincere--not merely the manner unfortunate. He was a snob, and so
conceited, and he did say such unkind things."
"What sort of things?"
"There was an old man at the Bertolini whom he said had murdered his
wife."
"Perhaps he had."
"No!"
"Why 'no'?"
"He was such a nice old man, I'm sure."
Cecil laughed at her feminine inconsequence.
"Well, I did try to sift the thing. Mr. Eager would never come to the
point. He prefers it vague--said the old man had 'practically' murdered
his wife--had murdered her in the sight of God."
"Hush, dear!" said Mrs. Honeychurch absently.
"But isn't it intolerable that a person whom we're told to imitate
should go round spreading slander? It was, I believe, chiefly owing to
him that the old man was dropped. People pretended he was vulgar, but he
certainly wasn't that."
"Poor old man! What was his name?"
"Harris," said Lucy glibly.
"Let's hope that Mrs. Harris there warn't no sich person," said her
mother.
Cecil nodded intelligently.
"Isn't Mr. Eager a parson of the cultured type?" he asked.
"I don't know. I hate him. I've heard him lecture on Giotto. I hate him.
Nothing can hide a petty nature. I HATE him."
"My goodness gracious me, child!" said Mrs. Honeychurch. "You'll blow
my head off! Whatever is there to shout over? I forbid you and Cecil to
hate any more clergymen."
He smiled. There was indeed something rather incongruous in Lucy's moral
outburst over Mr. Eager. It was as if one should see the Leonardo on the
ceiling of the Sistine. He longed to hint to her that not here lay
her vocation; that a woman's power and charm reside in mystery, not
in muscular rant. But possibly rant is a sign of vitality: it mars the
beautiful creature, but shows that she is alive. After a moment, he
contemplated her flushed face and excited gestures with a certain
approval. He forebore to repress the sources of youth.
Nature--simplest of topics, he thought--lay around them. He praised the
pine-woods, the deep lasts of bracken, the crimson leaves that spotted
the hurt-bushes, the serviceable beauty of the turnpike road. The
outdoor world was not very familiar to him, and occasionally he went
wrong in a question of fact. Mrs. Honeychurch's mouth twitched when he
spoke of the perpetual green of the larch.
"I count myself a lucky person," he concluded, "When I'm in London I
feel I could never live out of it. When I'm in the country I feel the
same about the country. After all, I do believe that birds and trees and
the sky are the most wonderful things in life, and that the people who
live amongst them must be the best. It's true that in nine cases out of
ten they don't seem to notice anything. The country gentleman and
the country labourer are each in their way the most depressing of
companions. Yet they may have a tacit sympathy with the workings
of Nature which is denied to us of the town. Do you feel that, Mrs.
Honeychurch?"
Mrs. Honeychurch started and smiled. She had not been attending.
Cecil, who was rather crushed on the front seat of the victoria, felt
irritable, and determined not to say anything interesting again.
Lucy had not attended either. Her brow was wrinkled, and she still
looked furiously cross--the result, he concluded, of too much moral
gymnastics. It was sad to see her thus blind to the beauties of an
August wood.
"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height,'" he quoted, and
touched her knee with his own.
She flushed again and said: "What height?"
"'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height, What pleasure lives
in height (the shepherd sang). In height and in the splendour of the
hills?' Let us take Mrs. Honeychurch's advice and hate clergymen no
more. What's this place?"
"Summer Street, of course," said Lucy, and roused herself.
The woods had opened to leave space for a sloping triangular meadow.
Pretty cottages lined it on two sides, and the upper and third side was
occupied by a new stone church, expensively simple, a charming shingled
spire. Mr. Beebe's house was near the church. In height it scarcely
exceeded the cottages. Some great mansions were at hand, but they were
hidden in the trees. The scene suggested a Swiss Alp rather than the
shrine and centre of a leisured world, and was marred only by two ugly
little villas--the villas that had competed with Cecil's engagement,
having been acquired by Sir Harry Otway the very afternoon that Lucy had
been acquired by Cecil.
"Cissie" was the name of one of these villas, "Albert" of the other.
These titles were not only picked out in shaded Gothic on the garden
gates, but appeared a second time on the porches, where they followed
the semicircular curve of the entrance arch in block capitals. "Albert"
was inhabited. His tortured garden was bright with geraniums and
lobelias and polished shells. His little windows were chastely swathed
in Nottingham lace. "Cissie" was to let. Three notice-boards, belonging
to Dorking agents, lolled on her fence and announced the not surprising
fact. Her paths were already weedy; her pocket-handkerchief of a lawn
was yellow with dandelions.
"The place is ruined!" said the ladies mechanically. "Summer Street will
never be the same again."
As the carriage passed, "Cissie's" door opened, and a gentleman came out
of her.
"Stop!" cried Mrs. Honeychurch, touching the coachman with her parasol.
"Here's Sir Harry. Now we shall know. Sir Harry, pull those things down
at once!"
Sir Harry Otway--who need not be described--came to the carriage and
said "Mrs. Honeychurch, I meant to. I can't, I really can't turn out
Miss Flack."
"Am I not always right? She ought to have gone before the contract was
signed. Does she still live rent free, as she did in her nephew's time?"
"But what can I do?" He lowered his voice. "An old lady, so very vulgar,
and almost bedridden."
"Turn her out," said Cecil bravely.
Sir Harry sighed, and looked at the villas mournfully. He had had full
warning of Mr. Flack's intentions, and might have bought the plot before
building commenced: but he was apathetic and dilatory. He had known
Summer Street for so many years that he could not imagine it being
spoilt. Not till Mrs. Flack had laid the foundation stone, and the
apparition of red and cream brick began to rise did he take alarm.
He called on Mr. Flack, the local builder,--a most reasonable and
respectful man--who agreed that tiles would have made more artistic
roof, but pointed out that slates were cheaper. He ventured to differ,
however, about the Corinthian columns which were to cling like leeches
to the frames of the bow windows, saying that, for his part, he liked
to relieve the facade by a bit of decoration. Sir Harry hinted that a
column, if possible, should be structural as well as decorative.
Mr. Flack replied that all the columns had been ordered, adding, "and
all the capitals different--one with dragons in the foliage, another
approaching to the Ionian style, another introducing Mrs. Flack's
initials--everyone different." For he had read his Ruskin. He built
his villas according to his desire; and not until he had inserted an
immovable aunt into one of them did Sir Harry buy.
This futile and unprofitable transaction filled the knight with sadness
as he leant on Mrs. Honeychurch's carriage. He had failed in his duties
to the country-side, and the country-side was laughing at him as well.
He had spent money, and yet Summer Street was spoilt as much as ever.
All he could do now was to find a desirable tenant for "Cissie"--some
one really desirable.
"The rent is absurdly low," he told them, "and perhaps I am an easy
landlord. But it is such an awkward size. It is too large for the
peasant class and too small for any one the least like ourselves."
Cecil had been hesitating whether he should despise the villas or
despise Sir Harry for despising them. The latter impulse seemed the more
fruitful.
"You ought to find a tenant at once," he said maliciously. "It would be
a perfect paradise for a bank clerk."
"Exactly!" said Sir Harry excitedly. "That is exactly what I fear, Mr.
Vyse. It will attract the wrong type of people. The train service has
improved--a fatal improvement, to my mind. And what are five miles from
a station in these days of bicycles?"
"Rather a strenuous clerk it would be," said Lucy.
Cecil, who had his full share of mediaeval mischievousness, replied
that the physique of the lower middle classes was improving at a
most appalling rate. She saw that he was laughing at their harmless
neighbour, and roused herself to stop him.
"Sir Harry!" she exclaimed, "I have an idea. How would you like
spinsters?"
"My dear Lucy, it would be splendid. Do you know any such?"
"Yes; I met them abroad."
"Gentlewomen?" he asked tentatively.
"Yes, indeed, and at the present moment homeless. I heard from them last
week--Miss Teresa and Miss Catharine Alan. I'm really not joking. They
are quite the right people. Mr. Beebe knows them, too. May I tell them
to write to you?"
"Indeed you may!" he cried. "Here we are with the difficulty solved
already. How delightful it is! Extra facilities--please tell them they
shall have extra facilities, for I shall have no agents' fees. Oh,
the agents! The appalling people they have sent me! One woman, when
I wrote--a tactful letter, you know--asking her to explain her social
position to me, replied that she would pay the rent in advance. As
if one cares about that! And several references I took up were most
unsatisfactory--people swindlers, or not respectable. And oh, the
deceit! I have seen a good deal of the seamy side this last week. The
deceit of the most promising people. My dear Lucy, the deceit!"
She nodded.
"My advice," put in Mrs. Honeychurch, "is to have nothing to do with
Lucy and her decayed gentlewomen at all. I know the type. Preserve me
from people who have seen better days, and bring heirlooms with them
that make the house smell stuffy. It's a sad thing, but I'd far rather
let to someone who is going up in the world than to someone who has
come down."
"I think I follow you," said Sir Harry; "but it is, as you say, a very
sad thing."
"The Misses Alan aren't that!" cried Lucy.
"Yes, they are," said Cecil. "I haven't met them but I should say they
were a highly unsuitable addition to the neighbourhood."
"Don't listen to him, Sir Harry--he's tiresome."
"It's I who am tiresome," he replied. "I oughtn't to come with my
troubles to young people. But really I am so worried, and Lady Otway
will only say that I cannot be too careful, which is quite true, but no
real help."
"Then may I write to my Misses Alan?"
"Please!"
But his eye wavered when Mrs. Honeychurch exclaimed:
"Beware! They are certain to have canaries. Sir Harry, beware of
canaries: they spit the seed out through the bars of the cages and then
the mice come. Beware of women altogether. Only let to a man."
"Really--" he murmured gallantly, though he saw the wisdom of her
remark.
"Men don't gossip over tea-cups. If they get drunk, there's an end of
them--they lie down comfortably and sleep it off. If they're vulgar,
they somehow keep it to themselves. It doesn't spread so. Give me a
man--of course, provided he's clean."
Sir Harry blushed. Neither he nor Cecil enjoyed these open compliments
to their sex. Even the exclusion of the dirty did not leave them much
distinction. He suggested that Mrs. Honeychurch, if she had time, should
descend from the carriage and inspect "Cissie" for herself. She was
delighted. Nature had intended her to be poor and to live in such a
house. Domestic arrangements always attracted her, especially when they
were on a small scale.
Cecil pulled Lucy back as she followed her mother.
"Mrs. Honeychurch," he said, "what if we two walk home and leave you?"
"Certainly!" was her cordial reply.
Sir Harry likewise seemed almost too glad to get rid of them. He beamed
at them knowingly, said, "Aha! young people, young people!" and then
hastened to unlock the house.
"Hopeless vulgarian!" exclaimed Cecil, almost before they were out of
earshot.
"Oh, Cecil!"
"I can't help it. It would be wrong not to loathe that man."
"He isn't clever, but really he is nice."
"No, Lucy, he stands for all that is bad in country life. In London he
would keep his place. He would belong to a brainless club, and his wife
would give brainless dinner parties. But down here he acts the little
god with his gentility, and his patronage, and his sham aesthetics, and
everyone--even your mother--is taken in."
"All that you say is quite true," said Lucy, though she felt
discouraged. "I wonder whether--whether it matters so very much."
"It matters supremely. Sir Harry is the essence of that garden-party.
Oh, goodness, how cross I feel! How I do hope he'll get some vulgar
tenant in that villa--some woman so really vulgar that he'll notice
it. GENTLEFOLKS! Ugh! with his bald head and retreating chin! But let's
forget him."
This Lucy was glad enough to do. If Cecil disliked Sir Harry Otway and
Mr. Beebe, what guarantee was there that the people who really mattered
to her would escape? For instance, Freddy. Freddy was neither clever,
nor subtle, nor beautiful, and what prevented Cecil from saying, any
minute, "It would be wrong not to loathe Freddy"? And what would she
reply? Further than Freddy she did not go, but he gave her anxiety
enough. She could only assure herself that Cecil had known Freddy some
time, and that they had always got on pleasantly, except, perhaps,
during the last few days, which was an accident, perhaps.
"Which way shall we go?" she asked him.
Nature--simplest of topics, she thought--was around them. Summer Street
lay deep in the woods, and she had stopped where a footpath diverged
from the highroad.
"Are there two ways?"
"Perhaps the road is more sensible, as we're got up smart."
"I'd rather go through the wood," said Cecil, With that subdued
irritation that she had noticed in him all the afternoon. "Why is it,
Lucy, that you always say the road? Do you know that you have never once
been with me in the fields or the wood since we were engaged?"
"Haven't I? The wood, then," said Lucy, startled at his queerness, but
pretty sure that he would explain later; it was not his habit to leave
her in doubt as to his meaning.
She led the way into the whispering pines, and sure enough he did
explain before they had gone a dozen yards.
"I had got an idea--I dare say wrongly--that you feel more at home with
me in a room."
"A room?" she echoed, hopelessly bewildered.
"Yes. Or, at the most, in a garden, or on a road. Never in the real
country like this."
"Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean? I have never felt anything of the
sort. You talk as if I was a kind of poetess sort of person."
"I don't know that you aren't. I connect you with a view--a certain type
of view. Why shouldn't you connect me with a room?"
She reflected a moment, and then said, laughing:
"Do you know that you're right? I do. I must be a poetess after all.
When I think of you it's always as in a room. How funny!"
To her surprise, he seemed annoyed.
"A drawing-room, pray? With no view?"
"Yes, with no view, I fancy. Why not?"
"I'd rather," he said reproachfully, "that you connected me with the open
air."
She said again, "Oh, Cecil, whatever do you mean?"
As no explanation was forthcoming, she shook off the subject as too
difficult for a girl, and led him further into the wood, pausing every
now and then at some particularly beautiful or familiar combination of
the trees. She had known the wood between Summer Street and Windy Corner
ever since she could walk alone; she had played at losing Freddy in it,
when Freddy was a purple-faced baby; and though she had been to Italy,
it had lost none of its charm.
Presently they came to a little clearing among the pines--another tiny
green alp, solitary this time, and holding in its bosom a shallow pool.
She exclaimed, "The Sacred Lake!"
"Why do you call it that?"
"I can't remember why. I suppose it comes out of some book. It's only a
puddle now, but you see that stream going through it? Well, a good deal
of water comes down after heavy rains, and can't get away at once, and
the pool becomes quite large and beautiful. Then Freddy used to bathe
there. He is very fond of it."
"And you?"
He meant, "Are you fond of it?" But she answered dreamily, "I bathed
here, too, till I was found out. Then there was a row."
At another time he might have been shocked, for he had depths of
prudishness within him. But now? with his momentary cult of the fresh
air, he was delighted at her admirable simplicity. He looked at her as
she stood by the pool's edge. She was got up smart, as she phrased it,
and she reminded him of some brilliant flower that has no leaves of its
own, but blooms abruptly out of a world of green.
"Who found you out?"
"Charlotte," she murmured. "She was stopping with us.
Charlotte--Charlotte."
"Poor girl!"
She smiled gravely. A certain scheme, from which hitherto he had shrunk,
now appeared practical.
"Lucy!"
"Yes, I suppose we ought to be going," was her reply.
"Lucy, I want to ask something of you that I have never asked before."
At the serious note in his voice she stepped frankly and kindly towards
him.
"What, Cecil?"
"Hitherto never--not even that day on the lawn when you agreed to marry
me--"
He became self-conscious and kept glancing round to see if they were
observed. His courage had gone.
"Yes?"
"Up to now I have never kissed you."
She was as scarlet as if he had put the thing most indelicately.
"No--more you have," she stammered.
"Then I ask you--may I now?"
"Of course, you may, Cecil. You might before. I can't run at you, you
know."
At that supreme moment he was conscious of nothing but absurdities. Her
reply was inadequate. She gave such a business-like lift to her veil.
As he approached her he found time to wish that he could recoil. As
he touched her, his gold pince-nez became dislodged and was flattened
between them.
Such was the embrace. He considered, with truth, that it had been a
failure. Passion should believe itself irresistible. It should forget
civility and consideration and all the other curses of a refined nature.
Above all, it should never ask for leave where there is a right of way.
Why could he not do as any labourer or navvy--nay, as any young man
behind the counter would have done? He recast the scene. Lucy was
standing flowerlike by the water, he rushed up and took her in his
arms; she rebuked him, permitted him and revered him ever after for his
manliness. For he believed that women revere men for their manliness.
They left the pool in silence, after this one salutation. He waited for
her to make some remark which should show him her inmost thoughts. At
last she spoke, and with fitting gravity.
"Emerson was the name, not Harris."
"What name?"
"The old man's."
"What old man?"
"That old man I told you about. The one Mr. Eager was so unkind to."
He could not know that this was the most intimate conversation they had
ever had. | Mrs. Honeychurch, Lucy, and Cecil attend a neighborhood garden party. Cecil is disgusted by the experience, appalled by the niceties of country gentry. On the carriage ride home, he shares his feeling with Lucy, spinning out convoluted metaphors about fences between people. He is impressed by his own travel record, and seems to think of himself as some kind of Bohemian dynamo; Lucy is intelligent enough to know that a few quiet months in Rome with one's mother do not a rebel make. He implies that he does not like Mr. Beebe; while on the subject of unlikable clergymen, Lucy vehemently expresses her hatred for Mr. Eager, the chaplain of the British colony in Florence. She talks about how Mr. Eager slandered a certain friend of hers, and when Cecil and Mrs. Honeychurch ask the identity of this friend, Lucy lies. She says the man's name was Harris. Cecil makes naive comments romanticizing the countryside and its people. The carriage stops at Cissie and Albert, the two estates recently acquired by Sir Harry Otway. Sir Harry has bought the estates in part out of a sense of duty to the community; he wanted to fix the two homes up and find desirable tenants. While discussing the problem of tenants, Lucy suggests Miss Teresa and Miss Catherine Alan, the two spinster sisters whom she met at the Pension Bertolini. Mrs. Honeychurch and Cecil object to the idea of having two depressing old maids in the neighborhood, but Lucy stands by them and asks Sir Harry if she can write to them and ask if they are interested. He gives his consent. Cecil wishes to walk back to Windy Corner with Lucy instead of riding the carriage, and Mrs. Honeychurch grants her consent. Cecil complains about Sir Harry; although Lucy sees that there is truth in his criticisms, she wonders if these truths matter so much. Lucy begins to worry that Cecil will harshly judge the people close to her, like her mother and Freddy. Lucy is about to take the road home, but Cecil insists on walking through the woods. He complains that she seems most comfortable with him in a room, and after a moment's consideration Lucy realizes that he is right. In the woods, Lucy shows Cecil the Sacred Lake, a little pond where she and Freddy used to bathe. Cecil points out that he has never kissed her, and asks if he can kiss her now. She grants permission, and the kiss is embarrassing and awkward. There is absolutely no spontaneity or natural passion in the kiss. As they continue their walk, Lucy confesses to Cecil that the name of the old man whom Mr. Eager slandered was not Harris, but Emerson. He seems to think it a strange and unimportant comment for her to make, but the narrator tells us that it is the most intimate conversation that they have ever had. |
ACT III. SCENE I.
Britain. A hall in CYMBELINE'S palace
Enter in state, CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, and LORDS at one door,
and at another CAIUS LUCIUS and attendants
CYMBELINE. Now say, what would Augustus Caesar with us?
LUCIUS. When Julius Caesar- whose remembrance yet
Lives in men's eyes, and will to ears and tongues
Be theme and hearing ever- was in this Britain,
And conquer'd it, Cassibelan, thine uncle,
Famous in Caesar's praises no whit less
Than in his feats deserving it, for him
And his succession granted Rome a tribute,
Yearly three thousand pounds, which by thee lately
Is left untender'd.
QUEEN. And, to kill the marvel,
Shall be so ever.
CLOTEN. There be many Caesars
Ere such another Julius. Britain is
A world by itself, and we will nothing pay
For wearing our own noses.
QUEEN. That opportunity,
Which then they had to take from 's, to resume
We have again. Remember, sir, my liege,
The kings your ancestors, together with
The natural bravery of your isle, which stands
As Neptune's park, ribb'd and pal'd in
With rocks unscalable and roaring waters,
With sands that will not bear your enemies' boats
But suck them up to th' top-mast. A kind of conquest
Caesar made here; but made not here his brag
Of 'came, and saw, and overcame.' With shame-
The first that ever touch'd him- he was carried
From off our coast, twice beaten; and his shipping-
Poor ignorant baubles!- on our terrible seas,
Like egg-shells mov'd upon their surges, crack'd
As easily 'gainst our rocks; for joy whereof
The fam'd Cassibelan, who was once at point-
O, giglot fortune!- to master Caesar's sword,
Made Lud's Town with rejoicing fires bright
And Britons strut with courage.
CLOTEN. Come, there's no more tribute to be paid. Our kingdom
is
stronger than it was at that time; and, as I said, there is
no
moe such Caesars. Other of them may have crook'd noses; but
to
owe such straight arms, none.
CYMBELINE. Son, let your mother end.
CLOTEN. We have yet many among us can gripe as hard as
Cassibelan.
I do not say I am one; but I have a hand. Why tribute? Why
should
we pay tribute? If Caesar can hide the sun from us with a
blanket,
or put the moon in his pocket, we will pay him tribute for
light;
else, sir, no more tribute, pray you now.
CYMBELINE. You must know,
Till the injurious Romans did extort
This tribute from us, we were free. Caesar's ambition-
Which swell'd so much that it did almost stretch
The sides o' th' world- against all colour here
Did put the yoke upon's; which to shake off
Becomes a warlike people, whom we reckon
Ourselves to be.
CLOTEN. We do.
CYMBELINE. Say then to Caesar,
Our ancestor was that Mulmutius which
Ordain'd our laws- whose use the sword of Caesar
Hath too much mangled; whose repair and franchise
Shall, by the power we hold, be our good deed,
Though Rome be therefore angry. Mulmutius made our laws,
Who was the first of Britain which did put
His brows within a golden crown, and call'd
Himself a king.
LUCIUS. I am sorry, Cymbeline,
That I am to pronounce Augustus Caesar-
Caesar, that hath moe kings his servants than
Thyself domestic officers- thine enemy.
Receive it from me, then: war and confusion
In Caesar's name pronounce I 'gainst thee; look
For fury not to be resisted. Thus defied,
I thank thee for myself.
CYMBELINE. Thou art welcome, Caius.
Thy Caesar knighted me; my youth I spent
Much under him; of him I gather'd honour,
Which he to seek of me again, perforce,
Behoves me keep at utterance. I am perfect
That the Pannonians and Dalmatians for
Their liberties are now in arms, a precedent
Which not to read would show the Britons cold;
So Caesar shall not find them.
LUCIUS. Let proof speak.
CLOTEN. His majesty bids you welcome. Make pastime with us a
day or
two, or longer. If you seek us afterwards in other terms, you
shall find us in our salt-water girdle. If you beat us out of
it,
it is yours; if you fall in the adventure, our crows shall
fare
the better for you; and there's an end.
LUCIUS. So, sir.
CYMBELINE. I know your master's pleasure, and he mine;
All the remain is, welcome. Exeunt
SCENE II.
Britain. Another room in CYMBELINE'S palace
Enter PISANIO reading of a letter
PISANIO. How? of adultery? Wherefore write you not
What monsters her accuse? Leonatus!
O master, what a strange infection
Is fall'n into thy ear! What false Italian-
As poisonous-tongu'd as handed- hath prevail'd
On thy too ready hearing? Disloyal? No.
She's punish'd for her truth, and undergoes,
More goddess-like than wife-like, such assaults
As would take in some virtue. O my master!
Thy mind to her is now as low as were
Thy fortunes. How? that I should murder her?
Upon the love, and truth, and vows, which I
Have made to thy command? I, her? Her blood?
If it be so to do good service, never
Let me be counted serviceable. How look I
That I should seem to lack humanity
So much as this fact comes to? [Reads] 'Do't. The letter
That I have sent her, by her own command
Shall give thee opportunity.' O damn'd paper,
Black as the ink that's on thee! Senseless bauble,
Art thou a fedary for this act, and look'st
So virgin-like without? Lo, here she comes.
Enter IMOGEN
I am ignorant in what I am commanded.
IMOGEN. How now, Pisanio!
PISANIO. Madam, here is a letter from my lord.
IMOGEN. Who? thy lord? That is my lord- Leonatus?
O, learn'd indeed were that astronomer
That knew the stars as I his characters-
He'd lay the future open. You good gods,
Let what is here contain'd relish of love,
Of my lord's health, of his content; yet not
That we two are asunder- let that grieve him!
Some griefs are med'cinable; that is one of them,
For it doth physic love- of his content,
All but in that. Good wax, thy leave. Blest be
You bees that make these locks of counsel! Lovers
And men in dangerous bonds pray not alike;
Though forfeiters you cast in prison, yet
You clasp young Cupid's tables. Good news, gods!
[Reads]
'Justice and your father's wrath, should he take me in his
dominion, could not be so cruel to me as you, O the dearest
of
creatures, would even renew me with your eyes. Take notice
that I
am in Cambria, at Milford Haven. What your own love will out
of
this advise you, follow. So he wishes you all happiness that
remains loyal to his vow, and your increasing in love
LEONATUS POSTHUMUS.'
O for a horse with wings! Hear'st thou, Pisanio?
He is at Milford Haven. Read, and tell me
How far 'tis thither. If one of mean affairs
May plod it in a week, why may not I
Glide thither in a day? Then, true Pisanio-
Who long'st like me to see thy lord, who long'st-
O, let me 'bate!- but not like me, yet long'st,
But in a fainter kind- O, not like me,
For mine's beyond beyond!-say, and speak thick-
Love's counsellor should fill the bores of hearing
To th' smothering of the sense- how far it is
To this same blessed Milford. And by th' way
Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
T' inherit such a haven. But first of all,
How we may steal from hence; and for the gap
That we shall make in time from our hence-going
And our return, to excuse. But first, how get hence.
Why should excuse be born or ere begot?
We'll talk of that hereafter. Prithee speak,
How many score of miles may we well ride
'Twixt hour and hour?
PISANIO. One score 'twixt sun and sun,
Madam, 's enough for you, and too much too.
IMOGEN. Why, one that rode to's execution, man,
Could never go so slow. I have heard of riding wagers
Where horses have been nimbler than the sands
That run i' th' clock's behalf. But this is fool'ry.
Go bid my woman feign a sickness; say
She'll home to her father; and provide me presently
A riding suit, no costlier than would fit
A franklin's huswife.
PISANIO. Madam, you're best consider.
IMOGEN. I see before me, man. Nor here, nor here,
Nor what ensues, but have a fog in them
That I cannot look through. Away, I prithee;
Do as I bid thee. There's no more to say;
Accessible is none but Milford way. Exeunt
SCENE III.
Wales. A mountainous country with a cave
Enter from the cave BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS
BELARIUS. A goodly day not to keep house with such
Whose roof's as low as ours! Stoop, boys; this gate
Instructs you how t' adore the heavens, and bows you
To a morning's holy office. The gates of monarchs
Are arch'd so high that giants may jet through
And keep their impious turbans on without
Good morrow to the sun. Hail, thou fair heaven!
We house i' th' rock, yet use thee not so hardly
As prouder livers do.
GUIDERIUS. Hail, heaven!
ARVIRAGUS. Hail, heaven!
BELARIUS. Now for our mountain sport. Up to yond hill,
Your legs are young; I'll tread these flats. Consider,
When you above perceive me like a crow,
That it is place which lessens and sets off;
And you may then revolve what tales I have told you
Of courts, of princes, of the tricks in war.
This service is not service so being done,
But being so allow'd. To apprehend thus
Draws us a profit from all things we see,
And often to our comfort shall we find
The sharded beetle in a safer hold
Than is the full-wing'd eagle. O, this life
Is nobler than attending for a check,
Richer than doing nothing for a bribe,
Prouder than rustling in unpaid-for silk:
Such gain the cap of him that makes him fine,
Yet keeps his book uncross'd. No life to ours!
GUIDERIUS. Out of your proof you speak. We, poor unfledg'd,
Have never wing'd from view o' th' nest, nor know not
What air's from home. Haply this life is best,
If quiet life be best; sweeter to you
That have a sharper known; well corresponding
With your stiff age. But unto us it is
A cell of ignorance, travelling abed,
A prison for a debtor that not dares
To stride a limit.
ARVIRAGUS. What should we speak of
When we are old as you? When we shall hear
The rain and wind beat dark December, how,
In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse.
The freezing hours away? We have seen nothing;
We are beastly: subtle as the fox for prey,
Like warlike as the wolf for what we eat.
Our valour is to chase what flies; our cage
We make a choir, as doth the prison'd bird,
And sing our bondage freely.
BELARIUS. How you speak!
Did you but know the city's usuries,
And felt them knowingly- the art o' th' court,
As hard to leave as keep, whose top to climb
Is certain falling, or so slipp'ry that
The fear's as bad as falling; the toil o' th' war,
A pain that only seems to seek out danger
I' th'name of fame and honour, which dies i' th'search,
And hath as oft a sland'rous epitaph
As record of fair act; nay, many times,
Doth ill deserve by doing well; what's worse-
Must curtsy at the censure. O, boys, this story
The world may read in me; my body's mark'd
With Roman swords, and my report was once
First with the best of note. Cymbeline lov'd me;
And when a soldier was the theme, my name
Was not far off. Then was I as a tree
Whose boughs did bend with fruit; but in one night
A storm, or robbery, call it what you will,
Shook down my mellow hangings, nay, my leaves,
And left me bare to weather.
GUIDERIUS. Uncertain favour!
BELARIUS. My fault being nothing- as I have told you oft-
But that two villains, whose false oaths prevail'd
Before my perfect honour, swore to Cymbeline
I was confederate with the Romans. So
Follow'd my banishment, and this twenty years
This rock and these demesnes have been my world,
Where I have liv'd at honest freedom, paid
More pious debts to heaven than in all
The fore-end of my time. But up to th' mountains!
This is not hunters' language. He that strikes
The venison first shall be the lord o' th' feast;
To him the other two shall minister;
And we will fear no poison, which attends
In place of greater state. I'll meet you in the valleys.
Exeunt GUIDERIUS and ARVIRAGUS
How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature!
These boys know little they are sons to th' King,
Nor Cymbeline dreams that they are alive.
They think they are mine; and though train'd up thus meanly
I' th' cave wherein they bow, their thoughts do hit
The roofs of palaces, and nature prompts them
In simple and low things to prince it much
Beyond the trick of others. This Polydore,
The heir of Cymbeline and Britain, who
The King his father call'd Guiderius- Jove!
When on my three-foot stool I sit and tell
The warlike feats I have done, his spirits fly out
Into my story; say 'Thus mine enemy fell,
And thus I set my foot on's neck'; even then
The princely blood flows in his cheek, he sweats,
Strains his young nerves, and puts himself in posture
That acts my words. The younger brother, Cadwal,
Once Arviragus, in as like a figure
Strikes life into my speech, and shows much more
His own conceiving. Hark, the game is rous'd!
O Cymbeline, heaven and my conscience knows
Thou didst unjustly banish me! Whereon,
At three and two years old, I stole these babes,
Thinking to bar thee of succession as
Thou refts me of my lands. Euriphile,
Thou wast their nurse; they took thee for their mother,
And every day do honour to her grave.
Myself, Belarius, that am Morgan call'd,
They take for natural father. The game is up. Exit
SCENE IV.
Wales, near Milford Haven
Enter PISANIO and IMOGEN
IMOGEN. Thou told'st me, when we came from horse, the place
Was near at hand. Ne'er long'd my mother so
To see me first as I have now. Pisanio! Man!
Where is Posthumus? What is in thy mind
That makes thee stare thus? Wherefore breaks that sigh
From th' inward of thee? One but painted thus
Would be interpreted a thing perplex'd
Beyond self-explication. Put thyself
Into a haviour of less fear, ere wildness
Vanquish my staider senses. What's the matter?
Why tender'st thou that paper to me with
A look untender! If't be summer news,
Smile to't before; if winterly, thou need'st
But keep that count'nance still. My husband's hand?
That drug-damn'd Italy hath out-craftied him,
And he's at some hard point. Speak, man; thy tongue
May take off some extremity, which to read
Would be even mortal to me.
PISANIO. Please you read,
And you shall find me, wretched man, a thing
The most disdain'd of fortune.
IMOGEN. [Reads] 'Thy mistress, Pisanio, hath play'd the
strumpet in
my bed, the testimonies whereof lie bleeding in me. I speak
not
out of weak surmises, but from proof as strong as my grief
and as
certain as I expect my revenge. That part thou, Pisanio, must
act
for me, if thy faith be not tainted with the breach of hers.
Let
thine own hands take away her life; I shall give thee
opportunity
at Milford Haven; she hath my letter for the purpose; where,
if
thou fear to strike, and to make me certain it is done, thou
art
the pander to her dishonour, and equally to me disloyal.'
PISANIO. What shall I need to draw my sword? The paper
Hath cut her throat already. No, 'tis slander,
Whose edge is sharper than the sword, whose tongue
Outvenoms all the worms of Nile, whose breath
Rides on the posting winds and doth belie
All corners of the world. Kings, queens, and states,
Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave,
This viperous slander enters. What cheer, madam?
IMOGEN. False to his bed? What is it to be false?
To lie in watch there, and to think on him?
To weep twixt clock and clock? If sleep charge nature,
To break it with a fearful dream of him,
And cry myself awake? That's false to's bed,
Is it?
PISANIO. Alas, good lady!
IMOGEN. I false! Thy conscience witness! Iachimo,
Thou didst accuse him of incontinency;
Thou then look'dst like a villain; now, methinks,
Thy favour's good enough. Some jay of Italy,
Whose mother was her painting, hath betray'd him.
Poor I am stale, a garment out of fashion,
And for I am richer than to hang by th' walls
I must be ripp'd. To pieces with me! O,
Men's vows are women's traitors! All good seeming,
By thy revolt, O husband, shall be thought
Put on for villainy; not born where't grows,
But worn a bait for ladies.
PISANIO. Good madam, hear me.
IMOGEN. True honest men being heard, like false Aeneas,
Were, in his time, thought false; and Sinon's weeping
Did scandal many a holy tear, took pity
From most true wretchedness. So thou, Posthumus,
Wilt lay the leaven on all proper men:
Goodly and gallant shall be false and perjur'd
From thy great fail. Come, fellow, be thou honest;
Do thou thy master's bidding; when thou seest him,
A little witness my obedience. Look!
I draw the sword myself; take it, and hit
The innocent mansion of my love, my heart.
Fear not; 'tis empty of all things but grief;
Thy master is not there, who was indeed
The riches of it. Do his bidding; strike.
Thou mayst be valiant in a better cause,
But now thou seem'st a coward.
PISANIO. Hence, vile instrument!
Thou shalt not damn my hand.
IMOGEN. Why, I must die;
And if I do not by thy hand, thou art
No servant of thy master's. Against self-slaughter
There is a prohibition so divine
That cravens my weak hand. Come, here's my heart-
Something's afore't. Soft, soft! we'll no defence!-
Obedient as the scabbard. What is here?
The scriptures of the loyal Leonatus
All turn'd to heresy? Away, away,
Corrupters of my faith! you shall no more
Be stomachers to my heart. Thus may poor fools
Believe false teachers; though those that are betray'd
Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor
Stands in worse case of woe. And thou, Posthumus,
That didst set up my disobedience 'gainst the King
My father, and make me put into contempt the suits
Of princely fellows, shalt hereafter find
It is no act of common passage but
A strain of rareness; and I grieve myself
To think, when thou shalt be disedg'd by her
That now thou tirest on, how thy memory
Will then be pang'd by me. Prithee dispatch.
The lamp entreats the butcher. Where's thy knife?
Thou art too slow to do thy master's bidding,
When I desire it too.
PISANIO. O gracious lady,
Since I receiv'd command to do this busines
I have not slept one wink.
IMOGEN. Do't, and to bed then.
PISANIO. I'll wake mine eyeballs first.
IMOGEN. Wherefore then
Didst undertake it? Why hast thou abus'd
So many miles with a pretence? This place?
Mine action and thine own? our horses' labour?
The time inviting thee? the perturb'd court,
For my being absent?- whereunto I never
Purpose return. Why hast thou gone so far
To be unbent when thou hast ta'en thy stand,
Th' elected deer before thee?
PISANIO. But to win time
To lose so bad employment, in the which
I have consider'd of a course. Good lady,
Hear me with patience.
IMOGEN. Talk thy tongue weary- speak.
I have heard I am a strumpet, and mine ear,
Therein false struck, can take no greater wound,
Nor tent to bottom that. But speak.
PISANIO. Then, madam,
I thought you would not back again.
IMOGEN. Most like-
Bringing me here to kill me.
PISANIO. Not so, neither;
But if I were as wise as honest, then
My purpose would prove well. It cannot be
But that my master is abus'd. Some villain,
Ay, and singular in his art, hath done you both
This cursed injury.
IMOGEN. Some Roman courtezan!
PISANIO. No, on my life!
I'll give but notice you are dead, and send him
Some bloody sign of it, for 'tis commanded
I should do so. You shall be miss'd at court,
And that will well confirm it.
IMOGEN. Why, good fellow,
What shall I do the while? where bide? how live?
Or in my life what comfort, when I am
Dead to my husband?
PISANIO. If you'll back to th' court-
IMOGEN. No court, no father, nor no more ado
With that harsh, noble, simple nothing-
That Cloten, whose love-suit hath been to me
As fearful as a siege.
PISANIO. If not at court,
Then not in Britain must you bide.
IMOGEN. Where then?
Hath Britain all the sun that shines? Day, night,
Are they not but in Britain? I' th' world's volume
Our Britain seems as of it, but not in't;
In a great pool a swan's nest. Prithee think
There's livers out of Britain.
PISANIO. I am most glad
You think of other place. Th' ambassador,
Lucius the Roman, comes to Milford Haven
To-morrow. Now, if you could wear a mind
Dark as your fortune is, and but disguise
That which t' appear itself must not yet be
But by self-danger, you should tread a course
Pretty and full of view; yea, happily, near
The residence of Posthumus; so nigh, at least,
That though his actions were not visible, yet
Report should render him hourly to your ear
As truly as he moves.
IMOGEN. O! for such means,
Though peril to my modesty, not death on't,
I would adventure.
PISANIO. Well then, here's the point:
You must forget to be a woman; change
Command into obedience; fear and niceness-
The handmaids of all women, or, more truly,
Woman it pretty self- into a waggish courage;
Ready in gibes, quick-answer'd, saucy, and
As quarrelous as the weasel. Nay, you must
Forget that rarest treasure of your cheek,
Exposing it- but, O, the harder heart!
Alack, no remedy!- to the greedy touch
Of common-kissing Titan, and forget
Your laboursome and dainty trims wherein
You made great Juno angry.
IMOGEN. Nay, be brief;
I see into thy end, and am almost
A man already.
PISANIO. First, make yourself but like one.
Fore-thinking this, I have already fit-
'Tis in my cloak-bag- doublet, hat, hose, all
That answer to them. Would you, in their serving,
And with what imitation you can borrow
From youth of such a season, fore noble Lucius
Present yourself, desire his service, tell him
Wherein you're happy- which will make him know
If that his head have ear in music; doubtless
With joy he will embrace you; for he's honourable,
And, doubling that, most holy. Your means abroad-
You have me, rich; and I will never fail
Beginning nor supplyment.
IMOGEN. Thou art all the comfort
The gods will diet me with. Prithee away!
There's more to be consider'd; but we'll even
All that good time will give us. This attempt
I am soldier to, and will abide it with
A prince's courage. Away, I prithee.
PISANIO. Well, madam, we must take a short farewell,
Lest, being miss'd, I be suspected of
Your carriage from the court. My noble mistress,
Here is a box; I had it from the Queen.
What's in't is precious. If you are sick at sea
Or stomach-qualm'd at land, a dram of this
Will drive away distemper. To some shade,
And fit you to your manhood. May the gods
Direct you to the best!
IMOGEN. Amen. I thank thee. Exeunt severally
SCENE V.
Britain. CYMBELINE'S palace
Enter CYMBELINE, QUEEN, CLOTEN, LUCIUS, and LORDS
CYMBELINE. Thus far; and so farewell.
LUCIUS. Thanks, royal sir.
My emperor hath wrote; I must from hence,
And am right sorry that I must report ye
My master's enemy.
CYMBELINE. Our subjects, sir,
Will not endure his yoke; and for ourself
To show less sovereignty than they, must needs
Appear unkinglike.
LUCIUS. So, sir. I desire of you
A conduct overland to Milford Haven.
Madam, all joy befall your Grace, and you!
CYMBELINE. My lords, you are appointed for that office;
The due of honour in no point omit.
So farewell, noble Lucius.
LUCIUS. Your hand, my lord.
CLOTEN. Receive it friendly; but from this time forth
I wear it as your enemy.
LUCIUS. Sir, the event
Is yet to name the winner. Fare you well.
CYMBELINE. Leave not the worthy Lucius, good my lords,
Till he have cross'd the Severn. Happiness!
Exeunt LUCIUS and LORDS
QUEEN. He goes hence frowning; but it honours us
That we have given him cause.
CLOTEN. 'Tis all the better;
Your valiant Britons have their wishes in it.
CYMBELINE. Lucius hath wrote already to the Emperor
How it goes here. It fits us therefore ripely
Our chariots and our horsemen be in readiness.
The pow'rs that he already hath in Gallia
Will soon be drawn to head, from whence he moves
His war for Britain.
QUEEN. 'Tis not sleepy business,
But must be look'd to speedily and strongly.
CYMBELINE. Our expectation that it would be thus
Hath made us forward. But, my gentle queen,
Where is our daughter? She hath not appear'd
Before the Roman, nor to us hath tender'd
The duty of the day. She looks us like
A thing more made of malice than of duty;
We have noted it. Call her before us, for
We have been too slight in sufferance. Exit a MESSENGER
QUEEN. Royal sir,
Since the exile of Posthumus, most retir'd
Hath her life been; the cure whereof, my lord,
'Tis time must do. Beseech your Majesty,
Forbear sharp speeches to her; she's a lady
So tender of rebukes that words are strokes,
And strokes death to her.
Re-enter MESSENGER
CYMBELINE. Where is she, sir? How
Can her contempt be answer'd?
MESSENGER. Please you, sir,
Her chambers are all lock'd, and there's no answer
That will be given to th' loud of noise we make.
QUEEN. My lord, when last I went to visit her,
She pray'd me to excuse her keeping close;
Whereto constrain'd by her infirmity
She should that duty leave unpaid to you
Which daily she was bound to proffer. This
She wish'd me to make known; but our great court
Made me to blame in memory.
CYMBELINE. Her doors lock'd?
Not seen of late? Grant, heavens, that which I fear
Prove false! Exit
QUEEN. Son, I say, follow the King.
CLOTEN. That man of hers, Pisanio, her old servant,
I have not seen these two days.
QUEEN. Go, look after. Exit CLOTEN
Pisanio, thou that stand'st so for Posthumus!
He hath a drug of mine. I pray his absence
Proceed by swallowing that; for he believes
It is a thing most precious. But for her,
Where is she gone? Haply despair hath seiz'd her;
Or, wing'd with fervour of her love, she's flown
To her desir'd Posthumus. Gone she is
To death or to dishonour, and my end
Can make good use of either. She being down,
I have the placing of the British crown.
Re-enter CLOTEN
How now, my son?
CLOTEN. 'Tis certain she is fled.
Go in and cheer the King. He rages; none
Dare come about him.
QUEEN. All the better. May
This night forestall him of the coming day! Exit
CLOTEN. I love and hate her; for she's fair and royal,
And that she hath all courtly parts more exquisite
Than lady, ladies, woman. From every one
The best she hath, and she, of all compounded,
Outsells them all. I love her therefore; but
Disdaining me and throwing favours on
The low Posthumus slanders so her judgment
That what's else rare is chok'd; and in that point
I will conclude to hate her, nay, indeed,
To be reveng'd upon her. For when fools
Shall-
Enter PISANIO
Who is here? What, are you packing, sirrah?
Come hither. Ah, you precious pander! Villain,
Where is thy lady? In a word, or else
Thou art straightway with the fiends.
PISANIO. O good my lord!
CLOTEN. Where is thy lady? or, by Jupiter-
I will not ask again. Close villain,
I'll have this secret from thy heart, or rip
Thy heart to find it. Is she with Posthumus?
From whose so many weights of baseness cannot
A dram of worth be drawn.
PISANIO. Alas, my lord,
How can she be with him? When was she miss'd?
He is in Rome.
CLOTEN. Where is she, sir? Come nearer.
No farther halting! Satisfy me home
What is become of her.
PISANIO. O my all-worthy lord!
CLOTEN. All-worthy villain!
Discover where thy mistress is at once,
At the next word. No more of 'worthy lord'!
Speak, or thy silence on the instant is
Thy condemnation and thy death.
PISANIO. Then, sir,
This paper is the history of my knowledge
Touching her flight. [Presenting a letter]
CLOTEN. Let's see't. I will pursue her
Even to Augustus' throne.
PISANIO. [Aside] Or this or perish.
She's far enough; and what he learns by this
May prove his travel, not her danger.
CLOTEN. Humh!
PISANIO. [Aside] I'll write to my lord she's dead. O Imogen,
Safe mayst thou wander, safe return again!
CLOTEN. Sirrah, is this letter true?
PISANIO. Sir, as I think.
CLOTEN. It is Posthumus' hand; I know't. Sirrah, if thou
wouldst
not be a villain, but do me true service, undergo those
employments wherein I should have cause to use thee with a
serious industry- that is, what villainy soe'er I bid thee
do, to
perform it directly and truly- I would think thee an honest
man;
thou shouldst neither want my means for thy relief nor my
voice
for thy preferment.
PISANIO. Well, my good lord.
CLOTEN. Wilt thou serve me? For since patiently and constantly
thou
hast stuck to the bare fortune of that beggar Posthumus, thou
canst not, in the course of gratitude, but be a diligent
follower
of mine. Wilt thou serve me?
PISANIO. Sir, I will.
CLOTEN. Give me thy hand; here's my purse. Hast any of thy late
master's garments in thy possession?
PISANIO. I have, my lord, at my lodging, the same suit he wore
when
he took leave of my lady and mistress.
CLOTEN. The first service thou dost me, fetch that suit hither.
Let
it be thy first service; go.
PISANIO. I shall, my lord. Exit
CLOTEN. Meet thee at Milford Haven! I forgot to ask him one
thing;
I'll remember't anon. Even there, thou villain Posthumus,
will I
kill thee. I would these garments were come. She said upon a
time- the bitterness of it I now belch from my heart- that
she
held the very garment of Posthumus in more respect than my
noble
and natural person, together with the adornment of my
qualities.
With that suit upon my back will I ravish her; first kill
him,
and in her eyes. There shall she see my valour, which will
then
be a torment to her contempt. He on the ground, my speech of
insultment ended on his dead body, and when my lust hath
dined-
which, as I say, to vex her I will execute in the clothes
that
she so prais'd- to the court I'll knock her back, foot her
home
again. She hath despis'd me rejoicingly, and I'll be merry in
my
revenge.
Re-enter PISANIO, with the clothes
Be those the garments?
PISANIO. Ay, my noble lord.
CLOTEN. How long is't since she went to Milford Haven?
PISANIO. She can scarce be there yet.
CLOTEN. Bring this apparel to my chamber; that is the second
thing
that I have commanded thee. The third is that thou wilt be a
voluntary mute to my design. Be but duteous and true,
preferment
shall tender itself to thee. My revenge is now at Milford,
would
I had wings to follow it! Come, and be true. Exit
PISANIO. Thou bid'st me to my loss; for true to thee
Were to prove false, which I will never be,
To him that is most true. To Milford go,
And find not her whom thou pursuest. Flow, flow,
You heavenly blessings, on her! This fool's speed
Be cross'd with slowness! Labour be his meed! Exit
SCENE VI.
Wales. Before the cave of BELARIUS
Enter IMOGEN alone, in boy's clothes
IMOGEN. I see a man's life is a tedious one.
I have tir'd myself, and for two nights together
Have made the ground my bed. I should be sick
But that my resolution helps me. Milford,
When from the mountain-top Pisanio show'd thee,
Thou wast within a ken. O Jove! I think
Foundations fly the wretched; such, I mean,
Where they should be reliev'd. Two beggars told me
I could not miss my way. Will poor folks lie,
That have afflictions on them, knowing 'tis
A punishment or trial? Yes; no wonder,
When rich ones scarce tell true. To lapse in fulness
Is sorer than to lie for need; and falsehood
Is worse in kings than beggars. My dear lord!
Thou art one o' th' false ones. Now I think on thee
My hunger's gone; but even before, I was
At point to sink for food. But what is this?
Here is a path to't; 'tis some savage hold.
I were best not call; I dare not call. Yet famine,
Ere clean it o'erthrow nature, makes it valiant.
Plenty and peace breeds cowards; hardness ever
Of hardiness is mother. Ho! who's here?
If anything that's civil, speak; if savage,
Take or lend. Ho! No answer? Then I'll enter.
Best draw my sword; and if mine enemy
But fear the sword, like me, he'll scarcely look on't.
Such a foe, good heavens! Exit into the cave
Enter BELARIUS, GUIDERIUS, and ARVIRAGUS
BELARIUS. You, Polydore, have prov'd best woodman and
Are master of the feast. Cadwal and I
Will play the cook and servant; 'tis our match.
The sweat of industry would dry and die
But for the end it works to. Come, our stomachs
Will make what's homely savoury; weariness
Can snore upon the flint, when resty sloth
Finds the down pillow hard. Now, peace be here,
Poor house, that keep'st thyself!
GUIDERIUS. I am thoroughly weary.
ARVIRAGUS. I am weak with toil, yet strong in appetite.
GUIDERIUS. There is cold meat i' th' cave; we'll browse on that
Whilst what we have kill'd be cook'd.
BELARIUS. [Looking into the cave] Stay, come not in.
But that it eats our victuals, I should think
Here were a fairy.
GUIDERIUS. What's the matter, sir?
BELARIUS.. By Jupiter, an angel! or, if not,
An earthly paragon! Behold divineness
No elder than a boy!
Re-enter IMOGEN
IMOGEN. Good masters, harm me not.
Before I enter'd here I call'd, and thought
To have begg'd or bought what I have took. Good troth,
I have stol'n nought; nor would not though I had found
Gold strew'd i' th' floor. Here's money for my meat.
I would have left it on the board, so soon
As I had made my meal, and parted
With pray'rs for the provider.
GUIDERIUS. Money, youth?
ARVIRAGUS. All gold and silver rather turn to dirt,
As 'tis no better reckon'd but of those
Who worship dirty gods.
IMOGEN. I see you're angry.
Know, if you kill me for my fault, I should
Have died had I not made it.
BELARIUS. Whither bound?
IMOGEN. To Milford Haven.
BELARIUS. What's your name?
IMOGEN. Fidele, sir. I have a kinsman who
Is bound for Italy; he embark'd at Milford;
To whom being going, almost spent with hunger,
I am fall'n in this offence.
BELARIUS. Prithee, fair youth,
Think us no churls, nor measure our good minds
By this rude place we live in. Well encounter'd!
'Tis almost night; you shall have better cheer
Ere you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it.
Boys, bid him welcome.
GUIDERIUS. Were you a woman, youth,
I should woo hard but be your groom. In honesty
I bid for you as I'd buy.
ARVIRAGUS. I'll make't my comfort
He is a man. I'll love him as my brother;
And such a welcome as I'd give to him
After long absence, such is yours. Most welcome!
Be sprightly, for you fall 'mongst friends.
IMOGEN. 'Mongst friends,
If brothers. [Aside] Would it had been so that they
Had been my father's sons! Then had my prize
Been less, and so more equal ballasting
To thee, Posthumus.
BELARIUS. He wrings at some distress.
GUIDERIUS. Would I could free't!
ARVIRAGUS. Or I, whate'er it be,
What pain it cost, what danger! Gods!
BELARIUS. [Whispering] Hark, boys.
IMOGEN. [Aside] Great men,
That had a court no bigger than this cave,
That did attend themselves, and had the virtue
Which their own conscience seal'd them, laying by
That nothing-gift of differing multitudes,
Could not out-peer these twain. Pardon me, gods!
I'd change my sex to be companion with them,
Since Leonatus' false.
BELARIUS. It shall be so.
Boys, we'll go dress our hunt. Fair youth, come in.
Discourse is heavy, fasting; when we have supp'd,
We'll mannerly demand thee of thy story,
So far as thou wilt speak it.
GUIDERIUS. Pray draw near.
ARVIRAGUS. The night to th' owl and morn to th' lark less
welcome.
IMOGEN. Thanks, sir.
ARVIRAGUS. I pray draw near. Exeunt
SCENE VII.
Rome. A public place
Enter two ROMAN SENATORS and TRIBUNES
FIRST SENATOR. This is the tenour of the Emperor's writ:
That since the common men are now in action
'Gainst the Pannonians and Dalmatians,
And that the legions now in Gallia are
Full weak to undertake our wars against
The fall'n-off Britons, that we do incite
The gentry to this business. He creates
Lucius proconsul; and to you, the tribunes,
For this immediate levy, he commands
His absolute commission. Long live Caesar!
TRIBUNE. Is Lucius general of the forces?
SECOND SENATOR. Ay.
TRIBUNE. Remaining now in Gallia?
FIRST SENATOR. With those legions
Which I have spoke of, whereunto your levy
Must be supplyant. The words of your commission
Will tie you to the numbers and the time
Of their dispatch.
TRIBUNE. We will discharge our duty. Exeunt | Cymbeline and the Queen, who were informed of Caius Lucius's presence in Act Two, begin Act Three by meeting with the Roman ambassador. Lucius informs them that Rome is demanding an annual tribute of three thousand pounds, which the empire has levied ever since conquering Cymbeline's uncle, Cassibelan. Cymbeline tells Lucius that England will no longer pay the tribute, a sentiment that both the Queen and Cloten wax upon. Lucius regrets to inform them that they are then enemies of the Roman Empire, and that they should prepare for battle. Filled with national pride and convinced of Britain's strength, Cymbeline and his family look forward to doing so. Meanwhile, Pisanio has just received a letter from Posthumus ordering him to kill Imogen for her perceived infidelity. Imogen comes along as he is contemplating the injustice of Posthumus's command and asks Pisanio what he is reading. Pisanio gives her a second letter from Posthumus in which he tells her to meet him in Wales, at Milford-Haven. Imogen is elated and won't listen to Pisanio's attempts to dissuade her from taking the trip too rashly. Scene three takes us to Wales, where Belarius lives disguised under the name of Morgan with his two supposed sons, whom he calls Polydore and Cadmus and who are in actuality Guiderius and Arvigarus, Cymbeline's twin sons. Belarius was once a loyal general in the employ of Cymbeline who was falsely accused of treason. Before being banished, he stole the twin heirs, Guiderius and Arvigarus, from Cymbeline with the help of their nurse, Euriphile. These boys have been raised as Polydore and Cadmus ever since, considering "Morgan" their father and the nurse, lately deceased, their mother. Belarius notes nonetheless that the boys exhibit royal spirits, inexplicable courage, and a natural thirst to learn of the world of the court. Nearby, around Milford-Haven, Imogen demands to know where Posthumus is. By way of explanation, Pisanio shows her Posthumus's letter, which accuses her of infidelity and orders him to kill her. Imogen is devastated by the news that Posthumus has so little faith in her. She insists that Pisanio obey his master's order to kill her, but he adamantly refuses. Instead, he tells Imogen of his plan to disguise her as a man and have her taken on as Lucius' page. Imogen agrees to the plan. Back in England, Lucius asks for an escort to Milford-Haven and announces that thus afterward Cymbeline and Rome shall be considered enemies. Cymbeline gives him his escort and abruptly turns from his dealings with Rome to his concerns about Imogen, whom he thinks has been hiding in her room all day. Cloten discovers that she is missing, and Pisanio soon enters, only to be confronted with Cloten's rage at this development. Pisanio gives Cymbeline Posthumus's letter to Imogen, saying they should meet at Milford-Haven, meanwhile noting to himself that he'll write Posthumus and tell him that he has killed Imogen. Cloten, still obsessed with Imogen's comment that he is less worthy than Posthumus's meanest garment, forces Pisanio to give him a suit of Posthumus's clothes, planning to kill Posthumus and rape Imogen while wearing her beloved's clothes during their supposed rendezvous at Milford-Haven. Imogen has, in the meantime, adapted to her new male identity, calling herself Fidele. Starving, she comes upon Belarius's cave, and eats the food that she finds on the table. Belarius and his "sons" return from a hunt to find a stranger in their home, but after a confrontation they realize that all parties are quite civilized. In fact, Guiderius and Arvigarus immediately sense something noble about Imogen-as she does about them-and declare that if she were a woman, they would "woo hard." In a short closing scene, the Roman Senators and Tribunes indicate that Lucius will soon lead an army of Roman gentry against England. |
It was a chill, damp, windy night, when the Jew: buttoning his
great-coat tight round his shrivelled body, and pulling the collar up
over his ears so as completely to obscure the lower part of his face:
emerged from his den. He paused on the step as the door was locked and
chained behind him; and having listened while the boys made all secure,
and until their retreating footsteps were no longer audible, slunk down
the street as quickly as he could.
The house to which Oliver had been conveyed, was in the neighborhood of
Whitechapel. The Jew stopped for an instant at the corner of the
street; and, glancing suspiciously round, crossed the road, and struck
off in the direction of the Spitalfields.
The mud lay thick upon the stones, and a black mist hung over the
streets; the rain fell sluggishly down, and everything felt cold and
clammy to the touch. It seemed just the night when it befitted such a
being as the Jew to be abroad. As he glided stealthily along, creeping
beneath the shelter of the walls and doorways, the hideous old man
seemed like some loathsome reptile, engendered in the slime and
darkness through which he moved: crawling forth, by night, in search of
some rich offal for a meal.
He kept on his course, through many winding and narrow ways, until he
reached Bethnal Green; then, turning suddenly off to the left, he soon
became involved in a maze of the mean and dirty streets which abound in
that close and densely-populated quarter.
The Jew was evidently too familiar with the ground he traversed to be
at all bewildered, either by the darkness of the night, or the
intricacies of the way. He hurried through several alleys and streets,
and at length turned into one, lighted only by a single lamp at the
farther end. At the door of a house in this street, he knocked; having
exchanged a few muttered words with the person who opened it, he walked
upstairs.
A dog growled as he touched the handle of a room-door; and a man's
voice demanded who was there.
'Only me, Bill; only me, my dear,' said the Jew looking in.
'Bring in your body then,' said Sikes. 'Lie down, you stupid brute!
Don't you know the devil when he's got a great-coat on?'
Apparently, the dog had been somewhat deceived by Mr. Fagin's outer
garment; for as the Jew unbuttoned it, and threw it over the back of a
chair, he retired to the corner from which he had risen: wagging his
tail as he went, to show that he was as well satisfied as it was in his
nature to be.
'Well!' said Sikes.
'Well, my dear,' replied the Jew.--'Ah! Nancy.'
The latter recognition was uttered with just enough of embarrassment to
imply a doubt of its reception; for Mr. Fagin and his young friend had
not met, since she had interfered in behalf of Oliver. All doubts upon
the subject, if he had any, were speedily removed by the young lady's
behaviour. She took her feet off the fender, pushed back her chair,
and bade Fagin draw up his, without saying more about it: for it was a
cold night, and no mistake.
'It is cold, Nancy dear,' said the Jew, as he warmed his skinny hands
over the fire. 'It seems to go right through one,' added the old man,
touching his side.
'It must be a piercer, if it finds its way through your heart,' said
Mr. Sikes. 'Give him something to drink, Nancy. Burn my body, make
haste! It's enough to turn a man ill, to see his lean old carcase
shivering in that way, like a ugly ghost just rose from the grave.'
Nancy quickly brought a bottle from a cupboard, in which there were
many: which, to judge from the diversity of their appearance, were
filled with several kinds of liquids. Sikes pouring out a glass of
brandy, bade the Jew drink it off.
'Quite enough, quite, thankye, Bill,' replied the Jew, putting down the
glass after just setting his lips to it.
'What! You're afraid of our getting the better of you, are you?'
inquired Sikes, fixing his eyes on the Jew. 'Ugh!'
With a hoarse grunt of contempt, Mr. Sikes seized the glass, and threw
the remainder of its contents into the ashes: as a preparatory ceremony
to filling it again for himself: which he did at once.
The Jew glanced round the room, as his companion tossed down the second
glassful; not in curiousity, for he had seen it often before; but in a
restless and suspicious manner habitual to him. It was a meanly
furnished apartment, with nothing but the contents of the closet to
induce the belief that its occupier was anything but a working man; and
with no more suspicious articles displayed to view than two or three
heavy bludgeons which stood in a corner, and a 'life-preserver' that
hung over the chimney-piece.
'There,' said Sikes, smacking his lips. 'Now I'm ready.'
'For business?' inquired the Jew.
'For business,' replied Sikes; 'so say what you've got to say.'
'About the crib at Chertsey, Bill?' said the Jew, drawing his chair
forward, and speaking in a very low voice.
'Yes. Wot about it?' inquired Sikes.
'Ah! you know what I mean, my dear,' said the Jew. 'He knows what I
mean, Nancy; don't he?'
'No, he don't,' sneered Mr. Sikes. 'Or he won't, and that's the same
thing. Speak out, and call things by their right names; don't sit
there, winking and blinking, and talking to me in hints, as if you
warn't the very first that thought about the robbery. Wot d'ye mean?'
'Hush, Bill, hush!' said the Jew, who had in vain attempted to stop
this burst of indignation; 'somebody will hear us, my dear. Somebody
will hear us.'
'Let 'em hear!' said Sikes; 'I don't care.' But as Mr. Sikes DID care,
on reflection, he dropped his voice as he said the words, and grew
calmer.
'There, there,' said the Jew, coaxingly. 'It was only my caution,
nothing more. Now, my dear, about that crib at Chertsey; when is it to
be done, Bill, eh? When is it to be done? Such plate, my dear, such
plate!' said the Jew: rubbing his hands, and elevating his eyebrows in
a rapture of anticipation.
'Not at all,' replied Sikes coldly.
'Not to be done at all!' echoed the Jew, leaning back in his chair.
'No, not at all,' rejoined Sikes. 'At least it can't be a put-up job,
as we expected.'
'Then it hasn't been properly gone about,' said the Jew, turning pale
with anger. 'Don't tell me!'
'But I will tell you,' retorted Sikes. 'Who are you that's not to be
told? I tell you that Toby Crackit has been hanging about the place
for a fortnight, and he can't get one of the servants in line.'
'Do you mean to tell me, Bill,' said the Jew: softening as the other
grew heated: 'that neither of the two men in the house can be got
over?'
'Yes, I do mean to tell you so,' replied Sikes. 'The old lady has had
'em these twenty years; and if you were to give 'em five hundred pound,
they wouldn't be in it.'
'But do you mean to say, my dear,' remonstrated the Jew, 'that the
women can't be got over?'
'Not a bit of it,' replied Sikes.
'Not by flash Toby Crackit?' said the Jew incredulously. 'Think what
women are, Bill,'
'No; not even by flash Toby Crackit,' replied Sikes. 'He says he's
worn sham whiskers, and a canary waistcoat, the whole blessed time he's
been loitering down there, and it's all of no use.'
'He should have tried mustachios and a pair of military trousers, my
dear,' said the Jew.
'So he did,' rejoined Sikes, 'and they warn't of no more use than the
other plant.'
The Jew looked blank at this information. After ruminating for some
minutes with his chin sunk on his breast, he raised his head and said,
with a deep sigh, that if flash Toby Crackit reported aright, he feared
the game was up.
'And yet,' said the old man, dropping his hands on his knees, 'it's a
sad thing, my dear, to lose so much when we had set our hearts upon it.'
'So it is,' said Mr. Sikes. 'Worse luck!'
A long silence ensued; during which the Jew was plunged in deep
thought, with his face wrinkled into an expression of villainy
perfectly demoniacal. Sikes eyed him furtively from time to time.
Nancy, apparently fearful of irritating the housebreaker, sat with her
eyes fixed upon the fire, as if she had been deaf to all that passed.
'Fagin,' said Sikes, abruptly breaking the stillness that prevailed;
'is it worth fifty shiners extra, if it's safely done from the outside?'
'Yes,' said the Jew, as suddenly rousing himself.
'Is it a bargain?' inquired Sikes.
'Yes, my dear, yes,' rejoined the Jew; his eyes glistening, and every
muscle in his face working, with the excitement that the inquiry had
awakened.
'Then,' said Sikes, thrusting aside the Jew's hand, with some disdain,
'let it come off as soon as you like. Toby and me were over the
garden-wall the night afore last, sounding the panels of the door and
shutters. The crib's barred up at night like a jail; but there's one
part we can crack, safe and softly.'
'Which is that, Bill?' asked the Jew eagerly.
'Why,' whispered Sikes, 'as you cross the lawn--'
'Yes?' said the Jew, bending his head forward, with his eyes almost
starting out of it.
'Umph!' cried Sikes, stopping short, as the girl, scarcely moving her
head, looked suddenly round, and pointed for an instant to the Jew's
face. 'Never mind which part it is. You can't do it without me, I
know; but it's best to be on the safe side when one deals with you.'
'As you like, my dear, as you like' replied the Jew. 'Is there no help
wanted, but yours and Toby's?'
'None,' said Sikes. 'Cept a centre-bit and a boy. The first we've
both got; the second you must find us.'
'A boy!' exclaimed the Jew. 'Oh! then it's a panel, eh?'
'Never mind wot it is!' replied Sikes. 'I want a boy, and he musn't be
a big 'un. Lord!' said Mr. Sikes, reflectively, 'if I'd only got that
young boy of Ned, the chimbley-sweeper's! He kept him small on
purpose, and let him out by the job. But the father gets lagged; and
then the Juvenile Delinquent Society comes, and takes the boy away from
a trade where he was earning money, teaches him to read and write, and
in time makes a 'prentice of him. And so they go on,' said Mr. Sikes,
his wrath rising with the recollection of his wrongs, 'so they go on;
and, if they'd got money enough (which it's a Providence they haven't,)
we shouldn't have half a dozen boys left in the whole trade, in a year
or two.'
'No more we should,' acquiesced the Jew, who had been considering
during this speech, and had only caught the last sentence. 'Bill!'
'What now?' inquired Sikes.
The Jew nodded his head towards Nancy, who was still gazing at the
fire; and intimated, by a sign, that he would have her told to leave
the room. Sikes shrugged his shoulders impatiently, as if he thought
the precaution unnecessary; but complied, nevertheless, by requesting
Miss Nancy to fetch him a jug of beer.
'You don't want any beer,' said Nancy, folding her arms, and retaining
her seat very composedly.
'I tell you I do!' replied Sikes.
'Nonsense,' rejoined the girl coolly, 'Go on, Fagin. I know what he's
going to say, Bill; he needn't mind me.'
The Jew still hesitated. Sikes looked from one to the other in some
surprise.
'Why, you don't mind the old girl, do you, Fagin?' he asked at length.
'You've known her long enough to trust her, or the Devil's in it. She
ain't one to blab. Are you Nancy?'
'_I_ should think not!' replied the young lady: drawing her chair up
to the table, and putting her elbows upon it.
'No, no, my dear, I know you're not,' said the Jew; 'but--' and again
the old man paused.
'But wot?' inquired Sikes.
'I didn't know whether she mightn't p'r'aps be out of sorts, you know,
my dear, as she was the other night,' replied the Jew.
At this confession, Miss Nancy burst into a loud laugh; and, swallowing
a glass of brandy, shook her head with an air of defiance, and burst
into sundry exclamations of 'Keep the game a-going!' 'Never say die!'
and the like. These seemed to have the effect of re-assuring both
gentlemen; for the Jew nodded his head with a satisfied air, and
resumed his seat: as did Mr. Sikes likewise.
'Now, Fagin,' said Nancy with a laugh. 'Tell Bill at once, about
Oliver!'
'Ha! you're a clever one, my dear: the sharpest girl I ever saw!' said
the Jew, patting her on the neck. 'It WAS about Oliver I was going to
speak, sure enough. Ha! ha! ha!'
'What about him?' demanded Sikes.
'He's the boy for you, my dear,' replied the Jew in a hoarse whisper;
laying his finger on the side of his nose, and grinning frightfully.
'He!' exclaimed Sikes.
'Have him, Bill!' said Nancy. 'I would, if I was in your place. He
mayn't be so much up, as any of the others; but that's not what you
want, if he's only to open a door for you. Depend upon it he's a safe
one, Bill.'
'I know he is,' rejoined Fagin. 'He's been in good training these last
few weeks, and it's time he began to work for his bread. Besides, the
others are all too big.'
'Well, he is just the size I want,' said Mr. Sikes, ruminating.
'And will do everything you want, Bill, my dear,' interposed the Jew;
'he can't help himself. That is, if you frighten him enough.'
'Frighten him!' echoed Sikes. 'It'll be no sham frightening, mind you.
If there's anything queer about him when we once get into the work; in
for a penny, in for a pound. You won't see him alive again, Fagin.
Think of that, before you send him. Mark my words!' said the robber,
poising a crowbar, which he had drawn from under the bedstead.
'I've thought of it all,' said the Jew with energy. 'I've--I've had my
eye upon him, my dears, close--close. Once let him feel that he is one
of us; once fill his mind with the idea that he has been a thief; and
he's ours! Ours for his life. Oho! It couldn't have come about
better! The old man crossed his arms upon his breast; and, drawing his
head and shoulders into a heap, literally hugged himself for joy.
'Ours!' said Sikes. 'Yours, you mean.'
'Perhaps I do, my dear,' said the Jew, with a shrill chuckle. 'Mine, if
you like, Bill.'
'And wot,' said Sikes, scowling fiercely on his agreeable friend, 'wot
makes you take so much pains about one chalk-faced kid, when you know
there are fifty boys snoozing about Common Garden every night, as you
might pick and choose from?'
'Because they're of no use to me, my dear,' replied the Jew, with some
confusion, 'not worth the taking. Their looks convict 'em when they
get into trouble, and I lose 'em all. With this boy, properly managed,
my dears, I could do what I couldn't with twenty of them. Besides,'
said the Jew, recovering his self-possession, 'he has us now if he
could only give us leg-bail again; and he must be in the same boat with
us. Never mind how he came there; it's quite enough for my power over
him that he was in a robbery; that's all I want. Now, how much better
this is, than being obliged to put the poor leetle boy out of the
way--which would be dangerous, and we should lose by it besides.'
'When is it to be done?' asked Nancy, stopping some turbulent
exclamation on the part of Mr. Sikes, expressive of the disgust with
which he received Fagin's affectation of humanity.
'Ah, to be sure,' said the Jew; 'when is it to be done, Bill?'
'I planned with Toby, the night arter to-morrow,' rejoined Sikes in a
surly voice, 'if he heerd nothing from me to the contrairy.'
'Good,' said the Jew; 'there's no moon.'
'No,' rejoined Sikes.
'It's all arranged about bringing off the swag, is it?' asked the Jew.
Sikes nodded.
'And about--'
'Oh, ah, it's all planned,' rejoined Sikes, interrupting him. 'Never
mind particulars. You'd better bring the boy here to-morrow night. I
shall get off the stone an hour arter daybreak. Then you hold your
tongue, and keep the melting-pot ready, and that's all you'll have to
do.'
After some discussion, in which all three took an active part, it was
decided that Nancy should repair to the Jew's next evening when the
night had set in, and bring Oliver away with her; Fagin craftily
observing, that, if he evinced any disinclination to the task, he would
be more willing to accompany the girl who had so recently interfered in
his behalf, than anybody else. It was also solemnly arranged that poor
Oliver should, for the purposes of the contemplated expedition, be
unreservedly consigned to the care and custody of Mr. William Sikes;
and further, that the said Sikes should deal with him as he thought
fit; and should not be held responsible by the Jew for any mischance or
evil that might be necessary to visit him: it being understood that, to
render the compact in this respect binding, any representations made by
Mr. Sikes on his return should be required to be confirmed and
corroborated, in all important particulars, by the testimony of flash
Toby Crackit.
These preliminaries adjusted, Mr. Sikes proceeded to drink brandy at a
furious rate, and to flourish the crowbar in an alarming manner;
yelling forth, at the same time, most unmusical snatches of song,
mingled with wild execrations. At length, in a fit of professional
enthusiasm, he insisted upon producing his box of housebreaking tools:
which he had no sooner stumbled in with, and opened for the purpose of
explaining the nature and properties of the various implements it
contained, and the peculiar beauties of their construction, than he
fell over the box upon the floor, and went to sleep where he fell.
'Good-night, Nancy,' said the Jew, muffling himself up as before.
'Good-night.'
Their eyes met, and the Jew scrutinised her, narrowly. There was no
flinching about the girl. She was as true and earnest in the matter as
Toby Crackit himself could be.
The Jew again bade her good-night, and, bestowing a sly kick upon the
prostrate form of Mr. Sikes while her back was turned, groped
downstairs.
'Always the way!' muttered the Jew to himself as he turned homeward.
'The worst of these women is, that a very little thing serves to call
up some long-forgotten feeling; and, the best of them is, that it never
lasts. Ha! ha! The man against the child, for a bag of gold!'
Beguiling the time with these pleasant reflections, Mr. Fagin wended
his way, through mud and mire, to his gloomy abode: where the Dodger
was sitting up, impatiently awaiting his return.
'Is Oliver a-bed? I want to speak to him,' was his first remark as
they descended the stairs.
'Hours ago,' replied the Dodger, throwing open a door. 'Here he is!'
The boy was lying, fast asleep, on a rude bed upon the floor; so pale
with anxiety, and sadness, and the closeness of his prison, that he
looked like death; not death as it shows in shroud and coffin, but in
the guise it wears when life has just departed; when a young and gentle
spirit has, but an instant, fled to Heaven, and the gross air of the
world has not had time to breathe upon the changing dust it hallowed.
'Not now,' said the Jew, turning softly away. 'To-morrow. To-morrow.' | Fagin is walking through the streets in a seedy neighborhood of London, and walks up the steps to a house there. Bill Sikes meets him at the door, along with the growling dog. Fagin seems nervous when he sees Nancy--he's afraid she'll still be mad about Oliver, and he hasn't seen her since. Sikes offers Fagin a drink, but Fagin hardly touches it. Sikes assumes it's because Fagin doesn't want to be tipsy when they talk business, because that could give Sikes the upper hand. Sikes glugs the brandy for him, and declares that he, at least, is now ready to talk shop. Fagin wants to know if everything's all set to rob a house in Chertsey . Sikes says sorry, but nope. Fagin's shocked--he assumes they haven't gone about it properly. Sikes explains that Toby Crackit has been hanging around the place for two weeks wearing fancy clothes, trying to seduce one of the servants, but it hasn't worked. He even tried wearing a fake mustache and military trousers. No dice. Fagin's disappointed, and says so. After a few minutes' pause, Sikes says that there's still a way to break into the house from the outside , but he'd need to borrow a small boy. Fagin guesses at the method Sikes has in mind--there must be some panel that's easily lifted off the outside of the house, through which a small boy could fit and then open up the house for the men. It's on the tip of his tongue to suggest Oliver, but then Fagin remembers how upset Nancy got the last time she was around for part of Oliver's "miseducation." Nancy insists that she's fine with it, and glugs a glass of brandy and laughs really loudly to prove it. Sikes isn't so sure about Oliver, since he's so inexperienced, but he is just the right size . Fagin is excited--he thinks Oliver's ready, and that helping to commit this one crime will make him "ours--ours for his life!" . Nancy and Sikes wonder why Fagin is so obsessed with corrupting Oliver, when there are so many boys out there who would be easier to corrupt. Fagin seems "confused" at how to answer this question--he stammers out that other boys' "looks convict 'em when they get in trouble, and I lose 'em all" . Fagin quickly gets himself together, and insists that Oliver's in it for good, now, because if he got caught in the act while robbing the house, he'd be in the same boat with the rest of them. Nancy asks when it's to be done, and Sikes says the day after tomorrow. Fagin asks a few more logistical questions about how they're going to carry off the swag, and Sikes reassures him that it's all taken care of. It's agreed upon that Nancy will be the one to pick Oliver up before his mission, because he's more likely to trust her. It's also agreed upon that Sikes will be in total control of Oliver during the robbery, and if he decides to shoot Oliver, or if Oliver gets "lost" on the way, well, that's his call. Now that it's all arranged, Sikes starts drinking hard. Fagin says good night to Nancy, and gives her a hard look--he clearly doesn't trust her, but she seems in perfect earnest. Fagin heads home, and asks if Oliver is in bed--he is, and Fagin decides not to wake him up, and the chapter ends ominously, as usual, with Fagin standing creepily over the sleeping Oliver. |
ACT II. SCENE I.
Inverness. Court within the Castle.
[Enter Banquo, preceeded by Fleance with a torch.]
BANQUO.
How goes the night, boy?
FLEANCE.
The moon is down; I have not heard the clock.
BANQUO.
And she goes down at twelve.
FLEANCE.
I take't, 'tis later, sir.
BANQUO.
Hold, take my sword.--There's husbandry in heaven;
Their candles are all out:--take thee that too.--
A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,
And yet I would not sleep:--merciful powers,
Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature
Gives way to in repose!--Give me my sword.
Who's there?
[Enter Macbeth, and a Servant with a torch.]
MACBETH.
A friend.
BANQUO.
What, sir, not yet at rest? The king's a-bed:
He hath been in unusual pleasure and
Sent forth great largess to your officers:
This diamond he greets your wife withal,
By the name of most kind hostess; and shut up
In measureless content.
MACBETH.
Being unprepar'd,
Our will became the servant to defect;
Which else should free have wrought.
BANQUO.
All's well.
I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:
To you they have show'd some truth.
MACBETH.
I think not of them:
Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,
We would spend it in some words upon that business,
If you would grant the time.
BANQUO.
At your kind'st leisure.
MACBETH.
If you shall cleave to my consent,--when 'tis,
It shall make honor for you.
BANQUO.
So I lose none
In seeking to augment it, but still keep
My bosom franchis'd, and allegiance clear,
I shall be counsell'd.
MACBETH.
Good repose the while!
BANQUO.
Thanks, sir: the like to you!
[Exeunt Banquo and Fleance.]
MACBETH.
Go bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready,
She strike upon the bell. Get thee to bed.
[Exit Servant.]
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee:--
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressed brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going;
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' the other senses,
Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before.--There's no such thing:
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes.--Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtain'd sleep; now witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings; and wither'd murder,
Alarum'd by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl's his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin's ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost.--Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it.--Whiles I threat, he lives;
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
[A bell rings.]
I go, and it is done; the bell invites me.
Hear it not, Duncan, for it is a knell
That summons thee to heaven or to hell.
[Exit.]
[Enter Lady Macbeth.]
LADY MACBETH.
That which hath made them drunk hath made me bold:
What hath quench'd them hath given me fire.--Hark!--Peace!
It was the owl that shriek'd, the fatal bellman,
Which gives the stern'st good night. He is about it:
The doors are open; and the surfeited grooms
Do mock their charge with snores: I have drugg'd their possets
That death and nature do contend about them,
Whether they live or die.
MACBETH.
[Within.] Who's there?--what, ho!
LADY MACBETH.
Alack! I am afraid they have awak'd,
And 'tis not done: the attempt, and not the deed,
Confounds us.--Hark!--I laid their daggers ready;
He could not miss 'em.--Had he not resembled
My father as he slept, I had done't.--My husband!
[Re-enter Macbeth.]
MACBETH.
I have done the deed.--Didst thou not hear a noise?
LADY MACBETH.
I heard the owl scream and the crickets cry.
Did not you speak?
MACBETH.
When?
LADY MACBETH.
Now.
MACBETH.
As I descended?
LADY MACBETH.
Ay.
MACBETH.
Hark!--
Who lies i' the second chamber?
LADY MACBETH.
Donalbain.
MACBETH.
This is a sorry sight.
[Looking on his hands.]
LADY MACBETH.
A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight.
MACBETH.
There's one did laugh in's sleep, and one cried, "Murder!"
That they did wake each other: I stood and heard them:
But they did say their prayers, and address'd them
Again to sleep.
LADY MACBETH.
There are two lodg'd together.
MACBETH.
One cried, "God bless us!" and, "Amen," the other;
As they had seen me with these hangman's hands.
Listening their fear, I could not say "Amen,"
When they did say, "God bless us."
LADY MACBETH.
Consider it not so deeply.
MACBETH.
But wherefore could not I pronounce "Amen"?
I had most need of blessing, and "Amen"
Stuck in my throat.
LADY MACBETH.
These deeds must not be thought
After these ways; so, it will make us mad.
MACBETH.
I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more!
Macbeth does murder sleep,"--the innocent sleep;
Sleep that knits up the ravell'd sleave of care,
The death of each day's life, sore labour's bath,
Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course,
Chief nourisher in life's feast.
LADY MACBETH.
What do you mean?
MACBETH.
Still it cried, "Sleep no more!" to all the house:
"Glamis hath murder'd sleep, and therefore Cawdor
Shall sleep no more,--Macbeth shall sleep no more!"
LADY MACBETH.
Who was it that thus cried? Why, worthy thane,
You do unbend your noble strength to think
So brainsickly of things.--Go get some water,
And wash this filthy witness from your hand.--
Why did you bring these daggers from the place?
They must lie there: go carry them; and smear
The sleepy grooms with blood.
MACBETH.
I'll go no more:
I am afraid to think what I have done;
Look on't again I dare not.
LADY MACBETH.
Infirm of purpose!
Give me the daggers: the sleeping and the dead
Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood
That fears a painted devil. If he do bleed,
I'll gild the faces of the grooms withal,
For it must seem their guilt.
[Exit. Knocking within.]
MACBETH.
Whence is that knocking?
How is't with me, when every noise appals me?
What hands are here? Ha, they pluck out mine eyes!
Will all great Neptune's ocean wash this blood
Clean from my hand? No; this my hand will rather
The multitudinous seas incarnadine,
Making the green one red.
[Re-enter Lady Macbeth.]
LADY MACBETH.
My hands are of your color, but I shame
To wear a heart so white. [Knocking within.] I hear knocking
At the south entry:--retire we to our chamber.
A little water clears us of this deed:
How easy is it then! Your constancy
Hath left you unattended.--[Knocking within.] Hark, more
knocking:
Get on your nightgown, lest occasion call us
And show us to be watchers:--be not lost
So poorly in your thoughts.
MACBETH.
To know my deed, 'twere best not know myself. [Knocking within.]
Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou couldst!
[Exeunt.]
[Enter a Porter. Knocking within.]
PORTER.
Here's a knocking indeed! If a man were porter of hell-gate, he
should have old turning the key. [Knocking.] Knock, knock, knock.
Who's there, i' the name of Belzebub? Here's a farmer that hanged
himself on the expectation of plenty: come in time; have napkins
enow about you; here you'll sweat for't.--[Knocking.] Knock,
knock! Who's there, in the other devil's name? Faith, here's an
equivocator, that could swear in both the scales against either
scale, who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not
equivocate to heaven: O, come in, equivocator. [Knocking.] Knock,
knock, knock! Who's there? Faith, here's an English tailor come
hither, for stealing out of a French hose: come in, tailor; here
you may roast your goose.-- [Knocking.] Knock, knock: never at
quiet! What are you?--But this place is too cold for hell.
I'll devil-porter it no further: I had thought to have let in
some of all professions, that go the primrose way to the
everlasting bonfire. [Knocking.] Anon, anon! I pray you, remember
the porter.
[Opens the gate.]
[Enter Macduff and Lennox.]
MACDUFF.
Was it so late, friend, ere you went to bed,
That you do lie so late?
PORTER.
Faith, sir, we were carousing till the second cock: and
drink, sir, is a great provoker of three things.
MACDUFF.
What three things does drink especially provoke?
PORTER.
Marry, sir, nose-painting, sleep, and urine. Lechery, sir,
it provokes and unprovokes; it provokes the desire, but it
takes away the performance: therefore much drink may be said to
be an equivocator with lechery: it makes him, and it mars him; it
sets him on, and it takes him off; it persuades him, and
disheartens him; makes him stand to, and not stand to: in
conclusion, equivocates him in a sleep, and giving him the lie,
leaves him.
MACDUFF.
I believe drink gave thee the lie last night.
PORTER.
That it did, sir, i' the very throat o' me; but I requited
him for his lie; and, I think, being too strong for him,
though he took up my legs sometime, yet I made a shift to cast
him.
MACDUFF.
Is thy master stirring?--
Our knocking has awak'd him; here he comes.
[Enter Macbeth.]
LENNOX.
Good morrow, noble sir!
MACBETH.
Good morrow, both!
MACDUFF.
Is the king stirring, worthy thane?
MACBETH.
Not yet.
MACDUFF.
He did command me to call timely on him:
I have almost slipp'd the hour.
MACBETH.
I'll bring you to him.
MACDUFF.
I know this is a joyful trouble to you;
But yet 'tis one.
MACBETH.
The labour we delight in physics pain.
This is the door.
MACDUFF.
I'll make so bold to call.
For 'tis my limited service.
[Exit Macduff.]
LENNOX.
Goes the king hence to-day?
MACBETH.
He does: he did appoint so.
LENNOX.
The night has been unruly: where we lay,
Our chimneys were blown down: and, as they say,
Lamentings heard i' the air, strange screams of death;
And prophesying, with accents terrible,
Of dire combustion and confus'd events,
New hatch'd to the woeful time: the obscure bird
Clamour'd the live-long night; some say the earth
Was feverous, and did shake.
MACBETH.
'Twas a rough night.
LENNOX.
My young remembrance cannot parallel
A fellow to it.
[Re-enter Macduff.]
MACDUFF.
O horror, horror, horror! Tongue nor heart
Cannot conceive nor name thee!
MACBETH, LENNOX.
What's the matter?
MACDUFF.
Confusion now hath made his masterpiece!
Most sacrilegious murder hath broke ope
The Lord's anointed temple, and stole thence
The life o' the building.
MACBETH.
What is't you say? the life?
LENNOX.
Mean you his majesty?
MACDUFF.
Approach the chamber, and destroy your sight
With a new Gorgon:--do not bid me speak;
See, and then speak yourselves.
[Exeunt Macbeth and Lennox.]
Awake, awake!--
Ring the alarum bell:--murder and treason!
Banquo and Donalbain! Malcolm! awake!
Shake off this downy sleep, death's counterfeit,
And look on death itself! up, up, and see
The great doom's image! Malcolm! Banquo!
As from your graves rise up, and walk like sprites
To countenance this horror!
[Alarum-bell rings.]
[Re-enter Lady Macbeth.]
LADY MACBETH.
What's the business,
That such a hideous trumpet calls to parley
The sleepers of the house? speak, speak!
MACDUFF.
O gentle lady,
'Tis not for you to hear what I can speak:
The repetition, in a woman's ear,
Would murder as it fell.
[Re-enter Banquo.]
O Banquo, Banquo!
Our royal master's murder'd!
LADY MACBETH.
Woe, alas!
What, in our house?
BANQUO.
Too cruel any where.--
Dear Duff, I pr'ythee, contradict thyself,
And say it is not so.
[Re-enter Macbeth and Lennox, with Ross.]
MACBETH.
Had I but died an hour before this chance,
I had liv'd a blessed time; for, from this instant
There's nothing serious in mortality:
All is but toys: renown and grace is dead;
The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees
Is left this vault to brag of.
[Enter Malcolm and Donalbain.]
DONALBAIN.
What is amiss?
MACBETH.
You are, and do not know't:
The spring, the head, the fountain of your blood
Is stopp'd; the very source of it is stopp'd.
MACDUFF.
Your royal father's murder'd.
MALCOLM.
O, by whom?
LENNOX.
Those of his chamber, as it seem'd, had done't:
Their hands and faces were all badg'd with blood;
So were their daggers, which, unwip'd, we found
Upon their pillows:
They star'd, and were distracted; no man's life
Was to be trusted with them.
MACBETH.
O, yet I do repent me of my fury,
That I did kill them.
MACDUFF.
Wherefore did you so?
MACBETH.
Who can be wise, amaz'd, temperate, and furious,
Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man:
The expedition of my violent love
Outrun the pauser reason. Here lay Duncan,
His silver skin lac'd with his golden blood;
And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature
For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,
Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers
Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain,
That had a heart to love, and in that heart
Courage to make's love known?
LADY MACBETH.
Help me hence, ho!
MACDUFF.
Look to the lady.
MALCOLM.
Why do we hold our tongues,
That most may claim this argument for ours?
DONALBAIN.
What should be spoken here, where our fate,
Hid in an auger hole, may rush, and seize us?
Let's away;
Our tears are not yet brew'd.
MALCOLM.
Nor our strong sorrow
Upon the foot of motion.
BANQUO.
Look to the lady:--
[Lady Macbeth is carried out.]
And when we have our naked frailties hid,
That suffer in exposure, let us meet,
And question this most bloody piece of work
To know it further. Fears and scruples shake us:
In the great hand of God I stand; and thence,
Against the undivulg'd pretense I fight
Of treasonous malice.
MACDUFF.
And so do I.
ALL.
So all.
MACBETH.
Let's briefly put on manly readiness,
And meet i' the hall together.
ALL.
Well contented.
[Exeunt all but Malcolm and Donalbain.]
MALCOLM.
What will you do? Let's not consort with them:
To show an unfelt sorrow is an office
Which the false man does easy. I'll to England.
DONALBAIN.
To Ireland, I; our separated fortune
Shall keep us both the safer: where we are,
There's daggers in men's smiles: the near in blood,
The nearer bloody.
MALCOLM.
This murderous shaft that's shot
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is to avoid the aim. Therefore to horse;
And let us not be dainty of leave-taking,
But shift away: there's warrant in that theft
Which steals itself, when there's no mercy left.
[Exeunt.] | Banquo and his son Fleance walk toward their rooms after all of the merrymaking is over. Banquo tells Fleance that he is unable to sleep because of his troubling thoughts. He is wondering if Macbeth will take fate into his own hands to try and realize the witches' prophecies. The pair meets up with Macbeth, who is also roaming the hallways. Banquo tells Macbeth of King Duncan's pleasure at having been so royally treated. He asks Macbeth if he has been thinking of the weird sisters; Macbeth falsely responds in the negative. Again, he asks Banquo to talk with him at a later date about the strange events of that night. It seems that Macbeth seeks an intelligent and compassionate friend like Banquo to be his confidante in crime. Macbeth summons his wife and suddenly finds himself clutching a dagger, which stuns him. He sees imaginary drops of blood on the dagger that he will use to kill Duncan. Lady Macbeth gives him the signal, and he proceeds towards Duncan's room to kill him |
Nurse and Patient
I had not been at home again many days when one evening I went
upstairs into my own room to take a peep over Charley's shoulder and
see how she was getting on with her copy-book. Writing was a trying
business to Charley, who seemed to have no natural power over a pen,
but in whose hand every pen appeared to become perversely animated,
and to go wrong and crooked, and to stop, and splash, and sidle into
corners like a saddle-donkey. It was very odd to see what old letters
Charley's young hand had made, they so wrinkled, and shrivelled, and
tottering, it so plump and round. Yet Charley was uncommonly expert
at other things and had as nimble little fingers as I ever watched.
"Well, Charley," said I, looking over a copy of the letter O in which
it was represented as square, triangular, pear-shaped, and collapsed
in all kinds of ways, "we are improving. If we only get to make it
round, we shall be perfect, Charley."
Then I made one, and Charley made one, and the pen wouldn't join
Charley's neatly, but twisted it up into a knot.
"Never mind, Charley. We shall do it in time."
Charley laid down her pen, the copy being finished, opened and shut
her cramped little hand, looked gravely at the page, half in pride
and half in doubt, and got up, and dropped me a curtsy.
"Thank you, miss. If you please, miss, did you know a poor person of
the name of Jenny?"
"A brickmaker's wife, Charley? Yes."
"She came and spoke to me when I was out a little while ago, and said
you knew her, miss. She asked me if I wasn't the young lady's little
maid--meaning you for the young lady, miss--and I said yes, miss."
"I thought she had left this neighbourhood altogether, Charley."
"So she had, miss, but she's come back again to where she used to
live--she and Liz. Did you know another poor person of the name of
Liz, miss?"
"I think I do, Charley, though not by name."
"That's what she said!" returned Charley. "They have both come back,
miss, and have been tramping high and low."
"Tramping high and low, have they, Charley?"
"Yes, miss." If Charley could only have made the letters in her copy
as round as the eyes with which she looked into my face, they would
have been excellent. "And this poor person came about the house three
or four days, hoping to get a glimpse of you, miss--all she wanted,
she said--but you were away. That was when she saw me. She saw me
a-going about, miss," said Charley with a short laugh of the greatest
delight and pride, "and she thought I looked like your maid!"
"Did she though, really, Charley?"
"Yes, miss!" said Charley. "Really and truly." And Charley, with
another short laugh of the purest glee, made her eyes very round
again and looked as serious as became my maid. I was never tired of
seeing Charley in the full enjoyment of that great dignity, standing
before me with her youthful face and figure, and her steady manner,
and her childish exultation breaking through it now and then in the
pleasantest way.
"And where did you see her, Charley?" said I.
My little maid's countenance fell as she replied, "By the doctor's
shop, miss." For Charley wore her black frock yet.
I asked if the brickmaker's wife were ill, but Charley said no. It
was some one else. Some one in her cottage who had tramped down to
Saint Albans and was tramping he didn't know where. A poor boy,
Charley said. No father, no mother, no any one. "Like as Tom might
have been, miss, if Emma and me had died after father," said Charley,
her round eyes filling with tears.
"And she was getting medicine for him, Charley?"
"She said, miss," returned Charley, "how that he had once done as
much for her."
My little maid's face was so eager and her quiet hands were folded so
closely in one another as she stood looking at me that I had no great
difficulty in reading her thoughts. "Well, Charley," said I, "it
appears to me that you and I can do no better than go round to
Jenny's and see what's the matter."
The alacrity with which Charley brought my bonnet and veil, and
having dressed me, quaintly pinned herself into her warm shawl and
made herself look like a little old woman, sufficiently expressed her
readiness. So Charley and I, without saying anything to any one, went
out.
It was a cold, wild night, and the trees shuddered in the wind. The
rain had been thick and heavy all day, and with little intermission
for many days. None was falling just then, however. The sky had
partly cleared, but was very gloomy--even above us, where a few stars
were shining. In the north and north-west, where the sun had set
three hours before, there was a pale dead light both beautiful and
awful; and into it long sullen lines of cloud waved up like a sea
stricken immovable as it was heaving. Towards London a lurid glare
overhung the whole dark waste, and the contrast between these two
lights, and the fancy which the redder light engendered of an
unearthly fire, gleaming on all the unseen buildings of the city and
on all the faces of its many thousands of wondering inhabitants, was
as solemn as might be.
I had no thought that night--none, I am quite sure--of what was soon
to happen to me. But I have always remembered since that when we had
stopped at the garden-gate to look up at the sky, and when we went
upon our way, I had for a moment an undefinable impression of myself
as being something different from what I then was. I know it was then
and there that I had it. I have ever since connected the feeling with
that spot and time and with everything associated with that spot and
time, to the distant voices in the town, the barking of a dog, and
the sound of wheels coming down the miry hill.
It was Saturday night, and most of the people belonging to the place
where we were going were drinking elsewhere. We found it quieter than
I had previously seen it, though quite as miserable. The kilns were
burning, and a stifling vapour set towards us with a pale-blue glare.
We came to the cottage, where there was a feeble candle in the
patched window. We tapped at the door and went in. The mother of the
little child who had died was sitting in a chair on one side of the
poor fire by the bed; and opposite to her, a wretched boy, supported
by the chimney-piece, was cowering on the floor. He held under his
arm, like a little bundle, a fragment of a fur cap; and as he tried
to warm himself, he shook until the crazy door and window shook. The
place was closer than before and had an unhealthy and a very peculiar
smell.
I had not lifted my veil when I first spoke to the woman, which was
at the moment of our going in. The boy staggered up instantly and
stared at me with a remarkable expression of surprise and terror.
His action was so quick and my being the cause of it was so evident
that I stood still instead of advancing nearer.
"I won't go no more to the berryin ground," muttered the boy; "I
ain't a-going there, so I tell you!"
I lifted my veil and spoke to the woman. She said to me in a low
voice, "Don't mind him, ma'am. He'll soon come back to his head," and
said to him, "Jo, Jo, what's the matter?"
"I know wot she's come for!" cried the boy.
"Who?"
"The lady there. She's come to get me to go along with her to the
berryin ground. I won't go to the berryin ground. I don't like the
name on it. She might go a-berryin ME." His shivering came on again,
and as he leaned against the wall, he shook the hovel.
"He has been talking off and on about such like all day, ma'am," said
Jenny softly. "Why, how you stare! This is MY lady, Jo."
"Is it?" returned the boy doubtfully, and surveying me with his arm
held out above his burning eyes. "She looks to me the t'other one. It
ain't the bonnet, nor yet it ain't the gownd, but she looks to me the
t'other one."
My little Charley, with her premature experience of illness and
trouble, had pulled off her bonnet and shawl and now went quietly up
to him with a chair and sat him down in it like an old sick nurse.
Except that no such attendant could have shown him Charley's youthful
face, which seemed to engage his confidence.
"I say!" said the boy. "YOU tell me. Ain't the lady the t'other
lady?"
Charley shook her head as she methodically drew his rags about him
and made him as warm as she could.
"Oh!" the boy muttered. "Then I s'pose she ain't."
"I came to see if I could do you any good," said I. "What is the
matter with you?"
"I'm a-being froze," returned the boy hoarsely, with his haggard gaze
wandering about me, "and then burnt up, and then froze, and then
burnt up, ever so many times in a hour. And my head's all sleepy, and
all a-going mad-like--and I'm so dry--and my bones isn't half so much
bones as pain.
"When did he come here?" I asked the woman.
"This morning, ma'am, I found him at the corner of the town. I had
known him up in London yonder. Hadn't I, Jo?"
"Tom-all-Alone's," the boy replied.
Whenever he fixed his attention or his eyes, it was only for a very
little while. He soon began to droop his head again, and roll it
heavily, and speak as if he were half awake.
"When did he come from London?" I asked.
"I come from London yes'day," said the boy himself, now flushed and
hot. "I'm a-going somewheres."
"Where is he going?" I asked.
"Somewheres," repeated the boy in a louder tone. "I have been moved
on, and moved on, more nor ever I was afore, since the t'other one
give me the sov'ring. Mrs. Snagsby, she's always a-watching, and
a-driving of me--what have I done to her?--and they're all a-watching
and a-driving of me. Every one of 'em's doing of it, from the time
when I don't get up, to the time when I don't go to bed. And I'm
a-going somewheres. That's where I'm a-going. She told me, down in
Tom-all-Alone's, as she came from Stolbuns, and so I took the
Stolbuns Road. It's as good as another."
He always concluded by addressing Charley.
"What is to be done with him?" said I, taking the woman aside. "He
could not travel in this state even if he had a purpose and knew
where he was going!"
"I know no more, ma'am, than the dead," she replied, glancing
compassionately at him. "Perhaps the dead know better, if they could
only tell us. I've kept him here all day for pity's sake, and I've
given him broth and physic, and Liz has gone to try if any one will
take him in (here's my pretty in the bed--her child, but I call it
mine); but I can't keep him long, for if my husband was to come home
and find him here, he'd be rough in putting him out and might do him
a hurt. Hark! Here comes Liz back!"
The other woman came hurriedly in as she spoke, and the boy got up
with a half-obscured sense that he was expected to be going. When the
little child awoke, and when and how Charley got at it, took it out
of bed, and began to walk about hushing it, I don't know. There she
was, doing all this in a quiet motherly manner as if she were living
in Mrs. Blinder's attic with Tom and Emma again.
The friend had been here and there, and had been played about from
hand to hand, and had come back as she went. At first it was too
early for the boy to be received into the proper refuge, and at last
it was too late. One official sent her to another, and the other sent
her back again to the first, and so backward and forward, until it
appeared to me as if both must have been appointed for their skill in
evading their duties instead of performing them. And now, after all,
she said, breathing quickly, for she had been running and was
frightened too, "Jenny, your master's on the road home, and mine's
not far behind, and the Lord help the boy, for we can do no more for
him!" They put a few halfpence together and hurried them into his
hand, and so, in an oblivious, half-thankful, half-insensible way, he
shuffled out of the house.
"Give me the child, my dear," said its mother to Charley, "and thank
you kindly too! Jenny, woman dear, good night! Young lady, if my
master don't fall out with me, I'll look down by the kiln by and by,
where the boy will be most like, and again in the morning!" She
hurried off, and presently we passed her hushing and singing to her
child at her own door and looking anxiously along the road for her
drunken husband.
I was afraid of staying then to speak to either woman, lest I should
bring her into trouble. But I said to Charley that we must not leave
the boy to die. Charley, who knew what to do much better than I did,
and whose quickness equalled her presence of mind, glided on before
me, and presently we came up with Jo, just short of the brick-kiln.
I think he must have begun his journey with some small bundle under
his arm and must have had it stolen or lost it. For he still carried
his wretched fragment of fur cap like a bundle, though he went
bare-headed through the rain, which now fell fast. He stopped when we
called to him and again showed a dread of me when I came up, standing
with his lustrous eyes fixed upon me, and even arrested in his
shivering fit.
I asked him to come with us, and we would take care that he had some
shelter for the night.
"I don't want no shelter," he said; "I can lay amongst the warm
bricks."
"But don't you know that people die there?" replied Charley.
"They dies everywheres," said the boy. "They dies in their
lodgings--she knows where; I showed her--and they dies down in
Tom-all-Alone's in heaps. They dies more than they lives, according
to what I see." Then he hoarsely whispered Charley, "If she ain't the
t'other one, she ain't the forrenner. Is there THREE of 'em then?"
Charley looked at me a little frightened. I felt half frightened at
myself when the boy glared on me so.
But he turned and followed when I beckoned to him, and finding that
he acknowledged that influence in me, I led the way straight home. It
was not far, only at the summit of the hill. We passed but one man. I
doubted if we should have got home without assistance, the boy's
steps were so uncertain and tremulous. He made no complaint, however,
and was strangely unconcerned about himself, if I may say so strange
a thing.
Leaving him in the hall for a moment, shrunk into the corner of the
window-seat and staring with an indifference that scarcely could be
called wonder at the comfort and brightness about him, I went into
the drawing-room to speak to my guardian. There I found Mr. Skimpole,
who had come down by the coach, as he frequently did without notice,
and never bringing any clothes with him, but always borrowing
everything he wanted.
They came out with me directly to look at the boy. The servants had
gathered in the hall too, and he shivered in the window-seat with
Charley standing by him, like some wounded animal that had been found
in a ditch.
"This is a sorrowful case," said my guardian after asking him a
question or two and touching him and examining his eyes. "What do you
say, Harold?"
"You had better turn him out," said Mr. Skimpole.
"What do you mean?" inquired my guardian, almost sternly.
"My dear Jarndyce," said Mr. Skimpole, "you know what I am: I am a
child. Be cross to me if I deserve it. But I have a constitutional
objection to this sort of thing. I always had, when I was a medical
man. He's not safe, you know. There's a very bad sort of fever about
him."
Mr. Skimpole had retreated from the hall to the drawing-room again
and said this in his airy way, seated on the music-stool as we stood
by.
"You'll say it's childish," observed Mr. Skimpole, looking gaily at
us. "Well, I dare say it may be; but I AM a child, and I never
pretend to be anything else. If you put him out in the road, you only
put him where he was before. He will be no worse off than he was, you
know. Even make him better off, if you like. Give him sixpence, or
five shillings, or five pound ten--you are arithmeticians, and I am
not--and get rid of him!"
"And what is he to do then?" asked my guardian.
"Upon my life," said Mr. Skimpole, shrugging his shoulders with his
engaging smile, "I have not the least idea what he is to do then. But
I have no doubt he'll do it."
"Now, is it not a horrible reflection," said my guardian, to whom I
had hastily explained the unavailing efforts of the two women, "is it
not a horrible reflection," walking up and down and rumpling his
hair, "that if this wretched creature were a convicted prisoner, his
hospital would be wide open to him, and he would be as well taken
care of as any sick boy in the kingdom?"
"My dear Jarndyce," returned Mr. Skimpole, "you'll pardon the
simplicity of the question, coming as it does from a creature who is
perfectly simple in worldly matters, but why ISN'T he a prisoner
then?"
My guardian stopped and looked at him with a whimsical mixture of
amusement and indignation in his face.
"Our young friend is not to be suspected of any delicacy, I should
imagine," said Mr. Skimpole, unabashed and candid. "It seems to me
that it would be wiser, as well as in a certain kind of way more
respectable, if he showed some misdirected energy that got him into
prison. There would be more of an adventurous spirit in it, and
consequently more of a certain sort of poetry."
"I believe," returned my guardian, resuming his uneasy walk, "that
there is not such another child on earth as yourself."
"Do you really?" said Mr. Skimpole. "I dare say! But I confess I
don't see why our young friend, in his degree, should not seek to
invest himself with such poetry as is open to him. He is no doubt
born with an appetite--probably, when he is in a safer state of
health, he has an excellent appetite. Very well. At our young
friend's natural dinner hour, most likely about noon, our young
friend says in effect to society, 'I am hungry; will you have the
goodness to produce your spoon and feed me?' Society, which has taken
upon itself the general arrangement of the whole system of spoons and
professes to have a spoon for our young friend, does NOT produce that
spoon; and our young friend, therefore, says 'You really must excuse
me if I seize it.' Now, this appears to me a case of misdirected
energy, which has a certain amount of reason in it and a certain
amount of romance; and I don't know but what I should be more
interested in our young friend, as an illustration of such a case,
than merely as a poor vagabond--which any one can be."
"In the meantime," I ventured to observe, "he is getting worse."
"In the meantime," said Mr. Skimpole cheerfully, "as Miss Summerson,
with her practical good sense, observes, he is getting worse.
Therefore I recommend your turning him out before he gets still
worse."
The amiable face with which he said it, I think I shall never forget.
"Of course, little woman," observed my guardian, turning to me, "I
can ensure his admission into the proper place by merely going there
to enforce it, though it's a bad state of things when, in his
condition, that is necessary. But it's growing late, and is a very
bad night, and the boy is worn out already. There is a bed in the
wholesome loft-room by the stable; we had better keep him there till
morning, when he can be wrapped up and removed. We'll do that."
"Oh!" said Mr. Skimpole, with his hands upon the keys of the piano as
we moved away. "Are you going back to our young friend?"
"Yes," said my guardian.
"How I envy you your constitution, Jarndyce!" returned Mr. Skimpole
with playful admiration. "You don't mind these things; neither does
Miss Summerson. You are ready at all times to go anywhere, and do
anything. Such is will! I have no will at all--and no won't--simply
can't."
"You can't recommend anything for the boy, I suppose?" said my
guardian, looking back over his shoulder half angrily; only half
angrily, for he never seemed to consider Mr. Skimpole an accountable
being.
"My dear Jarndyce, I observed a bottle of cooling medicine in his
pocket, and it's impossible for him to do better than take it. You
can tell them to sprinkle a little vinegar about the place where he
sleeps and to keep it moderately cool and him moderately warm. But it
is mere impertinence in me to offer any recommendation. Miss
Summerson has such a knowledge of detail and such a capacity for the
administration of detail that she knows all about it."
We went back into the hall and explained to Jo what we proposed to
do, which Charley explained to him again and which he received with
the languid unconcern I had already noticed, wearily looking on at
what was done as if it were for somebody else. The servants
compassionating his miserable state and being very anxious to help,
we soon got the loft-room ready; and some of the men about the house
carried him across the wet yard, well wrapped up. It was pleasant to
observe how kind they were to him and how there appeared to be a
general impression among them that frequently calling him "Old Chap"
was likely to revive his spirits. Charley directed the operations and
went to and fro between the loft-room and the house with such little
stimulants and comforts as we thought it safe to give him. My
guardian himself saw him before he was left for the night and
reported to me when he returned to the growlery to write a letter on
the boy's behalf, which a messenger was charged to deliver at
day-light in the morning, that he seemed easier and inclined to
sleep. They had fastened his door on the outside, he said, in case of
his being delirious, but had so arranged that he could not make any
noise without being heard.
Ada being in our room with a cold, Mr. Skimpole was left alone all
this time and entertained himself by playing snatches of pathetic
airs and sometimes singing to them (as we heard at a distance) with
great expression and feeling. When we rejoined him in the
drawing-room he said he would give us a little ballad which had come
into his head "apropos of our young friend," and he sang one about a
peasant boy,
"Thrown on the wide world, doomed to wander and roam,
Bereft of his parents, bereft of a home."
quite exquisitely. It was a song that always made him cry, he told
us.
He was extremely gay all the rest of the evening, for he absolutely
chirped--those were his delighted words--when he thought by what a
happy talent for business he was surrounded. He gave us, in his glass
of negus, "Better health to our young friend!" and supposed and gaily
pursued the case of his being reserved like Whittington to become
Lord Mayor of London. In that event, no doubt, he would establish the
Jarndyce Institution and the Summerson Almshouses, and a little
annual Corporation Pilgrimage to St. Albans. He had no doubt, he
said, that our young friend was an excellent boy in his way, but his
way was not the Harold Skimpole way; what Harold Skimpole was, Harold
Skimpole had found himself, to his considerable surprise, when he
first made his own acquaintance; he had accepted himself with all his
failings and had thought it sound philosophy to make the best of the
bargain; and he hoped we would do the same.
Charley's last report was that the boy was quiet. I could see, from
my window, the lantern they had left him burning quietly; and I went
to bed very happy to think that he was sheltered.
There was more movement and more talking than usual a little before
daybreak, and it awoke me. As I was dressing, I looked out of my
window and asked one of our men who had been among the active
sympathizers last night whether there was anything wrong about the
house. The lantern was still burning in the loft-window.
"It's the boy, miss," said he.
"Is he worse?" I inquired.
"Gone, miss.
"Dead!"
"Dead, miss? No. Gone clean off."
At what time of the night he had gone, or how, or why, it seemed
hopeless ever to divine. The door remaining as it had been left, and
the lantern standing in the window, it could only be supposed that he
had got out by a trap in the floor which communicated with an empty
cart-house below. But he had shut it down again, if that were so; and
it looked as if it had not been raised. Nothing of any kind was
missing. On this fact being clearly ascertained, we all yielded to
the painful belief that delirium had come upon him in the night and
that, allured by some imaginary object or pursued by some imaginary
horror, he had strayed away in that worse than helpless state; all of
us, that is to say, but Mr. Skimpole, who repeatedly suggested, in
his usual easy light style, that it had occurred to our young friend
that he was not a safe inmate, having a bad kind of fever upon him,
and that he had with great natural politeness taken himself off.
Every possible inquiry was made, and every place was searched. The
brick-kilns were examined, the cottages were visited, the two women
were particularly questioned, but they knew nothing of him, and
nobody could doubt that their wonder was genuine. The weather had for
some time been too wet and the night itself had been too wet to admit
of any tracing by footsteps. Hedge and ditch, and wall, and rick and
stack, were examined by our men for a long distance round, lest the
boy should be lying in such a place insensible or dead; but nothing
was seen to indicate that he had ever been near. From the time when
he was left in the loft-room, he vanished.
The search continued for five days. I do not mean that it ceased even
then, but that my attention was then diverted into a current very
memorable to me.
As Charley was at her writing again in my room in the evening, and as
I sat opposite to her at work, I felt the table tremble. Looking up,
I saw my little maid shivering from head to foot.
"Charley," said I, "are you so cold?"
"I think I am, miss," she replied. "I don't know what it is. I can't
hold myself still. I felt so yesterday at about this same time, miss.
Don't be uneasy, I think I'm ill."
I heard Ada's voice outside, and I hurried to the door of
communication between my room and our pretty sitting-room, and locked
it. Just in time, for she tapped at it while my hand was yet upon the
key.
Ada called to me to let her in, but I said, "Not now, my dearest. Go
away. There's nothing the matter; I will come to you presently." Ah!
It was a long, long time before my darling girl and I were companions
again.
Charley fell ill. In twelve hours she was very ill. I moved her to my
room, and laid her in my bed, and sat down quietly to nurse her. I
told my guardian all about it, and why I felt it was necessary that I
should seclude myself, and my reason for not seeing my darling above
all. At first she came very often to the door, and called to me, and
even reproached me with sobs and tears; but I wrote her a long letter
saying that she made me anxious and unhappy and imploring her, as she
loved me and wished my mind to be at peace, to come no nearer than
the garden. After that she came beneath the window even oftener than
she had come to the door, and if I had learnt to love her dear sweet
voice before when we were hardly ever apart, how did I learn to love
it then, when I stood behind the window-curtain listening and
replying, but not so much as looking out! How did I learn to love it
afterwards, when the harder time came!
They put a bed for me in our sitting-room; and by keeping the door
wide open, I turned the two rooms into one, now that Ada had vacated
that part of the house, and kept them always fresh and airy. There
was not a servant in or about the house but was so good that they
would all most gladly have come to me at any hour of the day or night
without the least fear or unwillingness, but I thought it best to
choose one worthy woman who was never to see Ada and whom I could
trust to come and go with all precaution. Through her means I got out
to take the air with my guardian when there was no fear of meeting
Ada, and wanted for nothing in the way of attendance, any more than
in any other respect.
And thus poor Charley sickened and grew worse, and fell into heavy
danger of death, and lay severely ill for many a long round of day
and night. So patient she was, so uncomplaining, and inspired by such
a gentle fortitude that very often as I sat by Charley holding her
head in my arms--repose would come to her, so, when it would come to
her in no other attitude--I silently prayed to our Father in heaven
that I might not forget the lesson which this little sister taught
me.
I was very sorrowful to think that Charley's pretty looks would
change and be disfigured, even if she recovered--she was such a child
with her dimpled face--but that thought was, for the greater part,
lost in her greater peril. When she was at the worst, and her mind
rambled again to the cares of her father's sick bed and the little
children, she still knew me so far as that she would be quiet in my
arms when she could lie quiet nowhere else, and murmur out the
wanderings of her mind less restlessly. At those times I used to
think, how should I ever tell the two remaining babies that the baby
who had learned of her faithful heart to be a mother to them in their
need was dead!
There were other times when Charley knew me well and talked to me,
telling me that she sent her love to Tom and Emma and that she was
sure Tom would grow up to be a good man. At those times Charley would
speak to me of what she had read to her father as well as she could
to comfort him, of that young man carried out to be buried who was
the only son of his mother and she was a widow, of the ruler's
daughter raised up by the gracious hand upon her bed of death. And
Charley told me that when her father died she had kneeled down and
prayed in her first sorrow that he likewise might be raised up and
given back to his poor children, and that if she should never get
better and should die too, she thought it likely that it might come
into Tom's mind to offer the same prayer for her. Then would I show
Tom how these people of old days had been brought back to life on
earth, only that we might know our hope to be restored to heaven!
But of all the various times there were in Charley's illness, there
was not one when she lost the gentle qualities I have spoken of. And
there were many, many when I thought in the night of the last high
belief in the watching angel, and the last higher trust in God, on
the part of her poor despised father.
And Charley did not die. She flutteringly and slowly turned the
dangerous point, after long lingering there, and then began to mend.
The hope that never had been given, from the first, of Charley being
in outward appearance Charley any more soon began to be encouraged;
and even that prospered, and I saw her growing into her old childish
likeness again.
It was a great morning when I could tell Ada all this as she stood
out in the garden; and it was a great evening when Charley and I at
last took tea together in the next room. But on that same evening, I
felt that I was stricken cold.
Happily for both of us, it was not until Charley was safe in bed
again and placidly asleep that I began to think the contagion of her
illness was upon me. I had been able easily to hide what I felt at
tea-time, but I was past that already now, and I knew that I was
rapidly following in Charley's steps.
I was well enough, however, to be up early in the morning, and to
return my darling's cheerful blessing from the garden, and to talk
with her as long as usual. But I was not free from an impression that
I had been walking about the two rooms in the night, a little beside
myself, though knowing where I was; and I felt confused at
times--with a curious sense of fullness, as if I were becoming too
large altogether.
In the evening I was so much worse that I resolved to prepare
Charley, with which view I said, "You're getting quite strong,
Charley, are you not?'
"Oh, quite!" said Charley.
"Strong enough to be told a secret, I think, Charley?"
"Quite strong enough for that, miss!" cried Charley. But Charley's
face fell in the height of her delight, for she saw the secret in MY
face; and she came out of the great chair, and fell upon my bosom,
and said "Oh, miss, it's my doing! It's my doing!" and a great deal
more out of the fullness of her grateful heart.
"Now, Charley," said I after letting her go on for a little while,
"if I am to be ill, my great trust, humanly speaking, is in you. And
unless you are as quiet and composed for me as you always were for
yourself, you can never fulfil it, Charley."
"If you'll let me cry a little longer, miss," said Charley. "Oh, my
dear, my dear! If you'll only let me cry a little longer. Oh, my
dear!"--how affectionately and devotedly she poured this out as she
clung to my neck, I never can remember without tears--"I'll be good."
So I let Charley cry a little longer, and it did us both good.
"Trust in me now, if you please, miss," said Charley quietly. "I am
listening to everything you say."
"It's very little at present, Charley. I shall tell your doctor
to-night that I don't think I am well and that you are going to nurse
me."
For that the poor child thanked me with her whole heart. "And in the
morning, when you hear Miss Ada in the garden, if I should not be
quite able to go to the window-curtain as usual, do you go, Charley,
and say I am asleep--that I have rather tired myself, and am asleep.
At all times keep the room as I have kept it, Charley, and let no one
come."
Charley promised, and I lay down, for I was very heavy. I saw the
doctor that night and asked the favour of him that I wished to ask
relative to his saying nothing of my illness in the house as yet. I
have a very indistinct remembrance of that night melting into day,
and of day melting into night again; but I was just able on the first
morning to get to the window and speak to my darling.
On the second morning I heard her dear voice--Oh, how dear
now!--outside; and I asked Charley, with some difficulty (speech
being painful to me), to go and say I was asleep. I heard her answer
softly, "Don't disturb her, Charley, for the world!"
"How does my own Pride look, Charley?" I inquired.
"Disappointed, miss," said Charley, peeping through the curtain.
"But I know she is very beautiful this morning."
"She is indeed, miss," answered Charley, peeping. "Still looking up
at the window."
With her blue clear eyes, God bless them, always loveliest when
raised like that!
I called Charley to me and gave her her last charge.
"Now, Charley, when she knows I am ill, she will try to make her way
into the room. Keep her out, Charley, if you love me truly, to the
last! Charley, if you let her in but once, only to look upon me for
one moment as I lie here, I shall die."
"I never will! I never will!" she promised me.
"I believe it, my dear Charley. And now come and sit beside me for a
little while, and touch me with your hand. For I cannot see you,
Charley; I am blind." | Nurse and Patient Jenny, the bricklayer's wife, leaves a message with Charley that if Esther would come to their cottage in St. Albans, there was an urgent need. Esther and Charley go out on a cold wet night to Jenny's cottage, and Esther has a premonition of disaster. In the cottage they see the boy Jo on the floor shivering with illness. Jo seems to think that Esther is Lady Dedlock in her cloak and veil. Jenny says they found him on the street, and she cannot keep him in her cottage. They had tried to get him into some charitable institution or hospital, but officials kept putting them off. Esther and Charley take Jo home "like some wounded animal that had been found in a ditch" . Skimpole says he is not safe and should be thrown out. Mr. Jarndyce finds a loftroom by the stable to keep the boy overnight. In the morning, however, Jo is gone and though a search goes on for him for five days, no trace of him is found. Charley comes down with the illness , and as soon as Esther understands, she locks the two of them in and won't let Ada in, for it is contagious. Esther explains to her guardian why she wants them to be secluded. Charley almost dies, and Esther is afraid she will be disfigured by the pox if she lives, but she pulls through and is not scarred. Then Esther falls ill and is nursed by Charley. For Esther, it is harder. She goes blind. |
Beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but Hannah and
the doctor suspected. The girls knew nothing about illness, and Mr.
Laurence was not allowed to see her, so Hannah had everything her own
way, and busy Dr. Bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the
excellent nurse. Meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the Kings,
and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote
letters in which no mention was made of Beth's illness. She could not
think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind
Hannah, and Hannah wouldn't hear of 'Mrs. March bein' told, and worried
just for sech a trifle.'
Jo devoted herself to Beth day and night, not a hard task, for Beth was
very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could
control herself. But there came a time when during the fever fits she
began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if
on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen
that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar
faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called
imploringly for her mother. Then Jo grew frightened, Meg begged to be
allowed to write the truth, and even Hannah said she 'would think of
it, though there was no danger yet'. A letter from Washington added to
their trouble, for Mr. March had had a relapse, and could not think of
coming home for a long while.
How dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how
heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while
the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home. Then it was that
Margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how
rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could
buy--in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of
life. Then it was that Jo, living in the darkened room, with that
suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice
sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of
Beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all
hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of Beth's unselfish ambition to
live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple
virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more
than talent, wealth, or beauty. And Amy, in her exile, longed eagerly
to be at home, that she might work for Beth, feeling now that no
service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful
grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her.
Laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and Mr. Laurence locked
the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young
neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him. Everyone
missed Beth. The milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she
did, poor Mrs. Hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to
get a shroud for Minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and
good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find
how many friends shy little Beth had made.
Meanwhile she lay on her bed with old Joanna at her side, for even in
her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege. She longed for
her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick,
and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about Jo. She sent
loving messages to Amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write
soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that
Father might not think she had neglected him. But soon even these
intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing
to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy
sleep which brought her no refreshment. Dr. Bangs came twice a day,
Hannah sat up at night, Meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to
send off at any minute, and Jo never stirred from Beth's side.
The first of December was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter
wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its
death. When Dr. Bangs came that morning, he looked long at Beth, held
the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down,
saying, in a low voice to Hannah, "If Mrs. March can leave her husband
she'd better be sent for."
Hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, Meg
dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs
at the sound of those words, and Jo, standing with a pale face for a
minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on
her things, rushed out into the storm. She was soon back, and while
noiselessly taking off her cloak, Laurie came in with a letter, saying
that Mr. March was mending again. Jo read it thankfully, but the heavy
weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of
misery that Laurie asked quickly, "What is it? Is Beth worse?"
"I've sent for Mother," said Jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a
tragic expression.
"Good for you, Jo! Did you do it on your own responsibility?" asked
Laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious
boots, seeing how her hands shook.
"No. The doctor told us to."
"Oh, Jo, it's not so bad as that?" cried Laurie, with a startled face.
"Yes, it is. She doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the
flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall. She
doesn't look like my Beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.
Mother and father both gone, and God seems so far away I can't find
Him."
As the tears streamed fast down poor Jo's cheeks, she stretched out her
hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and Laurie
took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his
throat, "I'm here. Hold on to me, Jo, dear!"
She could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the
friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her
nearer to the Divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.
Laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting
words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as
her mother used to do. It was the best thing he could have done, far
more soothing than the most eloquent words, for Jo felt the unspoken
sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection
administers to sorrow. Soon she dried the tears which had relieved
her, and looked up with a grateful face.
"Thank you, Teddy, I'm better now. I don't feel so forlorn, and will
try to bear it if it comes."
"Keep hoping for the best, that will help you, Jo. Soon your mother
will be here, and then everything will be all right."
"I'm so glad Father is better. Now she won't feel so bad about leaving
him. Oh, me! It does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and
I got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed Jo, spreading her wet
handkerchief over her knees to dry.
"Doesn't Meg pull fair?" asked Laurie, looking indignant.
"Oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love Bethy as I do, and she won't
miss her as I shall. Beth is my conscience, and I can't give her up.
I can't! I can't!"
Down went Jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried
despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a
tear. Laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till
he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips.
It might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and I am glad of it.
Presently, as Jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "I don't think she
will die. She's so good, and we all love her so much, I don't believe
God will take her away yet."
"The good and dear people always do die," groaned Jo, but she stopped
crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own
doubts and fears.
"Poor girl, you're worn out. It isn't like you to be forlorn. Stop a
bit. I'll hearten you up in a jiffy."
Laurie went off two stairs at a time, and Jo laid her wearied head down
on Beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from
the table where she left it. It must have possessed some magic, for
the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into Jo, and
when Laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a
smile, and said bravely, "I drink-- Health to my Beth! You are a good
doctor, Teddy, and such a comfortable friend. How can I ever pay you?"
she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done
her troubled mind.
"I'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight I'll give you something that
will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said
Laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at
something.
"What is it?" cried Jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
"I telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and Brooke answered she'd come
at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.
Aren't you glad I did it?"
Laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for
he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or
harming Beth. Jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the
moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms
round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "Oh, Laurie! Oh,
Mother! I am so glad!" She did not weep again, but laughed
hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a
little bewildered by the sudden news.
Laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind.
He patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering,
followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought Jo round at
once. Holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying
breathlessly, "Oh, don't! I didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but
you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of Hannah that I couldn't
help flying at you. Tell me all about it, and don't give me wine
again, it makes me act so."
"I don't mind," laughed Laurie, as he settled his tie. "Why, you see I
got fidgety, and so did Grandpa. We thought Hannah was overdoing the
authority business, and your mother ought to know. She'd never forgive
us if Beth... Well, if anything happened, you know. So I got grandpa
to say it was high time we did something, and off I pelted to the
office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and Hannah most took my
head off when I proposed a telegram. I never can bear to be 'lorded
over', so that settled my mind, and I did it. Your mother will come, I
know, and the late train is in at two A.M. I shall go for her, and
you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep Beth quiet till
that blessed lady gets here."
"Laurie, you're an angel! How shall I ever thank you?"
"Fly at me again. I rather liked it," said Laurie, looking
mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
"No, thank you. I'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes. Don't
tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night. Bless
you, Teddy, bless you!"
Jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she
vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a
dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!"
while Laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of
it.
"That's the interferingest chap I ever see, but I forgive him and do
hope Mrs. March is coming right away," said Hannah, with an air of
relief, when Jo told the good news.
Meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while Jo set
the sickroom in order, and Hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case
of company unexpected". A breath of fresh air seemed to blow through
the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet
rooms. Everything appeared to feel the hopeful change. Beth's bird
began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on Amy's
bush in the window. The fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness,
and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as
they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "Mother's coming,
dear! Mother's coming!" Every one rejoiced but Beth. She lay in that
heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger. It
was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once
busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and
the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the
pillow. All day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter,
"Water!" with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word. All
day Jo and Meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and
trusting in God and Mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind
raged, and the hours dragged slowly by. But night came at last, and
every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side
of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour
brought help nearer. The doctor had been in to say that some change,
for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which
time he would return.
Hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell
fast asleep, Mr. Laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling
that he would rather face a rebel battery than Mrs. March's countenance
as she entered. Laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring
into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes
beautifully soft and clear.
The girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they
kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes
to us in hours like those.
"If God spares Beth, I never will complain again," whispered Meg
earnestly.
"If god spares Beth, I'll try to love and serve Him all my life,"
answered Jo, with equal fervor.
"I wish I had no heart, it aches so," sighed Meg, after a pause.
"If life is often as hard as this, I don't see how we ever shall get
through it," added her sister despondently.
Here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching
Beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face. The house was
still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep
hush. Weary Hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale
shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed. An hour went by, and
nothing happened except Laurie's quiet departure for the station.
Another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the
storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at
Washington, haunted the girls.
It was past two, when Jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary
the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the
bed, and turning quickly, saw Meg kneeling before their mother's easy
chair with her face hidden. A dreadful fear passed coldly over Jo, as
she thought, "Beth is dead, and Meg is afraid to tell me."
She was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great
change seemed to have taken place. The fever flush and the look of
pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful
in its utter repose that Jo felt no desire to weep or to lament.
Leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp
forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "Good-by, my
Beth. Good-by!"
As if awaked by the stir, Hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to
the bed, looked at Beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and
then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro,
exclaiming, under her breath, "The fever's turned, she's sleepin'
nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy. Praise be given! Oh,
my goodness me!"
Before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to
confirm it. He was a homely man, but they thought his face quite
heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "Yes,
my dears, I think the little girl will pull through this time. Keep
the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..."
What they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark
hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with
hearts too full for words. When they went back to be kissed and
cuddled by faithful Hannah, they found Beth lying, as she used to do,
with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and
breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
"If Mother would only come now!" said Jo, as the winter night began to
wane.
"See," said Meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "I thought
this would hardly be ready to lay in Beth's hand tomorrow if she--went
away from us. But it has blossomed in the night, and now I mean to put
it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she
sees will be the little rose, and Mother's face."
Never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed
so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of Meg and Jo, as they looked out
in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
"It looks like a fairy world," said Meg, smiling to herself, as she
stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
"Hark!" cried Jo, starting to her feet.
Yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from Hannah,
and then Laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "Girls, she's come!
She's come!" | The March house was grave as Beth's illness continued. The doctor came everyday to check on her while Hannah and Jo kept watch over and nursed her. Beth was Jo's pet and Jo was devastated by the potential loss of her. Everyone who knew her was asking how she was doing and no one had known Beth had so many people as friends. One day the doctor came and told Jo to telegram their mother. Beth was doing very poorly and if her mother was going to come, it must be right away. Jo, having a telegram prepared, ran off to send it. She told Laurie the news then held his hand and cried. She took comfort in his closeness and after her tears abated Laurie told her the good news. He and his grandfather had decided that Mother should have been called for the day before, and they sent out a telegram. They received one back from Mr. Brooke saying she would be home on the late night train, around two a. m. Jo was overjoyed and ran into his arms. He hugged her, then even kissed her, which she shied away. She told everyone the news and they were delighted and waiting for their Mother to come. The doctor said around midnight Beth would either take a turn for the better or for the worst. When midnight came, they waited for some sign until finally Beth became still. She was sleeping soundly, breathing easy, and her fever had disappeared. Everyone rejoiced, and as they were doing so, Marmee arrived with Laurie |
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had
been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of
his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and
miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he
had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful
acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up, had
given him originally great humility of manner, but it was now a good
deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in
retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected
prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de
Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he
felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness,
mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a
clergyman, and his rights as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of
pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
Having now a good house and very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had
a wife in view, as he meant to chuse one of the daughters, if he found
them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report.
This was his plan of amends--of atonement--for inheriting their father's
estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and
suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own
part.
His plan did not vary on seeing them.--Miss Bennet's lovely face
confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what
was due to seniority; and for the first evening _she_ was his settled
choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter
of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a
conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally
to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress for it might be found at
Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general
encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on.--"As to
her _younger_ daughters she could not take upon her to say--she could
not positively answer--but she did not _know_ of any prepossession;--her
_eldest_ daughter, she must just mention--she felt it incumbent on her
to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged."
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth--and it was soon
done--done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally
next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have
two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of
the day before, was now high in her good graces.
Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister
except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them,
at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him,
and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed
him after breakfast, and there he would continue, nominally engaged with
one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr.
Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such
doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been
always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told
Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room in the
house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore,
was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their
walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker
than a reader, was extremely well pleased to close his large book, and
go.
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his
cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of
the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by _him_. Their eyes
were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers,
and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin
in a shop window, could recal them.
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom
they had never seen before, of most gentleman-like appearance, walking
with an officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very
Mr. Denny, concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire,
and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air,
all wondered who he could be, and Kitty and Lydia, determined if
possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretence of
wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained
the pavement when the two gentlemen turning back had reached the same
spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to
introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day
before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in
their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted
only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was
greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine
countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction
was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation--a
readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the
whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably,
when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were
seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group,
the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual
civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the
principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on
purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and
was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they
were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth
happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other,
was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour,
one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments,
touched his hat--a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return.
What could be the meaning of it?--It was impossible to imagine; it was
impossible not to long to know.
In another minute Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what
passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of
Mr. Philips's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's
pressing entreaties that they would come in, and even in spite of Mrs.
Philips' throwing up the parlour window, and loudly seconding the
invitation.
Mrs. Philips was always glad to see her nieces, and the two eldest, from
their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly
expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own
carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if
she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop boy in the street, who had
told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield
because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed
towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with
her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more,
apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with
her, which he could not help flattering himself however might be
justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to
her notice. Mrs. Philips was quite awed by such an excess of good
breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put an end to
by exclamations and inquiries about the other, of whom, however, she
could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had
brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's
commission in the ----shire. She had been watching him the last hour,
she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham
appeared Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation,
but unluckily no one passed the windows now except a few of the
officers, who in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid,
disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Philipses the
next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr.
Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn
would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Philips
protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery
tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such
delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr.
Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured
with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass
between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or
both, had they appeared to be wrong, she could no more explain such
behaviour than her sister.
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs.
Philips's manners and politeness. He protested that except Lady
Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for
she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but had even
pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although
utterly unknown to her before. Something he supposed might be attributed
to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much
attention in the whole course of his life.
As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their
aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for
a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach
conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the
girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room,
that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in
the house.
When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr.
Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much
struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he
might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour
at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much
gratification; but when Mrs. Philips understood from him what Rosings
was, and who was its proprietor, when she had listened to the
description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found
that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all
the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison
with the housekeeper's room.
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion,
with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the
improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the
gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Philips a very attentive
listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she
heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as
soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin,
and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine
their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantle-piece, the
interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last however. The
gentlemen did approach; and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room,
Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking
of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The
officers of the ----shire were in general a very creditable,
gentleman-like set, and the best of them were of the present party; but
Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and
walk, as _they_ were superior to the broad-faced stuffy uncle Philips,
breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was
turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated
himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into
conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the
probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest,
dullest, most thread-bare topic might be rendered interesting by the
skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair, as Mr. Wickham and the
officers, Mr. Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the
young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a
kind listener in Mrs. Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most
abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
When the card tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her
in return, by sitting down to whist.
"I know little of the game, at present," said he, "but I shall be glad
to improve myself, for in my situation of life----" Mrs. Philips was
very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he
received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there
seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most
determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets,
she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets
and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in
particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was
therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to
hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to
be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not
even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly
relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far
Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in
an hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
"About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject
drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I
understand."
"Yes," replied Wickham;--"his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten
thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of
giving you certain information on that head than myself--for I have been
connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy."
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after
seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting
yesterday.--Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"
"As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth warmly,--"I have spent
four days in the same house with him, and I think him very
disagreeable."
"I have no right to give _my_ opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being
agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him
too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for _me_ to
be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general
astonish--and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly
anywhere else.--Here you are in your own family."
"Upon my word I say no more _here_ than I might say in any house in the
neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in
Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find
him more favourably spoken of by any one."
"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short
interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond
their deserts; but with _him_ I believe it does not often happen. The
world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his
high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen."
"I should take him, even on _my_ slight acquaintance, to be an
ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.
"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is
likely to be in this country much longer."
"I do not at all know; but I _heard_ nothing of his going away when I
was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ----shire will
not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."
"Oh! no--it is not for _me_ to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If _he_
wishes to avoid seeing _me_, he must go. We are not on friendly terms,
and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for
avoiding _him_ but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of
very great ill usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is.
His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men
that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be
in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a
thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been
scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every
thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory
of his father."
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with
all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented farther inquiry.
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the
neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he
had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but
very intelligible gallantry.
"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added,
"which was my chief inducement to enter the ----shire. I knew it to be a
most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me
farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great
attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them.
Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and
my spirits will not bear solitude. I _must_ have employment and society.
A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have
now made it eligible. The church _ought_ to have been my profession--I
was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in
possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we
were speaking of just now."
"Indeed!"
"Yes--the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best
living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me.
I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply,
and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given
elsewhere."
"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could _that_ be?--How could
his will be disregarded?--Why did not you seek legal redress?"
"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to
give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the
intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it--or to treat it as a merely
conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim
to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short any thing or nothing.
Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I
was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no
less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done
any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I
may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion _of_ him, and _to_ him, too
freely. I can recal nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very
different sort of men, and that he hates me."
"This is quite shocking!--He deserves to be publicly disgraced."
"Some time or other he _will_ be--but it shall not be by _me_. Till I
can forget his father, I can never defy or expose _him_."
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than
ever as he expressed them.
"But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive?--what
can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"
"A thorough, determined dislike of me--a dislike which I cannot but
attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me
less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon
attachment to me, irritated him I believe very early in life. He had not
a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood--the sort of
preference which was often given me."
"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this--though I have never liked
him, I had not thought so very ill of him--I had supposed him to be
despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of
descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as
this!"
After a few minutes reflection, however, she continued, "I _do_ remember
his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his
resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must
be dreadful."
"I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham, "_I_ can
hardly be just to him."
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To
treat in such a manner, the god-son, the friend, the favourite of his
father!"--She could have added, "A young man too, like _you_, whose very
countenance may vouch for your being amiable"--but she contented
herself with "And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from
childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest
manner!"
"We were born in the same parish, within the same park, the greatest
part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house,
sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. _My_
father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Philips,
appears to do so much credit to--but he gave up every thing to be of use
to the late Mr. Darcy, and devoted all his time to the care of the
Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most
intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to
be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendance,
and when immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a
voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to
be as much a debt of gratitude to _him_, as of affection to myself."
"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable!--I wonder that the very
pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you!--If from no better
motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest,--for
dishonesty I must call it."
"It _is_ wonderful,"--replied Wickham,--"for almost all his actions may
be traced to pride;--and pride has often been his best friend. It has
connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But we are none
of us consistent; and in his behaviour to me, there were stronger
impulses even than pride."
"Can such abominable pride as his, have ever done him good?"
"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous,--to give his
money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve
the poor. Family pride, and _filial_ pride, for he is very proud of what
his father was, have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to
degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the
Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also _brotherly_ pride,
which with _some_ brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful
guardian of his sister; and you will hear him generally cried up as the
most attentive and best of brothers."
"What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?"
He shook his head.--"I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain
to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother,--very,
very proud.--As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and
extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her
amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about
fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her
father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her,
and superintends her education."
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not
help reverting once more to the first, and saying,
"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley,
who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable,
be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other?--Do you
know Mr. Bingley?"
"Not at all."
"He is a sweet tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr.
Darcy is."
"Probably not;--but Mr. Darcy can please where he chuses. He does not
want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth
his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a
very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride
never deserts him; but with the rich, he is liberal-minded, just,
sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable,--allowing
something for fortune and figure."
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round
the other table, and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin
Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips.--The usual inquiries as to his success were
made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point;
but when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured
her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance,
that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged she would not
make herself uneasy.
"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a
card table, they must take their chance of these things,--and happily I
am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There
are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady
Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding
little matters."
Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for
a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation
were very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a
living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her
notice, but he certainly has not known her long."
"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy
were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."
"No, indeed, I did not.--I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's
connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before
yesterday."
"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is
believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss
Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her
affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already
self-destined to another.
"Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her
daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship,
I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his
patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman."
"I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have
not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked
her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the
reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe
she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from
her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who
chuses that every one connected with him should have an understanding of
the first class."
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and
they continued talking together with mutual satisfaction till supper put
an end to cards; and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr.
Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of
Mrs. Philips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to every
body. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done
gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could
think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all
the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as
they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia
talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the
fish she had won, and Mr. Collins, in describing the civility of Mr. and
Mrs. Philips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses
at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing
that he crouded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage
before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House. | Collins is now convinced to ask one of the Bennett girls to marry him. Mrs. Bennett explains that Jane is as good as spoken for, so he diverts his attention to Elizabeth. Collins joins Elizabeth, Lydia and Kitty on a walk to Meryton, where the younger sisters are excited as they hope to meet some of the Officers stationed there, and in particular, George Wickham, a new arrival. Wickham impresses Elizabeth with his good looks and charm, and has already struck up a rapport with her, when Darcy and Bingley ride up. It is clear that Darcy knows Wickham, but they barely acknowledge one another. The next day, the Bennett sisters visit their mother's sister, Mrs. Philips, and Wickham and some other officers are present. Wickham and Elizabeth soon engage in conversation, and he reveals his relationship with Darcy. His father was Darcy's father's steward, and the two boys grew up together. Wickham was favored by Darcy's father, and when he died he was to have received a position on the estate, but Darcy, out of jealousy, gave this job to someone else. Wickham states that Darcy and his sister are unpleasant people, and Elizabeth agrees with this opinion. When Elizabeth tells Jane about this, she is sure there must be some misunderstanding, for Bingley would not associate himself with someone so cruel. |
The child was provided for, but the new arrangement was inevitably
confounding to a young intelligence intensely aware that something had
happened which must matter a good deal and looking anxiously out for
the effects of so great a cause. It was to be the fate of this patient
little girl to see much more than she at first understood, but also even
at first to understand much more than any little girl, however patient,
had perhaps ever understood before. Only a drummer-boy in a ballad or
a story could have been so in the thick of the fight. She was taken
into the confidence of passions on which she fixed just the stare she
might have had for images bounding across the wall in the slide of a
magic-lantern. Her little world was phantasmagoric--strange shadows
dancing on a sheet. It was as if the whole performance had been given
for her--a mite of a half-scared infant in a great dim theatre. She was
in short introduced to life with a liberality in which the selfishness
of others found its account, and there was nothing to avert the
sacrifice but the modesty of her youth.
Her first term was with her father, who spared her only in not letting
her have the wild letters addressed to her by her mother: he confined
himself to holding them up at her and shaking them, while he showed his
teeth, and then amusing her by the way he chucked them, across the room,
bang into the fire. Even at that moment, however, she had a scared
anticipation of fatigue, a guilty sense of not rising to the occasion,
feeling the charm of the violence with which the stiff unopened
envelopes, whose big monograms--Ida bristled with monograms--she would
have liked to see, were made to whizz, like dangerous missiles, through
the air. The greatest effect of the great cause was her own greater
importance, chiefly revealed to her in the larger freedom with which
she was handled, pulled hither and thither and kissed, and the
proportionately greater niceness she was obliged to show. Her features
had somehow become prominent; they were so perpetually nipped by the
gentlemen who came to see her father and the smoke of whose cigarettes
went into her face. Some of these gentlemen made her strike matches and
light their cigarettes; others, holding her on knees violently jolted,
pinched the calves of her legs till she shrieked--her shriek was much
admired--and reproached them with being toothpicks. The word stuck in
her mind and contributed to her feeling from this time that she was
deficient in something that would meet the general desire. She found
out what it was: it was a congenital tendency to the production of a
substance to which Moddle, her nurse, gave a short ugly name, a name
painfully associated at dinner with the part of the joint that she
didn't like. She had left behind her the time when she had no desires
to meet, none at least save Moddle's, who, in Kensington Gardens, was
always on the bench when she came back to see if she had been playing
too far. Moddle's desire was merely that she shouldn't do that, and she
met it so easily that the only spots in that long brightness were the
moments of her wondering what would become of her if, on her rushing
back, there should be no Moddle on the bench. They still went to the
Gardens, but there was a difference even there; she was impelled
perpetually to look at the legs of other children and ask her nurse if
THEY were toothpicks. Moddle was terribly truthful; she always said: "Oh
my dear, you'll not find such another pair as your own." It seemed to
have to do with something else that Moddle often said: "You feel the
strain--that's where it is; and you'll feel it still worse, you know."
Thus from the first Maisie not only felt it, but knew she felt it. A
part of it was the consequence of her father's telling her he felt it
too, and telling Moddle, in her presence, that she must make a point of
driving that home. She was familiar, at the age of six, with the fact
that everything had been changed on her account, everything ordered to
enable him to give himself up to her. She was to remember always the
words in which Moddle impressed upon her that he did so give himself:
"Your papa wishes you never to forget, you know, that he has been
dreadfully put about." If the skin on Moddle's face had to Maisie the
air of being unduly, almost painfully, stretched, it never presented
that appearance so much as when she uttered, as she often had occasion
to utter, such words. The child wondered if they didn't make it hurt
more than usual; but it was only after some time that she was able to
attach to the picture of her father's sufferings, and more particularly
to her nurse's manner about them, the meaning for which these things
had waited. By the time she had grown sharper, as the gentlemen who had
criticised her calves used to say, she found in her mind a collection of
images and echoes to which meanings were attachable--images and echoes
kept for her in the childish dusk, the dim closet, the high drawers,
like games she wasn't yet big enough to play. The great strain meanwhile
was that of carrying by the right end the things her father said about
her mother--things mostly indeed that Moddle, on a glimpse of them, as
if they had been complicated toys or difficult books, took out of her
hands and put away in the closet. A wonderful assortment of objects of
this kind she was to discover there later, all tumbled up too with the
things, shuffled into the same receptacle, that her mother had said
about her father.
She had the knowledge that on a certain occasion which every day brought
nearer her mother would be at the door to take her away, and this would
have darkened all the days if the ingenious Moddle hadn't written on a
paper in very big easy words ever so many pleasures that she would enjoy
at the other house. These promises ranged from "a mother's fond love"
to "a nice poached egg to your tea," and took by the way the prospect
of sitting up ever so late to see the lady in question dressed, in
silks and velvets and diamonds and pearls, to go out: so that it was a
real support to Maisie, at the supreme hour, to feel how, by Moddle's
direction, the paper was thrust away in her pocket and there clenched in
her fist. The supreme hour was to furnish her with a vivid reminiscence,
that of a strange outbreak in the drawing-room on the part of Moddle,
who, in reply to something her father had just said, cried aloud: "You
ought to be perfectly ashamed of yourself--you ought to blush, sir, for
the way you go on!" The carriage, with her mother in it, was at the
door; a gentleman who was there, who was always there, laughed out very
loud; her father, who had her in his arms, said to Moddle: "My dear
woman, I'll settle you presently!"--after which he repeated, showing
his teeth more than ever at Maisie while he hugged her, the words for
which her nurse had taken him up. Maisie was not at the moment so fully
conscious of them as of the wonder of Moddle's sudden disrespect and
crimson face; but she was able to produce them in the course of five
minutes when, in the carriage, her mother, all kisses, ribbons, eyes,
arms, strange sounds and sweet smells, said to her: "And did your
beastly papa, my precious angel, send any message to your own loving
mamma?" Then it was that she found the words spoken by her beastly papa
to be, after all, in her little bewildered ears, from which, at her
mother's appeal, they passed, in her clear shrill voice, straight to
her little innocent lips. "He said I was to tell you, from him," she
faithfully reported, "that you're a nasty horrid pig!" | Henry James includes a short chapter titled "What Maisie Knew. In this chapter, James gives the background of the situation that will play out over the course of the novel. A newly divorced couple, Beale and Ida Farange, are squabbling in court regarding the finances and care of their young daughter, Maisie. It is decided by the court that Maisie will be "divided in two" , which is to say that each of her parents "would take her, in rotation, for six months at a time". This is a surprising and disturbing verdict, as neither of Maisie's parents seem fit to raise a child, and many who had been following the drawn-out legal proceedings assumed Maisie would be put in the care of someone else entirely. It is foreshadowed that Maisie's movement back and forth, especially the disparagement of her father by her mother and vice versa, will be detrimental for her development. James also introduces Beale and Ida Farange and the society they are part of. The author writes that, "This was a society in which for the most part people were occupied only with chatter" ; as a result people were actually pleased to be outraged and take sides during and after the Farange's legal dispute. Physically, both Faranges are tall and attractive, though Ida has strangely long arms which contribute to her extraordinary skill in billiards. Beale was once a foreign diplomat, but at the time of the story has "only twenty-five hundred". It is implied that Ida spent his money during their marriage, and she too has almost no money to her name. The author accounts for Maisie's care by explaining that "The child was provided for, thanks to a crafty godmother" , a matter which is not explicitly mentioned again in the book |
One thing more, I had to do, before yielding myself to the shock of
these emotions. It was, to conceal what had occurred, from those who
were going away; and to dismiss them on their voyage in happy ignorance.
In this, no time was to be lost.
I took Mr. Micawber aside that same night, and confided to him the
task of standing between Mr. Peggotty and intelligence of the late
catastrophe. He zealously undertook to do so, and to intercept any
newspaper through which it might, without such precautions, reach him.
'If it penetrates to him, sir,' said Mr. Micawber, striking himself on
the breast, 'it shall first pass through this body!'
Mr. Micawber, I must observe, in his adaptation of himself to a new
state of society, had acquired a bold buccaneering air, not absolutely
lawless, but defensive and prompt. One might have supposed him a child
of the wilderness, long accustomed to live out of the confines of
civilization, and about to return to his native wilds.
He had provided himself, among other things, with a complete suit of
oilskin, and a straw hat with a very low crown, pitched or caulked on
the outside. In this rough clothing, with a common mariner's telescope
under his arm, and a shrewd trick of casting up his eye at the sky
as looking out for dirty weather, he was far more nautical, after his
manner, than Mr. Peggotty. His whole family, if I may so express it,
were cleared for action. I found Mrs. Micawber in the closest and most
uncompromising of bonnets, made fast under the chin; and in a shawl
which tied her up (as I had been tied up, when my aunt first received
me) like a bundle, and was secured behind at the waist, in a strong
knot. Miss Micawber I found made snug for stormy weather, in the same
manner; with nothing superfluous about her. Master Micawber was hardly
visible in a Guernsey shirt, and the shaggiest suit of slops I ever
saw; and the children were done up, like preserved meats, in impervious
cases. Both Mr. Micawber and his eldest son wore their sleeves loosely
turned back at the wrists, as being ready to lend a hand in any
direction, and to 'tumble up', or sing out, 'Yeo--Heave--Yeo!' on the
shortest notice.
Thus Traddles and I found them at nightfall, assembled on the wooden
steps, at that time known as Hungerford Stairs, watching the departure
of a boat with some of their property on board. I had told Traddles of
the terrible event, and it had greatly shocked him; but there could be
no doubt of the kindness of keeping it a secret, and he had come to help
me in this last service. It was here that I took Mr. Micawber aside, and
received his promise.
The Micawber family were lodged in a little, dirty, tumble-down
public-house, which in those days was close to the stairs, and whose
protruding wooden rooms overhung the river. The family, as emigrants,
being objects of some interest in and about Hungerford, attracted so
many beholders, that we were glad to take refuge in their room. It was
one of the wooden chambers upstairs, with the tide flowing underneath.
My aunt and Agnes were there, busily making some little extra comforts,
in the way of dress, for the children. Peggotty was quietly assisting,
with the old insensible work-box, yard-measure, and bit of wax-candle
before her, that had now outlived so much.
It was not easy to answer her inquiries; still less to whisper Mr.
Peggotty, when Mr. Micawber brought him in, that I had given the letter,
and all was well. But I did both, and made them happy. If I showed any
trace of what I felt, my own sorrows were sufficient to account for it.
'And when does the ship sail, Mr. Micawber?' asked my aunt.
Mr. Micawber considered it necessary to prepare either my aunt or his
wife, by degrees, and said, sooner than he had expected yesterday.
'The boat brought you word, I suppose?' said my aunt.
'It did, ma'am,' he returned.
'Well?' said my aunt. 'And she sails--'
'Madam,' he replied, 'I am informed that we must positively be on board
before seven tomorrow morning.'
'Heyday!' said my aunt, 'that's soon. Is it a sea-going fact, Mr.
Peggotty?' ''Tis so, ma'am. She'll drop down the river with that theer
tide. If Mas'r Davy and my sister comes aboard at Gravesen', arternoon
o' next day, they'll see the last on us.'
'And that we shall do,' said I, 'be sure!'
'Until then, and until we are at sea,' observed Mr. Micawber, with a
glance of intelligence at me, 'Mr. Peggotty and myself will constantly
keep a double look-out together, on our goods and chattels. Emma, my
love,' said Mr. Micawber, clearing his throat in his magnificent way,
'my friend Mr. Thomas Traddles is so obliging as to solicit, in my ear,
that he should have the privilege of ordering the ingredients necessary
to the composition of a moderate portion of that Beverage which is
peculiarly associated, in our minds, with the Roast Beef of Old England.
I allude to--in short, Punch. Under ordinary circumstances, I should
scruple to entreat the indulgence of Miss Trotwood and Miss Wickfield,
but-'
'I can only say for myself,' said my aunt, 'that I will drink all
happiness and success to you, Mr. Micawber, with the utmost pleasure.'
'And I too!' said Agnes, with a smile.
Mr. Micawber immediately descended to the bar, where he appeared to be
quite at home; and in due time returned with a steaming jug. I could
not but observe that he had been peeling the lemons with his own
clasp-knife, which, as became the knife of a practical settler, was
about a foot long; and which he wiped, not wholly without ostentation,
on the sleeve of his coat. Mrs. Micawber and the two elder members
of the family I now found to be provided with similar formidable
instruments, while every child had its own wooden spoon attached to its
body by a strong line. In a similar anticipation of life afloat, and in
the Bush, Mr. Micawber, instead of helping Mrs. Micawber and his eldest
son and daughter to punch, in wine-glasses, which he might easily have
done, for there was a shelf-full in the room, served it out to them in a
series of villainous little tin pots; and I never saw him enjoy anything
so much as drinking out of his own particular pint pot, and putting it
in his pocket at the close of the evening.
'The luxuries of the old country,' said Mr. Micawber, with an intense
satisfaction in their renouncement, 'we abandon. The denizens of the
forest cannot, of course, expect to participate in the refinements of
the land of the Free.'
Here, a boy came in to say that Mr. Micawber was wanted downstairs.
'I have a presentiment,' said Mrs. Micawber, setting down her tin pot,
'that it is a member of my family!'
'If so, my dear,' observed Mr. Micawber, with his usual suddenness of
warmth on that subject, 'as the member of your family--whoever he, she,
or it, may be--has kept us waiting for a considerable period, perhaps
the Member may now wait MY convenience.'
'Micawber,' said his wife, in a low tone, 'at such a time as this--'
'"It is not meet,"' said Mr. Micawber, rising, '"that every nice offence
should bear its comment!" Emma, I stand reproved.'
'The loss, Micawber,' observed his wife, 'has been my family's, not
yours. If my family are at length sensible of the deprivation to which
their own conduct has, in the past, exposed them, and now desire to
extend the hand of fellowship, let it not be repulsed.'
'My dear,' he returned, 'so be it!'
'If not for their sakes; for mine, Micawber,' said his wife.
'Emma,' he returned, 'that view of the question is, at such a moment,
irresistible. I cannot, even now, distinctly pledge myself to fall
upon your family's neck; but the member of your family, who is now in
attendance, shall have no genial warmth frozen by me.'
Mr. Micawber withdrew, and was absent some little time; in the course of
which Mrs. Micawber was not wholly free from an apprehension that words
might have arisen between him and the Member. At length the same boy
reappeared, and presented me with a note written in pencil, and headed,
in a legal manner, 'Heep v. Micawber'. From this document, I learned
that Mr. Micawber being again arrested, 'Was in a final paroxysm of
despair; and that he begged me to send him his knife and pint pot, by
bearer, as they might prove serviceable during the brief remainder of
his existence, in jail. He also requested, as a last act of friendship,
that I would see his family to the Parish Workhouse, and forget that
such a Being ever lived.
Of course I answered this note by going down with the boy to pay the
money, where I found Mr. Micawber sitting in a corner, looking darkly at
the Sheriff 's Officer who had effected the capture. On his release,
he embraced me with the utmost fervour; and made an entry of the
transaction in his pocket-book--being very particular, I recollect,
about a halfpenny I inadvertently omitted from my statement of the
total.
This momentous pocket-book was a timely reminder to him of another
transaction. On our return to the room upstairs (where he accounted for
his absence by saying that it had been occasioned by circumstances over
which he had no control), he took out of it a large sheet of paper,
folded small, and quite covered with long sums, carefully worked. From
the glimpse I had of them, I should say that I never saw such sums
out of a school ciphering-book. These, it seemed, were calculations of
compound interest on what he called 'the principal amount of forty-one,
ten, eleven and a half', for various periods. After a careful
consideration of these, and an elaborate estimate of his resources,
he had come to the conclusion to select that sum which represented the
amount with compound interest to two years, fifteen calendar months, and
fourteen days, from that date. For this he had drawn a note-of-hand
with great neatness, which he handed over to Traddles on the spot,
a discharge of his debt in full (as between man and man), with many
acknowledgements.
'I have still a presentiment,' said Mrs. Micawber, pensively shaking her
head, 'that my family will appear on board, before we finally depart.'
Mr. Micawber evidently had his presentiment on the subject too, but he
put it in his tin pot and swallowed it.
'If you have any opportunity of sending letters home, on your passage,
Mrs. Micawber,' said my aunt, 'you must let us hear from you, you know.'
'My dear Miss Trotwood,' she replied, 'I shall only be too happy
to think that anyone expects to hear from us. I shall not fail to
correspond. Mr. Copperfield, I trust, as an old and familiar friend,
will not object to receive occasional intelligence, himself, from one
who knew him when the twins were yet unconscious?'
I said that I should hope to hear, whenever she had an opportunity of
writing.
'Please Heaven, there will be many such opportunities,' said Mr.
Micawber. 'The ocean, in these times, is a perfect fleet of ships; and
we can hardly fail to encounter many, in running over. It is merely
crossing,' said Mr. Micawber, trifling with his eye-glass, 'merely
crossing. The distance is quite imaginary.'
I think, now, how odd it was, but how wonderfully like Mr. Micawber,
that, when he went from London to Canterbury, he should have talked as
if he were going to the farthest limits of the earth; and, when he went
from England to Australia, as if he were going for a little trip across
the channel.
'On the voyage, I shall endeavour,' said Mr. Micawber, 'occasionally
to spin them a yarn; and the melody of my son Wilkins will, I trust,
be acceptable at the galley-fire. When Mrs. Micawber has her
sea-legs on--an expression in which I hope there is no conventional
impropriety--she will give them, I dare say, "Little Tafflin". Porpoises
and dolphins, I believe, will be frequently observed athwart our
Bows; and, either on the starboard or the larboard quarter, objects of
interest will be continually descried. In short,' said Mr. Micawber,
with the old genteel air, 'the probability is, all will be found so
exciting, alow and aloft, that when the lookout, stationed in the
main-top, cries Land-oh! we shall be very considerably astonished!'
With that he flourished off the contents of his little tin pot, as if he
had made the voyage, and had passed a first-class examination before the
highest naval authorities.
'What I chiefly hope, my dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber,
'is, that in some branches of our family we may live again in the old
country. Do not frown, Micawber! I do not now refer to my own family,
but to our children's children. However vigorous the sapling,' said Mrs.
Micawber, shaking her head, 'I cannot forget the parent-tree; and when
our race attains to eminence and fortune, I own I should wish that
fortune to flow into the coffers of Britannia.'
'My dear,' said Mr. Micawber, 'Britannia must take her chance. I am
bound to say that she has never done much for me, and that I have no
particular wish upon the subject.'
'Micawber,' returned Mrs. Micawber, 'there, you are wrong. You are going
out, Micawber, to this distant clime, to strengthen, not to weaken, the
connexion between yourself and Albion.'
'The connexion in question, my love,' rejoined Mr. Micawber, 'has not
laid me, I repeat, under that load of personal obligation, that I am at
all sensitive as to the formation of another connexion.'
'Micawber,' returned Mrs. Micawber. 'There, I again say, you are wrong.
You do not know your power, Micawber. It is that which will strengthen,
even in this step you are about to take, the connexion between yourself
and Albion.'
Mr. Micawber sat in his elbow-chair, with his eyebrows raised; half
receiving and half repudiating Mrs. Micawber's views as they were
stated, but very sensible of their foresight.
'My dear Mr. Copperfield,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'I wish Mr. Micawber to
feel his position. It appears to me highly important that Mr. Micawber
should, from the hour of his embarkation, feel his position. Your old
knowledge of me, my dear Mr. Copperfield, will have told you that I have
not the sanguine disposition of Mr. Micawber. My disposition is, if I
may say so, eminently practical. I know that this is a long voyage. I
know that it will involve many privations and inconveniences. I cannot
shut my eyes to those facts. But I also know what Mr. Micawber is.
I know the latent power of Mr. Micawber. And therefore I consider it
vitally important that Mr. Micawber should feel his position.'
'My love,' he observed, 'perhaps you will allow me to remark that it is
barely possible that I DO feel my position at the present moment.'
'I think not, Micawber,' she rejoined. 'Not fully. My dear Mr.
Copperfield, Mr. Micawber's is not a common case. Mr. Micawber is going
to a distant country expressly in order that he may be fully understood
and appreciated for the first time. I wish Mr. Micawber to take his
stand upon that vessel's prow, and firmly say, "This country I am
come to conquer! Have you honours? Have you riches? Have you posts of
profitable pecuniary emolument? Let them be brought forward. They are
mine!"'
Mr. Micawber, glancing at us all, seemed to think there was a good deal
in this idea.
'I wish Mr. Micawber, if I make myself understood,' said Mrs. Micawber,
in her argumentative tone, 'to be the Caesar of his own fortunes. That,
my dear Mr. Copperfield, appears to me to be his true position. From
the first moment of this voyage, I wish Mr. Micawber to stand upon
that vessel's prow and say, "Enough of delay: enough of disappointment:
enough of limited means. That was in the old country. This is the new.
Produce your reparation. Bring it forward!"'
Mr. Micawber folded his arms in a resolute manner, as if he were then
stationed on the figure-head.
'And doing that,' said Mrs. Micawber, '--feeling his position--am I not
right in saying that Mr. Micawber will strengthen, and not weaken, his
connexion with Britain? An important public character arising in that
hemisphere, shall I be told that its influence will not be felt at home?
Can I be so weak as to imagine that Mr. Micawber, wielding the rod of
talent and of power in Australia, will be nothing in England? I am but
a woman; but I should be unworthy of myself and of my papa, if I were
guilty of such absurd weakness.'
Mrs. Micawber's conviction that her arguments were unanswerable, gave
a moral elevation to her tone which I think I had never heard in it
before.
'And therefore it is,' said Mrs. Micawber, 'that I the more wish, that,
at a future period, we may live again on the parent soil. Mr. Micawber
may be--I cannot disguise from myself that the probability is, Mr.
Micawber will be--a page of History; and he ought then to be represented
in the country which gave him birth, and did NOT give him employment!'
'My love,' observed Mr. Micawber, 'it is impossible for me not to be
touched by your affection. I am always willing to defer to your good
sense. What will be--will be. Heaven forbid that I should grudge my
native country any portion of the wealth that may be accumulated by our
descendants!'
'That's well,' said my aunt, nodding towards Mr. Peggotty, 'and I drink
my love to you all, and every blessing and success attend you!'
Mr. Peggotty put down the two children he had been nursing, one on each
knee, to join Mr. and Mrs. Micawber in drinking to all of us in return;
and when he and the Micawbers cordially shook hands as comrades, and his
brown face brightened with a smile, I felt that he would make his way,
establish a good name, and be beloved, go where he would.
Even the children were instructed, each to dip a wooden spoon into Mr.
Micawber's pot, and pledge us in its contents. When this was done, my
aunt and Agnes rose, and parted from the emigrants. It was a sorrowful
farewell. They were all crying; the children hung about Agnes to the
last; and we left poor Mrs. Micawber in a very distressed condition,
sobbing and weeping by a dim candle, that must have made the room look,
from the river, like a miserable light-house.
I went down again next morning to see that they were away. They had
departed, in a boat, as early as five o'clock. It was a wonderful
instance to me of the gap such partings make, that although my
association of them with the tumble-down public-house and the wooden
stairs dated only from last night, both seemed dreary and deserted, now
that they were gone.
In the afternoon of the next day, my old nurse and I went down to
Gravesend. We found the ship in the river, surrounded by a crowd
of boats; a favourable wind blowing; the signal for sailing at her
mast-head. I hired a boat directly, and we put off to her; and getting
through the little vortex of confusion of which she was the centre, went
on board.
Mr. Peggotty was waiting for us on deck. He told me that Mr. Micawber
had just now been arrested again (and for the last time) at the suit of
Heep, and that, in compliance with a request I had made to him, he had
paid the money, which I repaid him. He then took us down between decks;
and there, any lingering fears I had of his having heard any rumours of
what had happened, were dispelled by Mr. Micawber's coming out of the
gloom, taking his arm with an air of friendship and protection, and
telling me that they had scarcely been asunder for a moment, since the
night before last.
It was such a strange scene to me, and so confined and dark, that, at
first, I could make out hardly anything; but, by degrees, it cleared, as
my eyes became more accustomed to the gloom, and I seemed to stand in
a picture by OSTADE. Among the great beams, bulks, and ringbolts of the
ship, and the emigrant-berths, and chests, and bundles, and barrels, and
heaps of miscellaneous baggage--'lighted up, here and there, by dangling
lanterns; and elsewhere by the yellow daylight straying down a windsail
or a hatchway--were crowded groups of people, making new friendships,
taking leave of one another, talking, laughing, crying, eating and
drinking; some, already settled down into the possession of their few
feet of space, with their little households arranged, and tiny children
established on stools, or in dwarf elbow-chairs; others, despairing of
a resting-place, and wandering disconsolately. From babies who had but a
week or two of life behind them, to crooked old men and women who seemed
to have but a week or two of life before them; and from ploughmen bodily
carrying out soil of England on their boots, to smiths taking away
samples of its soot and smoke upon their skins; every age and occupation
appeared to be crammed into the narrow compass of the 'tween decks.
As my eye glanced round this place, I thought I saw sitting, by an open
port, with one of the Micawber children near her, a figure like Emily's;
it first attracted my attention, by another figure parting from it with
a kiss; and as it glided calmly away through the disorder, reminding
me of--Agnes! But in the rapid motion and confusion, and in the
unsettlement of my own thoughts, I lost it again; and only knew that
the time was come when all visitors were being warned to leave the ship;
that my nurse was crying on a chest beside me; and that Mrs. Gummidge,
assisted by some younger stooping woman in black, was busily arranging
Mr. Peggotty's goods.
'Is there any last wured, Mas'r Davy?' said he. 'Is there any one
forgotten thing afore we parts?'
'One thing!' said I. 'Martha!'
He touched the younger woman I have mentioned on the shoulder, and
Martha stood before me.
'Heaven bless you, you good man!' cried I. 'You take her with you!'
She answered for him, with a burst of tears. I could speak no more at
that time, but I wrung his hand; and if ever I have loved and honoured
any man, I loved and honoured that man in my soul.
The ship was clearing fast of strangers. The greatest trial that I had,
remained. I told him what the noble spirit that was gone, had given me
in charge to say at parting. It moved him deeply. But when he charged
me, in return, with many messages of affection and regret for those deaf
ears, he moved me more.
The time was come. I embraced him, took my weeping nurse upon my arm,
and hurried away. On deck, I took leave of poor Mrs. Micawber. She was
looking distractedly about for her family, even then; and her last words
to me were, that she never would desert Mr. Micawber.
We went over the side into our boat, and lay at a little distance, to
see the ship wafted on her course. It was then calm, radiant sunset.
She lay between us, and the red light; and every taper line and spar was
visible against the glow. A sight at once so beautiful, so mournful, and
so hopeful, as the glorious ship, lying, still, on the flushed water,
with all the life on board her crowded at the bulwarks, and there
clustering, for a moment, bare-headed and silent, I never saw.
Silent, only for a moment. As the sails rose to the wind, and the ship
began to move, there broke from all the boats three resounding cheers,
which those on board took up, and echoed back, and which were echoed
and re-echoed. My heart burst out when I heard the sound, and beheld the
waving of the hats and handkerchiefs--and then I saw her!
Then I saw her, at her uncle's side, and trembling on his shoulder. He
pointed to us with an eager hand; and she saw us, and waved her last
good-bye to me. Aye, Emily, beautiful and drooping, cling to him with
the utmost trust of thy bruised heart; for he has clung to thee, with
all the might of his great love!
Surrounded by the rosy light, and standing high upon the deck, apart
together, she clinging to him, and he holding her, they solemnly passed
away. The night had fallen on the Kentish hills when we were rowed
ashore--and fallen darkly upon me. | David decides not to tell Mr. Peggotty or Emily about what has happened to Steerforth or Ham. He asks Mr. Micawber to help him keep the secret, which Mr. Micawber promises to do. David notices that Mr. Micawber and Master Micawber have started behaving like swashbuckling adventurers in preparation for their trip to Australia - they'll burst into sea chanties at the drop of a hat, and so on. Traddles and David come to the Micawbers' house to see them off. David tells Traddles about Steerforth's death. Traddles is shocked, of course. Miss Betsey, Peggotty, and Agnes all come to help the Micawbers pack. David tells Peggotty that Ham is well, and he promises Mr. Peggotty that he delivered Emily's letter to Ham. They don't suspect a thing. The Micawbers are setting sail at 7 A.M. Until then, Mr. Micawber plans to sit with Mr. Peggotty to watch their luggage. Mr. Micawber asks Mrs. Micawber to produce her famous punch so they can all drink a toast to future success. All of this merrymaking is interrupted when a boy comes in to tell Mr. Micawber that he has a visitor. Mrs. Micawber wonders if it is a member of her family. Mr. Micawber hesitates to go and see, but eventually, he heads out to meet his guest. Sadly, Mrs. Micawber was wrong: it's not a member of her family, it's someone who has come to arrest Mr. Micawber for yet another debt. David goes down to pay the money Mr. Micawber owes. Mr. Micawber hugs David and thanks him. Mr. Micawber then remembers to hand Traddles a complete account of all of his debts. Mrs. Micawber still predicts that her family will come to make amends. Miss Betsey asks Mrs. Micawber to write to them regularly. The Micawbers go off into fantasies of what the voyage to Australia will be like - lots of singing and dolphins and exciting objects. Mrs. Micawber hopes that someday, the Micawbers might be able to return again to England. Mr. Micawber doesn't particularly want to go home. This sparks off yet another argument. Miss Betsey cuts off this fight to drink a toast to all the people sailing away the next day. That afternoon, David goes to the docks. He finds Mr. Peggotty, who tells David that Mr. Micawber has, once again, been arrested for his debts. Mr. Peggotty has used some of David's money to bail him out. Mr. Micawber comes up and takes Mr. Peggotty's arm in a gesture of friendship. David is quite surprised by the people collected around the boat to Australia, people of all ages, shapes, and sizes. Mr. Peggotty asks David if there's anything they have forgotten. David asks about Martha Endell, the younger woman who is helping Mrs. Gummidge arrange their luggage. Apparently, Mr. Peggotty has decided to take Martha with Emily to Australia. Mr. Peggotty's generosity impresses David. David gives Mr. Peggotty the message Ham had asked him to tell Mr. Peggotty, and Mr. Peggotty gives messages to Ham in return. After hugging Mr. Peggotty, David leaves the dock with Peggotty. David sees Emily standing on the deck next to her uncle. She sees David and waves goodbye. |
Next morning I rose somewhat before the breakfast hour. As I descended
the stairs, Edith stepped into the hall from the room which had been
the scene of the morning interview between us described some chapters
back.
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with a charmingly arch expression, "you thought
to slip out unbeknown for another of those solitary morning rambles
which have such nice effects on you. But you see I am up too early for
you this time. You are fairly caught."
"You discredit the efficacy of your own cure," I said, "by supposing
that such a ramble would now be attended with bad consequences."
"I am very glad to hear that," she said. "I was in here arranging some
flowers for the breakfast table when I heard you come down, and
fancied I detected something surreptitious in your step on the
stairs."
"You did me injustice," I replied. "I had no idea of going out at
all."
Despite her effort to convey an impression that my interception was
purely accidental, I had at the time a dim suspicion of what I
afterwards learned to be the fact, namely, that this sweet creature,
in pursuance of her self-assumed guardianship over me, had risen for
the last two or three mornings at an unheard-of hour, to insure
against the possibility of my wandering off alone in case I should be
affected as on the former occasion. Receiving permission to assist her
in making up the breakfast bouquet, I followed her into the room from
which she had emerged.
"Are you sure," she asked, "that you are quite done with those
terrible sensations you had that morning?"
"I can't say that I do not have times of feeling decidedly queer," I
replied, "moments when my personal identity seems an open question. It
would be too much to expect after my experience that I should not have
such sensations occasionally, but as for being carried entirely off my
feet, as I was on the point of being that morning, I think the danger
is past."
"I shall never forget how you looked that morning," she said.
"If you had merely saved my life," I continued, "I might, perhaps,
find words to express my gratitude, but it was my reason you saved,
and there are no words that would not belittle my debt to you." I
spoke with emotion, and her eyes grew suddenly moist.
"It is too much to believe all this," she said, "but it is very
delightful to hear you say it. What I did was very little. I was very
much distressed for you, I know. Father never thinks anything ought to
astonish us when it can be explained scientifically, as I suppose this
long sleep of yours can be, but even to fancy myself in your place
makes my head swim. I know that I could not have borne it at all."
"That would depend," I replied, "on whether an angel came to support
you with her sympathy in the crisis of your condition, as one came to
me." If my face at all expressed the feelings I had a right to have
toward this sweet and lovely young girl, who had played so angelic a
role toward me, its expression must have been very worshipful just
then. The expression or the words, or both together, caused her now to
drop her eyes with a charming blush.
"For the matter of that," I said, "if your experience has not been as
startling as mine, it must have been rather overwhelming to see a man
belonging to a strange century, and apparently a hundred years dead,
raised to life."
"It seemed indeed strange beyond any describing at first," she said,
"but when we began to put ourselves in your place, and realize how
much stranger it must seem to you, I fancy we forgot our own feelings
a good deal, at least I know I did. It seemed then not so much
astounding as interesting and touching beyond anything ever heard of
before."
"But does it not come over you as astounding to sit at table with me,
seeing who I am?"
"You must remember that you do not seem so strange to us as we must to
you," she answered. "We belong to a future of which you could not form
an idea, a generation of which you knew nothing until you saw us. But
you belong to a generation of which our forefathers were a part. We
know all about it; the names of many of its members are household
words with us. We have made a study of your ways of living and
thinking; nothing you say or do surprises us, while we say and do
nothing which does not seem strange to you. So you see, Mr. West, that
if you feel that you can, in time, get accustomed to us, you must not
be surprised that from the first we have scarcely found you strange at
all."
"I had not thought of it in that way," I replied. "There is indeed
much in what you say. One can look back a thousand years easier than
forward fifty. A century is not so very long a retrospect. I might
have known your great-grand-parents. Possibly I did. Did they live in
Boston?"
"I believe so."
"You are not sure, then?"
"Yes," she replied. "Now I think, they did."
"I had a very large circle of acquaintances in the city," I said. "It
is not unlikely that I knew or knew of some of them. Perhaps I may
have known them well. Wouldn't it be interesting if I should chance
to be able to tell you all about your great-grandfather, for
instance?"
"Very interesting."
"Do you know your genealogy well enough to tell me who your forbears
were in the Boston of my day?"
"Oh, yes."
"Perhaps, then, you will some time tell me what some of their names
were."
She was engrossed in arranging a troublesome spray of green, and did
not reply at once. Steps upon the stairway indicated that the other
members of the family were descending.
"Perhaps, some time," she said.
After breakfast, Dr. Leete suggested taking me to inspect the central
warehouse and observe actually in operation the machinery of
distribution, which Edith had described to me. As we walked away from
the house I said, "It is now several days that I have been living in
your household on a most extraordinary footing, or rather on none at
all. I have not spoken of this aspect of my position before because
there were so many other aspects yet more extraordinary. But now that
I am beginning a little to feel my feet under me, and to realize that,
however I came here, I am here, and must make the best of it, I must
speak to you on this point."
"As for your being a guest in my house," replied Dr. Leete, "I pray
you not to begin to be uneasy on that point, for I mean to keep you a
long time yet. With all your modesty, you can but realize that such a
guest as yourself is an acquisition not willingly to be parted with."
"Thanks, doctor," I said. "It would be absurd, certainly, for me to
affect any oversensitiveness about accepting the temporary hospitality
of one to whom I owe it that I am not still awaiting the end of the
world in a living tomb. But if I am to be a permanent citizen of this
century I must have some standing in it. Now, in my time a person more
or less entering the world, however he got in, would not be noticed in
the unorganized throng of men, and might make a place for himself
anywhere he chose if he were strong enough. But nowadays everybody is
a part of a system with a distinct place and function. I am outside
the system, and don't see how I can get in; there seems no way to get
in, except to be born in or to come in as an emigrant from some other
system."
Dr. Leete laughed heartily.
"I admit," he said, "that our system is defective in lacking provision
for cases like yours, but you see nobody anticipated additions to the
world except by the usual process. You need, however, have no fear
that we shall be unable to provide both a place and occupation for you
in due time. You have as yet been brought in contact only with the
members of my family, but you must not suppose that I have kept your
secret. On the contrary, your case, even before your resuscitation,
and vastly more since, has excited the profoundest interest in the
nation. In view of your precarious nervous condition, it was thought
best that I should take exclusive charge of you at first, and that you
should, through me and my family, receive some general idea of the
sort of world you had come back to before you began to make the
acquaintance generally of its inhabitants. As to finding a function
for you in society, there was no hesitation as to what that would be.
Few of us have it in our power to confer so great a service on the
nation as you will be able to when you leave my roof, which, however,
you must not think of doing for a good time yet."
"What can I possibly do?" I asked. "Perhaps you imagine I have some
trade, or art, or special skill. I assure you I have none whatever. I
never earned a dollar in my life, or did an hour's work. I am strong,
and might be a common laborer, but nothing more."
"If that were the most efficient service you were able to render the
nation, you would find that avocation considered quite as respectable
as any other," replied Dr. Leete; "but you can do something else
better. You are easily the master of all our historians on questions
relating to the social condition of the latter part of the nineteenth
century, to us one of the most absorbingly interesting periods of
history; and whenever in due time you have sufficiently familiarized
yourself with our institutions, and are willing to teach us something
concerning those of your day, you will find an historical lectureship
in one of our colleges awaiting you."
"Very good! very good indeed," I said, much relieved by so practical a
suggestion on a point which had begun to trouble me. "If your people
are really so much interested in the nineteenth century, there will
indeed be an occupation ready-made for me. I don't think there is
anything else that I could possibly earn my salt at, but I certainly
may claim without conceit to have some special qualifications for such
a post as you describe." | The next morning, when Julian West leaves his room, Edith Leete comes out of the dining room to check on him. He realizes she has been getting up very early every morning to make sure he does not leave the house because she fears that he will have another crisis. He is very touched by her concern and calls her an angel. He asks her if she knows who her nineteenth-century ancestors were. She says she does, but then she is too absorbed in arranging the flowers to tell him their names. Doctor Leete comes in, and Julian West takes up the question of what he should do to enter the system of this new society. Doctor Leete tells him that he is quite happy to have him as a guest for a long time since he is so interesting. He adds that when the time comes, Julian West might like to take up a lectureship at one of the universities teaching nineteenth-century history. Julian West is greatly relieved at this news. |
ACT V. SCENE 1.
London. The palace
Sennet. Enter the KING, GLOUCESTER, and EXETER
KING HENRY. Have you perus'd the letters from the Pope,
The Emperor, and the Earl of Armagnac?
GLOUCESTER. I have, my lord; and their intent is this:
They humbly sue unto your Excellence
To have a godly peace concluded of
Between the realms of England and of France.
KING HENRY. How doth your Grace affect their motion?
GLOUCESTER. Well, my good lord, and as the only means
To stop effusion of our Christian blood
And stablish quietness on every side.
KING HENRY. Ay, marry, uncle; for I always thought
It was both impious and unnatural
That such immanity and bloody strife
Should reign among professors of one faith.
GLOUCESTER. Beside, my lord, the sooner to effect
And surer bind this knot of amity,
The Earl of Armagnac, near knit to Charles,
A man of great authority in France,
Proffers his only daughter to your Grace
In marriage, with a large and sumptuous dowry.
KING HENRY. Marriage, uncle! Alas, my years are young
And fitter is my study and my books
Than wanton dalliance with a paramour.
Yet call th' ambassadors, and, as you please,
So let them have their answers every one.
I shall be well content with any choice
Tends to God's glory and my country's weal.
Enter in Cardinal's habit
BEAUFORT, the PAPAL LEGATE, and two AMBASSADORS
EXETER. What! Is my Lord of Winchester install'd
And call'd unto a cardinal's degree?
Then I perceive that will be verified
Henry the Fifth did sometime prophesy:
'If once he come to be a cardinal,
He'll make his cap co-equal with the crown.'
KING HENRY. My Lords Ambassadors, your several suits
Have been consider'd and debated on.
Your purpose is both good and reasonable,
And therefore are we certainly resolv'd
To draw conditions of a friendly peace,
Which by my Lord of Winchester we mean
Shall be transported presently to France.
GLOUCESTER. And for the proffer of my lord your master,
I have inform'd his Highness so at large,
As, liking of the lady's virtuous gifts,
Her beauty, and the value of her dower,
He doth intend she shall be England's Queen.
KING HENRY. [To AMBASSADOR] In argument and proof of
which contract,
Bear her this jewel, pledge of my affection.
And so, my Lord Protector, see them guarded
And safely brought to Dover; where inshipp'd,
Commit them to the fortune of the sea.
Exeunt all but WINCHESTER and the LEGATE
WINCHESTER. Stay, my Lord Legate; you shall first receive
The sum of money which I promised
Should be delivered to his Holiness
For clothing me in these grave ornaments.
LEGATE. I will attend upon your lordship's leisure.
WINCHESTER. [Aside] Now Winchester will not submit, I
trow,
Or be inferior to the proudest peer.
Humphrey of Gloucester, thou shalt well perceive
That neither in birth or for authority
The Bishop will be overborne by thee.
I'll either make thee stoop and bend thy knee,
Or sack this country with a mutiny. Exeunt | The King, Gloucester, and Exeter are discussing the King's mail. The Pope, who is a figure of great political power as well as spiritual significance, has written and asked England and France to make peace. The King asks Gloucester's advice, and Gloucester says it would be nice if they could stop killing each other and live a quiet life. We also learn that the Earl of Armagnac, a powerful man in France, has offered his daughter in marriage with a magnificent dowry if that will help conclude the peace deal. The King says he's pretty young to get married, and should probably be doing his homework instead of wooing a bride. He calls the marriage a "wanton dalliance," which seems a little harsh on poor Mademoiselle Armagnac--it sounds more like the way you'd describe a mistress than a wife. Henry may just be too young and clueless to realize that this could be offensive; he certainly doesn't seem to know much about love. He does say he'll be content with any choice that will advance God's glory and the good of his country. This is a noble sentiment, but doesn't seem like the most passionate idea of marriage out there. Winchester and some ambassadors turn up. Exeter gives Winchester a hard time about advancing to the rank of cardinal, and says that Henry the Fifth thought Winchester would be trying to equal the King if he got the Cardinal's role. The King says he's good with peace and it will all be arranged. Gloucester tells the ambassador from the Earl of Armagnac that the King likes the Earl's daughter and wants to make her queen. This is kind of odd: Shouldn't Henry be saying this himself? And shouldn't he have decided one way or the other earlier in the scene? This is probably another way of showing his youth and naivete. The King does send a jewel to the Earl's daughter at least. Fingers crossed it's a nice one. As the scene ends, we get a presumably private moment where Winchester pays off the Pope's representative for making him a cardinal. He also says how happy he is that he'll now be of equal rank with Gloucester, adding that he'll make Gloucester bow to him or else he'll sack the whole country with a mutiny. Which seems a little excessive. |
Chapter II. Children
And so on that frosty, snowy, and windy day in November, Kolya Krassotkin
was sitting at home. It was Sunday and there was no school. It had just
struck eleven, and he particularly wanted to go out "on very urgent
business," but he was left alone in charge of the house, for it so
happened that all its elder inmates were absent owing to a sudden and
singular event. Madame Krassotkin had let two little rooms, separated from
the rest of the house by a passage, to a doctor's wife with her two small
children. This lady was the same age as Anna Fyodorovna, and a great
friend of hers. Her husband, the doctor, had taken his departure twelve
months before, going first to Orenburg and then to Tashkend, and for the
last six months she had not heard a word from him. Had it not been for her
friendship with Madame Krassotkin, which was some consolation to the
forsaken lady, she would certainly have completely dissolved away in
tears. And now, to add to her misfortunes, Katerina, her only servant, was
suddenly moved the evening before to announce, to her mistress's
amazement, that she proposed to bring a child into the world before
morning. It seemed almost miraculous to every one that no one had noticed
the probability of it before. The astounded doctor's wife decided to move
Katerina while there was still time to an establishment in the town kept
by a midwife for such emergencies. As she set great store by her servant,
she promptly carried out this plan and remained there looking after her.
By the morning all Madame Krassotkin's friendly sympathy and energy were
called upon to render assistance and appeal to some one for help in the
case.
So both the ladies were absent from home, the Krassotkins' servant,
Agafya, had gone out to the market, and Kolya was thus left for a time to
protect and look after "the kids," that is, the son and daughter of the
doctor's wife, who were left alone. Kolya was not afraid of taking care of
the house, besides he had Perezvon, who had been told to lie flat, without
moving, under the bench in the hall. Every time Kolya, walking to and fro
through the rooms, came into the hall, the dog shook his head and gave two
loud and insinuating taps on the floor with his tail, but alas! the
whistle did not sound to release him. Kolya looked sternly at the luckless
dog, who relapsed again into obedient rigidity. The one thing that
troubled Kolya was "the kids." He looked, of course, with the utmost scorn
on Katerina's unexpected adventure, but he was very fond of the bereaved
"kiddies," and had already taken them a picture-book. Nastya, the elder, a
girl of eight, could read, and Kostya, the boy, aged seven, was very fond
of being read to by her. Krassotkin could, of course, have provided more
diverting entertainment for them. He could have made them stand side by
side and played soldiers with them, or sent them hiding all over the
house. He had done so more than once before and was not above doing it, so
much so that a report once spread at school that Krassotkin played horses
with the little lodgers at home, prancing with his head on one side like a
trace-horse. But Krassotkin haughtily parried this thrust, pointing out
that to play horses with boys of one's own age, boys of thirteen, would
certainly be disgraceful "at this date," but that he did it for the sake
of "the kids" because he liked them, and no one had a right to call him to
account for his feelings. The two "kids" adored him.
But on this occasion he was in no mood for games. He had very important
business of his own before him, something almost mysterious. Meanwhile
time was passing and Agafya, with whom he could have left the children,
would not come back from market. He had several times already crossed the
passage, opened the door of the lodgers' room and looked anxiously at "the
kids" who were sitting over the book, as he had bidden them. Every time he
opened the door they grinned at him, hoping he would come in and would do
something delightful and amusing. But Kolya was bothered and did not go
in.
At last it struck eleven and he made up his mind, once for all, that if
that "damned" Agafya did not come back within ten minutes he should go out
without waiting for her, making "the kids" promise, of course, to be brave
when he was away, not to be naughty, not to cry from fright. With this
idea he put on his wadded winter overcoat with its catskin fur collar,
slung his satchel round his shoulder, and, regardless of his mother's
constantly reiterated entreaties that he would always put on goloshes in
such cold weather, he looked at them contemptuously as he crossed the hall
and went out with only his boots on. Perezvon, seeing him in his outdoor
clothes, began tapping nervously, yet vigorously, on the floor with his
tail. Twitching all over, he even uttered a plaintive whine. But Kolya,
seeing his dog's passionate excitement, decided that it was a breach of
discipline, kept him for another minute under the bench, and only when he
had opened the door into the passage, whistled for him. The dog leapt up
like a mad creature and rushed bounding before him rapturously.
Kolya opened the door to peep at "the kids." They were both sitting as
before at the table, not reading but warmly disputing about something. The
children often argued together about various exciting problems of life,
and Nastya, being the elder, always got the best of it. If Kostya did not
agree with her, he almost always appealed to Kolya Krassotkin, and his
verdict was regarded as infallible by both of them. This time the "kids'"
discussion rather interested Krassotkin, and he stood still in the passage
to listen. The children saw he was listening and that made them dispute
with even greater energy.
"I shall never, never believe," Nastya prattled, "that the old women find
babies among the cabbages in the kitchen-garden. It's winter now and there
are no cabbages, and so the old woman couldn't have taken Katerina a
daughter."
Kolya whistled to himself.
"Or perhaps they do bring babies from somewhere, but only to those who are
married."
Kostya stared at Nastya and listened, pondering profoundly.
"Nastya, how silly you are!" he said at last, firmly and calmly. "How can
Katerina have a baby when she isn't married?"
Nastya was exasperated.
"You know nothing about it," she snapped irritably. "Perhaps she has a
husband, only he is in prison, so now she's got a baby."
"But is her husband in prison?" the matter-of-fact Kostya inquired
gravely.
"Or, I tell you what," Nastya interrupted impulsively, completely
rejecting and forgetting her first hypothesis. "She hasn't a husband, you
are right there, but she wants to be married, and so she's been thinking
of getting married, and thinking and thinking of it till now she's got it,
that is, not a husband but a baby."
"Well, perhaps so," Kostya agreed, entirely vanquished. "But you didn't
say so before. So how could I tell?"
"Come, kiddies," said Kolya, stepping into the room. "You're terrible
people, I see."
"And Perezvon with you!" grinned Kostya, and began snapping his fingers
and calling Perezvon.
"I am in a difficulty, kids," Krassotkin began solemnly, "and you must
help me. Agafya must have broken her leg, since she has not turned up till
now, that's certain. I must go out. Will you let me go?"
The children looked anxiously at one another. Their smiling faces showed
signs of uneasiness, but they did not yet fully grasp what was expected of
them.
"You won't be naughty while I am gone? You won't climb on the cupboard and
break your legs? You won't be frightened alone and cry?"
A look of profound despondency came into the children's faces.
"And I could show you something as a reward, a little copper cannon which
can be fired with real gunpowder."
The children's faces instantly brightened. "Show us the cannon," said
Kostya, beaming all over.
Krassotkin put his hand in his satchel, and pulling out a little bronze
cannon stood it on the table.
"Ah, you are bound to ask that! Look, it's on wheels." He rolled the toy
on along the table. "And it can be fired off, too. It can be loaded with
shot and fired off."
"And it could kill any one?"
"It can kill any one; you've only got to aim at anybody," and Krassotkin
explained where the powder had to be put, where the shot should be rolled
in, showing a tiny hole like a touch-hole, and told them that it kicked
when it was fired.
The children listened with intense interest. What particularly struck
their imagination was that the cannon kicked.
"And have you got any powder?" Nastya inquired.
"Yes."
"Show us the powder, too," she drawled with a smile of entreaty.
Krassotkin dived again into his satchel and pulled out a small flask
containing a little real gunpowder. He had some shot, too, in a screw of
paper. He even uncorked the flask and shook a little powder into the palm
of his hand.
"One has to be careful there's no fire about, or it would blow up and kill
us all," Krassotkin warned them sensationally.
The children gazed at the powder with an awe-stricken alarm that only
intensified their enjoyment. But Kostya liked the shot better.
"And does the shot burn?" he inquired.
"No, it doesn't."
"Give me a little shot," he asked in an imploring voice.
"I'll give you a little shot; here, take it, but don't show it to your
mother till I come back, or she'll be sure to think it's gunpowder, and
will die of fright and give you a thrashing."
"Mother never does whip us," Nastya observed at once.
"I know, I only said it to finish the sentence. And don't you ever deceive
your mother except just this once, until I come back. And so, kiddies, can
I go out? You won't be frightened and cry when I'm gone?"
"We sha--all cry," drawled Kostya, on the verge of tears already.
"We shall cry, we shall be sure to cry," Nastya chimed in with timid
haste.
"Oh, children, children, how fraught with peril are your years! There's no
help for it, chickens, I shall have to stay with you I don't know how
long. And time is passing, time is passing, oogh!"
"Tell Perezvon to pretend to be dead!" Kostya begged.
"There's no help for it, we must have recourse to Perezvon. _Ici_,
Perezvon." And Kolya began giving orders to the dog, who performed all his
tricks.
He was a rough-haired dog, of medium size, with a coat of a sort of lilac-
gray color. He was blind in his right eye, and his left ear was torn. He
whined and jumped, stood and walked on his hind legs, lay on his back with
his paws in the air, rigid as though he were dead. While this last
performance was going on, the door opened and Agafya, Madame Krassotkin's
servant, a stout woman of forty, marked with small-pox, appeared in the
doorway. She had come back from market and had a bag full of provisions in
her hand. Holding up the bag of provisions in her left hand she stood
still to watch the dog. Though Kolya had been so anxious for her return,
he did not cut short the performance, and after keeping Perezvon dead for
the usual time, at last he whistled to him. The dog jumped up and began
bounding about in his joy at having done his duty.
"Only think, a dog!" Agafya observed sententiously.
"Why are you late, female?" asked Krassotkin sternly.
"Female, indeed! Go on with you, you brat."
"Brat?"
"Yes, a brat. What is it to you if I'm late; if I'm late, you may be sure
I have good reason," muttered Agafya, busying herself about the stove,
without a trace of anger or displeasure in her voice. She seemed quite
pleased, in fact, to enjoy a skirmish with her merry young master.
"Listen, you frivolous young woman," Krassotkin began, getting up from the
sofa, "can you swear by all you hold sacred in the world and something
else besides, that you will watch vigilantly over the kids in my absence?
I am going out."
"And what am I going to swear for?" laughed Agafya. "I shall look after
them without that."
"No, you must swear on your eternal salvation. Else I shan't go."
"Well, don't then. What does it matter to me? It's cold out; stay at
home."
"Kids," Kolya turned to the children, "this woman will stay with you till
I come back or till your mother comes, for she ought to have been back
long ago. She will give you some lunch, too. You'll give them something,
Agafya, won't you?"
"That I can do."
"Good-by, chickens, I go with my heart at rest. And you, granny," he added
gravely, in an undertone, as he passed Agafya, "I hope you'll spare their
tender years and not tell them any of your old woman's nonsense about
Katerina. _Ici_, Perezvon!"
"Get along with you!" retorted Agafya, really angry this time. "Ridiculous
boy! You want a whipping for saying such things, that's what you want!" | Kids At present, Kolya is watching two children while their mother, a tenant of his mother, is away. He is anxious, however, because he wants to go visit Ilyusha. Ilyusha has fallen ill and may be near death. Alyosha has convinced the other boys to visit him every day, but Kolya has yet to visit him once. He has not met Alyosha yet either |
The next morning at breakfast Jotham Powell was between them, and Ethan
tried to hide his joy under an air of exaggerated indifference, lounging
back in his chair to throw scraps to the cat, growling at the weather,
and not so much as offering to help Mattie when she rose to clear away
the dishes.
He did not know why he was so irrationally happy, for nothing was
changed in his life or hers. He had not even touched the tip of her
fingers or looked her full in the eyes. But their evening together had
given him a vision of what life at her side might be, and he was glad
now that he had done nothing to trouble the sweetness of the picture. He
had a fancy that she knew what had restrained him...
There was a last load of lumber to be hauled to the village, and Jotham
Powell--who did not work regularly for Ethan in winter--had "come round"
to help with the job. But a wet snow, melting to sleet, had fallen in
the night and turned the roads to glass. There was more wet in the air
and it seemed likely to both men that the weather would "milden" toward
afternoon and make the going safer. Ethan therefore proposed to his
assistant that they should load the sledge at the wood-lot, as they had
done on the previous morning, and put off the "teaming" to Starkfield
till later in the day. This plan had the advantage of enabling him to
send Jotham to the Flats after dinner to meet Zenobia, while he himself
took the lumber down to the village.
He told Jotham to go out and harness up the greys, and for a moment he
and Mattie had the kitchen to themselves. She had plunged the breakfast
dishes into a tin dish-pan and was bending above it with her slim arms
bared to the elbow, the steam from the hot water beading her forehead
and tightening her rough hair into little brown rings like the tendrils
on the traveller's joy.
Ethan stood looking at her, his heart in his throat. He wanted to say:
"We shall never be alone again like this." Instead, he reached down his
tobacco-pouch from a shelf of the dresser, put it into his pocket and
said: "I guess I can make out to be home for dinner."
She answered "All right, Ethan," and he heard her singing over the
dishes as he went.
As soon as the sledge was loaded he meant to send Jotham back to
the farm and hurry on foot into the village to buy the glue for the
pickle-dish. With ordinary luck he should have had time to carry out
this plan; but everything went wrong from the start. On the way over
to the wood-lot one of the greys slipped on a glare of ice and cut his
knee; and when they got him up again Jotham had to go back to the barn
for a strip of rag to bind the cut. Then, when the loading finally
began, a sleety rain was coming down once more, and the tree trunks were
so slippery that it took twice as long as usual to lift them and get
them in place on the sledge. It was what Jotham called a sour morning
for work, and the horses, shivering and stamping under their wet
blankets, seemed to like it as little as the men. It was long past the
dinner-hour when the job was done, and Ethan had to give up going to the
village because he wanted to lead the injured horse home and wash the
cut himself.
He thought that by starting out again with the lumber as soon as he had
finished his dinner he might get back to the farm with the glue before
Jotham and the old sorrel had had time to fetch Zenobia from the Flats;
but he knew the chance was a slight one. It turned on the state of
the roads and on the possible lateness of the Bettsbridge train.
He remembered afterward, with a grim flash of self-derision, what
importance he had attached to the weighing of these probabilities...
As soon as dinner was over he set out again for the wood-lot, not daring
to linger till Jotham Powell left. The hired man was still drying his
wet feet at the stove, and Ethan could only give Mattie a quick look as
he said beneath his breath: "I'll be back early."
He fancied that she nodded her comprehension; and with that scant solace
he had to trudge off through the rain.
He had driven his load half-way to the village when Jotham Powell
overtook him, urging the reluctant sorrel toward the Flats. "I'll have
to hurry up to do it," Ethan mused, as the sleigh dropped down ahead
of him over the dip of the school-house hill. He worked like ten at the
unloading, and when it was over hastened on to Michael Eady's for the
glue. Eady and his assistant were both "down street," and young Denis,
who seldom deigned to take their place, was lounging by the stove with
a knot of the golden youth of Starkfield. They hailed Ethan with ironic
compliment and offers of conviviality; but no one knew where to find
the glue. Ethan, consumed with the longing for a last moment alone with
Mattie, hung about impatiently while Denis made an ineffectual search in
the obscurer corners of the store.
"Looks as if we were all sold out. But if you'll wait around till the
old man comes along maybe he can put his hand on it."
"I'm obliged to you, but I'll try if I can get it down at Mrs. Homan's,"
Ethan answered, burning to be gone.
Denis's commercial instinct compelled him to aver on oath that what
Eady's store could not produce would never be found at the widow
Homan's; but Ethan, heedless of this boast, had already climbed to
the sledge and was driving on to the rival establishment. Here, after
considerable search, and sympathetic questions as to what he wanted
it for, and whether ordinary flour paste wouldn't do as well if she
couldn't find it, the widow Homan finally hunted down her solitary
bottle of glue to its hiding-place in a medley of cough-lozenges and
corset-laces.
"I hope Zeena ain't broken anything she sets store by," she called after
him as he turned the greys toward home.
The fitful bursts of sleet had changed into a steady rain and the horses
had heavy work even without a load behind them. Once or twice, hearing
sleigh-bells, Ethan turned his head, fancying that Zeena and Jotham
might overtake him; but the old sorrel was not in sight, and he set his
face against the rain and urged on his ponderous pair.
The barn was empty when the horses turned into it and, after giving them
the most perfunctory ministrations they had ever received from him, he
strode up to the house and pushed open the kitchen door.
Mattie was there alone, as he had pictured her. She was bending over a
pan on the stove; but at the sound of his step she turned with a start
and sprang to him.
"See, here, Matt, I've got some stuff to mend the dish with! Let me get
at it quick," he cried, waving the bottle in one hand while he put her
lightly aside; but she did not seem to hear him.
"Oh, Ethan--Zeena's come," she said in a whisper, clutching his sleeve.
They stood and stared at each other, pale as culprits.
"But the sorrel's not in the barn!" Ethan stammered.
"Jotham Powell brought some goods over from the Flats for his wife, and
he drove right on home with them," she explained.
He gazed blankly about the kitchen, which looked cold and squalid in the
rainy winter twilight.
"How is she?" he asked, dropping his voice to Mattie's whisper.
She looked away from him uncertainly. "I don't know. She went right up
to her room."
"She didn't say anything?"
"No."
Ethan let out his doubts in a low whistle and thrust the bottle back
into his pocket. "Don't fret; I'll come down and mend it in the night,"
he said. He pulled on his wet coat again and went back to the barn to
feed the greys.
While he was there Jotham Powell drove up with the sleigh, and when the
horses had been attended to Ethan said to him: "You might as well come
back up for a bite." He was not sorry to assure himself of Jotham's
neutralising presence at the supper table, for Zeena was always
"nervous" after a journey. But the hired man, though seldom loth to
accept a meal not included in his wages, opened his stiff jaws to answer
slowly: "I'm obliged to you, but I guess I'll go along back."
Ethan looked at him in surprise. "Better come up and dry off. Looks as
if there'd be something hot for supper."
Jotham's facial muscles were unmoved by this appeal and, his vocabulary
being limited, he merely repeated: "I guess I'll go along back."
To Ethan there was something vaguely ominous in this stolid rejection of
free food and warmth, and he wondered what had happened on the drive to
nerve Jotham to such stoicism. Perhaps Zeena had failed to see the new
doctor or had not liked his counsels: Ethan knew that in such cases
the first person she met was likely to be held responsible for her
grievance.
When he re-entered the kitchen the lamp lit up the same scene of shining
comfort as on the previous evening. The table had been as carefully
laid, a clear fire glowed in the stove, the cat dozed in its warmth, and
Mattie came forward carrying a plate of dough-nuts.
She and Ethan looked at each other in silence; then she said, as she had
said the night before: "I guess it's about time for supper." | Next morning, Ethan feels "irrationally happy," in spite of the fact that nothing happened between him and Mattie - or possibly, because of this: ".their evening together had given him a vision of what life at her side might be, and he was glad now that he had done nothing to trouble the sweetness of the picture." . Jotham Powell eats breakfast with Ethan and Mattie. The snow has melted enough to turn the roads to glass, and Ethan decides it will be safer to load the rest of the wood immediately but to delay taking it to Starkfield until the afternoon. He asks Jotham Powell to drive to the Flats after dinner to pick up Zeena, while he himself delivers the wood. While Jotham is harnessing the horses, Ethan looks tenderly at Mattie and wants to say, "We shall never be alone again like this." But all he says is that he will be home for dinner. . After loading the wood, Ethan goes to Michael Eady's store to buy some glue to mend the pickle dish, but cannot find any. Ethan rushes off to widow Honan's store, where he finds a single bottle of glue. Ethan drives home in the rain and hurries into his kitchen. Mattie starts at his entrance and tells him that Zeena has arrived back and has gone straight up to her room without a word. He tells her not to worry; he will come down in the night and mend the dish. . He goes out to feed the horses and meets Jotham. Ethan invites Jotham to dinner, thinking that his presence will help neutralize the atmosphere now that Zeena is back. Jotham uncharacteristically refuses. As Jotham departs, Ethan wonders uneasily why he refused the invitation. Perhaps Zeena had not had a successful visit with the doctor and had taken out her frustration on Jotham on the journey home. . When Ethan goes back into the kitchen, the table is set and the scene as welcoming as it was the previous evening. She and Ethan look at each other in silence. Mattie says, just as she had said then, "I guess it's about time for supper." . |
Madame de Vionnet, having meanwhile come in, was at present close to
them, and Miss Barrace hereupon, instead of risking a rejoinder, became
again with a look that measured her from top to toe all mere
long-handled appreciative tortoise-shell. She had struck our friend,
from the first of her appearing, as dressed for a great occasion, and
she met still more than on either of the others the conception
reawakened in him at their garden-party, the idea of the femme du monde
in her habit as she lived. Her bare shoulders and arms were white and
beautiful; the materials of her dress, a mixture, as he supposed, of
silk and crape, were of a silvery grey so artfully composed as to give
an impression of warm splendour; and round her neck she wore a collar
of large old emeralds, the green note of which was more dimly repeated,
at other points of her apparel, in embroidery, in enamel, in satin, in
substances and textures vaguely rich. Her head, extremely fair and
exquisitely festal, was like a happy fancy, a notion of the antique, on
an old precious medal, some silver coin of the Renaissance; while her
slim lightness and brightness, her gaiety, her expression, her
decision, contributed to an effect that might have been felt by a poet
as half mythological and half conventional. He could have compared her
to a goddess still partly engaged in a morning cloud, or to a sea-nymph
waist-high in the summer surge. Above all she suggested to him the
reflexion that the femme du monde--in these finest developments of the
type--was, like Cleopatra in the play, indeed various and multifold.
She had aspects, characters, days, nights--or had them at least, showed
them by a mysterious law of her own, when in addition to everything she
happened also to be a woman of genius. She was an obscure person, a
muffled person one day, and a showy person, an uncovered person the
next. He thought of Madame de Vionnet to-night as showy and uncovered,
though he felt the formula rough, because, thanks to one of the
short-cuts of genius she had taken all his categories by surprise.
Twice during dinner he had met Chad's eyes in a longish look; but these
communications had in truth only stirred up again old ambiguities--so
little was it clear from them whether they were an appeal or an
admonition. "You see how I'm fixed," was what they appeared to convey;
yet how he was fixed was exactly what Strether didn't see. However,
perhaps he should see now.
"Are you capable of the very great kindness of going to relieve
Newsome, for a few minutes, of the rather crushing responsibility of
Madame Gloriani, while I say a word, if he'll allow me, to Mr.
Strether, of whom I've a question to ask? Our host ought to talk a bit
to those other ladies, and I'll come back in a minute to your rescue."
She made this proposal to Miss Barrace as if her consciousness of a
special duty had just flickered-up, but that lady's recognition of
Strether's little start at it--as at a betrayal on the speaker's part
of a domesticated state--was as mute as his own comment; and after an
instant, when their fellow guest had good-naturedly left them, he had
been given something else to think of. "Why has Maria so suddenly
gone? Do you know?" That was the question Madame de Vionnet had
brought with her.
"I'm afraid I've no reason to give you but the simple reason I've had
from her in a note--the sudden obligation to join in the south a sick
friend who has got worse."
"Ah then she has been writing you?"
"Not since she went--I had only a brief explanatory word before she
started. I went to see her," Strether explained--"it was the day after
I called on you--but she was already on her way, and her concierge told
me that in case of my coming I was to be informed she had written to
me. I found her note when I got home."
Madame de Vionnet listened with interest and with her eyes on
Strether's face; then her delicately decorated head had a small
melancholy motion. "She didn't write to ME. I went to see her," she
added, "almost immediately after I had seen you, and as I assured her I
would do when I met her at Gloriani's. She hadn't then told me she was
to be absent, and I felt at her door as if I understood. She's
absent--with all respect to her sick friend, though I know indeed she
has plenty--so that I may not see her. She doesn't want to meet me
again. Well," she continued with a beautiful conscious mildness, "I
liked and admired her beyond every one in the old time, and she knew
it--perhaps that's precisely what has made her go--and I dare say I
haven't lost her for ever." Strether still said nothing; he had a
horror, as he now thought of himself, of being in question between
women--was in fact already quite enough on his way to that, and there
was moreover, as it came to him, perceptibly, something behind these
allusions and professions that, should he take it in, would square but
ill with his present resolve to simplify. It was as if, for him, all
the same, her softness and sadness were sincere. He felt that not less
when she soon went on: "I'm extremely glad of her happiness." But it
also left him mute--sharp and fine though the imputation it conveyed.
What it conveyed was that HE was Maria Gostrey's happiness, and for the
least little instant he had the impulse to challenge the thought. He
could have done so however only by saying "What then do you suppose to
be between us?" and he was wonderfully glad a moment later not to have
spoken. He would rather seem stupid any day than fatuous, and he drew
back as well, with a smothered inward shudder, from the consideration
of what women--of highly-developed type in particular--might think of
each other. Whatever he had come out for he hadn't come to go into
that; so that he absolutely took up nothing his interlocutress had now
let drop. Yet, though he had kept away from her for days, had laid
wholly on herself the burden of their meeting again, she hadn't a gleam
of irritation to show him. "Well, about Jeanne now?" she smiled--it
had the gaiety with which she had originally come in. He felt it on the
instant to represent her motive and real errand. But he had been
schooling her of a truth to say much in proportion to his little. "Do
you make out that she has a sentiment? I mean for Mr. Newsome."
Almost resentful, Strether could at last be prompt. "How can I make
out such things?"
She remained perfectly good-natured. "Ah but they're beautiful little
things, and you make out--don't pretend--everything in the world.
Haven't you," she asked, "been talking with her?"
"Yes, but not about Chad. At least not much."
"Oh you don't require 'much'!" she reassuringly declared. But she
immediately changed her ground. "I hope you remember your promise of
the other day."
"To 'save' you, as you called it?"
"I call it so still. You WILL?" she insisted. "You haven't repented?"
He wondered. "No--but I've been thinking what I meant."
She kept it up. "And not, a little, what I did?"
"No--that's not necessary. It will be enough if I know what I meant
myself."
"And don't you know," she asked, "by this time?"
Again he had a pause. "I think you ought to leave it to me. But how
long," he added, "do you give me?"
"It seems to me much more a question of how long you give ME. Doesn't
our friend here himself, at any rate," she went on, "perpetually make
me present to you?"
"Not," Strether replied, "by ever speaking of you to me."
"He never does that?"
"Never."
She considered, and, if the fact was disconcerting to her, effectually
concealed it. The next minute indeed she had recovered. "No, he
wouldn't. But do you NEED that?"
Her emphasis was wonderful, and though his eyes had been wandering he
looked at her longer now. "I see what you mean."
"Of course you see what I mean."
Her triumph was gentle, and she really had tones to make justice weep.
"I've before me what he owes you."
"Admit then that that's something," she said, yet still with the same
discretion in her pride.
He took in this note but went straight on. "You've made of him what I
see, but what I don't see is how in the world you've done it."
"Ah that's another question!" she smiled. "The point is of what use is
your declining to know me when to know Mr. Newsome--as you do me the
honour to find him--IS just to know me."
"I see," he mused, still with his eyes on her. "I shouldn't have met
you to-night."
She raised and dropped her linked hands. "It doesn't matter. If I
trust you why can't you a little trust me too? And why can't you
also," she asked in another tone, "trust yourself?" But she gave him
no time to reply. "Oh I shall be so easy for you! And I'm glad at any
rate you've seen my child."
"I'm glad too," he said; "but she does you no good."
"No good?"--Madame de Vionnet had a clear stare. "Why she's an angel
of light."
"That's precisely the reason. Leave her alone. Don't try to find out.
I mean," he explained, "about what you spoke to me of--the way she
feels."
His companion wondered. "Because one really won't?"
"Well, because I ask you, as a favour to myself, not to. She's the
most charming creature I've ever seen. Therefore don't touch her.
Don't know--don't want to know. And moreover--yes--you won't."
It was an appeal, of a sudden, and she took it in. "As a favour to
you?"
"Well--since you ask me."
"Anything, everything you ask," she smiled. "I shan't know
then--never. Thank you," she added with peculiar gentleness as she
turned away.
The sound of it lingered with him, making him fairly feel as if he had
been tripped up and had a fall. In the very act of arranging with her
for his independence he had, under pressure from a particular
perception, inconsistently, quite stupidly, committed himself, and,
with her subtlety sensitive on the spot to an advantage, she had driven
in by a single word a little golden nail, the sharp intention of which
he signally felt. He hadn't detached, he had more closely connected
himself, and his eyes, as he considered with some intensity this
circumstance, met another pair which had just come within their range
and which struck him as reflecting his sense of what he had done. He
recognised them at the same moment as those of little Bilham, who had
apparently drawn near on purpose to speak to him, and little Bilham
wasn't, in the conditions, the person to whom his heart would be most
closed. They were seated together a minute later at the angle of the
room obliquely opposite the corner in which Gloriani was still engaged
with Jeanne de Vionnet, to whom at first and in silence their attention
had been benevolently given. "I can't see for my life," Strether had
then observed, "how a young fellow of any spirit--such a one as you for
instance--can be admitted to the sight of that young lady without being
hard hit. Why don't you go in, little Bilham?" He remembered the tone
into which he had been betrayed on the garden-bench at the sculptor's
reception, and this might make up for that by being much more the right
sort of thing to say to a young man worthy of any advice at all. "There
WOULD be some reason."
"Some reason for what?"
"Why for hanging on here."
"To offer my hand and fortune to Mademoiselle de Vionnet?"
"Well," Strether asked, "to what lovelier apparition COULD you offer
them? She's the sweetest little thing I've ever seen."
"She's certainly immense. I mean she's the real thing. I believe the
pale pink petals are folded up there for some wondrous efflorescence in
time; to open, that is, to some great golden sun. I'M unfortunately but
a small farthing candle. What chance in such a field for a poor little
painter-man?"
"Oh you're good enough," Strether threw out.
"Certainly I'm good enough. We're good enough, I consider, nous
autres, for anything. But she's TOO good. There's the difference.
They wouldn't look at me."
Strether, lounging on his divan and still charmed by the young girl,
whose eyes had consciously strayed to him, he fancied, with a vague
smile--Strether, enjoying the whole occasion as with dormant pulses at
last awake and in spite of new material thrust upon him, thought over
his companion's words. "Whom do you mean by 'they'? She and her
mother?"
"She and her mother. And she has a father too, who, whatever else he
may be, certainly can't be indifferent to the possibilities she
represents. Besides, there's Chad."
Strether was silent a little. "Ah but he doesn't care for her--not, I
mean, it appears, after all, in the sense I'm speaking of. He's NOT in
love with her."
"No--but he's her best friend; after her mother. He's very fond of
her. He has his ideas about what can be done for her."
"Well, it's very strange!" Strether presently remarked with a sighing
sense of fulness.
"Very strange indeed. That's just the beauty of it. Isn't it very
much the kind of beauty you had in mind," little Bilham went on, "when
you were so wonderful and so inspiring to me the other day? Didn't you
adjure me, in accents I shall never forget, to see, while I've a
chance, everything I can?--and REALLY to see, for it must have been
that only you meant. Well, you did me no end of good, and I'm doing my
best. I DO make it out a situation."
"So do I!" Strether went on after a moment. But he had the next minute
an inconsequent question. "How comes Chad so mixed up, anyway?"
"Ah, ah, ah!"--and little Bilham fell back on his cushions.
It reminded our friend of Miss Barrace, and he felt again the brush of
his sense of moving in a maze of mystic closed allusions. Yet he kept
hold of his thread. "Of course I understand really; only the general
transformation makes me occasionally gasp. Chad with such a voice in
the settlement of the future of a little countess--no," he declared,
"it takes more time! You say moreover," he resumed, "that we're
inevitably, people like you and me, out of the running. The curious
fact remains that Chad himself isn't. The situation doesn't make for
it, but in a different one he could have her if he would."
"Yes, but that's only because he's rich and because there's a
possibility of his being richer. They won't think of anything but a
great name or a great fortune."
"Well," said Strether, "he'll have no great fortune on THESE lines. He
must stir his stumps."
"Is that," little Bilham enquired, "what you were saying to Madame de
Vionnet?"
"No--I don't say much to her. Of course, however," Strether continued,
"he can make sacrifices if he likes."
Little Bilham had a pause. "Oh he's not keen for sacrifices; or
thinks, that is, possibly, that he has made enough."
"Well, it IS virtuous," his companion observed with some decision.
"That's exactly," the young man dropped after a moment, "what I mean."
It kept Strether himself silent a little. "I've made it out for
myself," he then went on; "I've really, within the last half-hour, got
hold of it. I understand it in short at last; which at first--when you
originally spoke to me--I didn't. Nor when Chad originally spoke to me
either."
"Oh," said little Bilham, "I don't think that at that time you believed
me."
"Yes--I did; and I believed Chad too. It would have been odious and
unmannerly--as well as quite perverse--if I hadn't. What interest have
you in deceiving me?"
The young man cast about. "What interest have I?"
"Yes. Chad MIGHT have. But you?"
"Ah, ah, ah!" little Bilham exclaimed.
It might, on repetition, as a mystification, have irritated our friend
a little, but he knew, once more, as we have seen, where he was, and
his being proof against everything was only another attestation that he
meant to stay there. "I couldn't, without my own impression, realise.
She's a tremendously clever brilliant capable woman, and with an
extraordinary charm on top of it all--the charm we surely all of us
this evening know what to think of. It isn't every clever brilliant
capable woman that has it. In fact it's rare with any woman. So there
you are," Strether proceeded as if not for little Bilham's benefit
alone. "I understand what a relation with such a woman--what such a
high fine friendship--may be. It can't be vulgar or coarse,
anyway--and that's the point."
"Yes, that's the point," said little Bilham. "It can't be vulgar or
coarse. And, bless us and save us, it ISn't! It's, upon my word, the
very finest thing I ever saw in my life, and the most distinguished."
Strether, from beside him and leaning back with him as he leaned,
dropped on him a momentary look which filled a short interval and of
which he took no notice. He only gazed before him with intent
participation. "Of course what it has done for him," Strether at all
events presently pursued, "of course what it has done for him--that is
as to HOW it has so wonderfully worked--isn't a thing I pretend to
understand. I've to take it as I find it. There he is."
"There he is!" little Bilham echoed. "And it's really and truly she. I
don't understand either, even with my longer and closer opportunity.
But I'm like you," he added; "I can admire and rejoice even when I'm a
little in the dark. You see I've watched it for some three years, and
especially for this last. He wasn't so bad before it as I seem to have
made out that you think--"
"Oh I don't think anything now!" Strether impatiently broke in: "that
is but what I DO think! I mean that originally, for her to have cared
for him--"
"There must have been stuff in him? Oh yes, there was stuff indeed,
and much more of it than ever showed, I dare say, at home. Still, you
know," the young man in all fairness developed, "there was room for
her, and that's where she came in. She saw her chance and took it.
That's what strikes me as having been so fine. But of course," he
wound up, "he liked her first."
"Naturally," said Strether.
"I mean that they first met somehow and somewhere--I believe in some
American house--and she, without in the least then intending it, made
her impression. Then with time and opportunity he made his; and after
THAT she was as bad as he."
Strether vaguely took it up. "As 'bad'?"
"She began, that is, to care--to care very much. Alone, and in her
horrid position, she found it, when once she had started, an interest.
It was, it is, an interest, and it did--it continues to do--a lot for
herself as well. So she still cares. She cares in fact," said little
Bilham thoughtfully "more."
Strether's theory that it was none of his business was somehow not
damaged by the way he took this. "More, you mean, than he?" On which
his companion looked round at him, and now for an instant their eyes
met. "More than he?" he repeated.
Little Bilham, for as long, hung fire. "Will you never tell any one?"
Strether thought. "Whom should I tell?"
"Why I supposed you reported regularly--"
"To people at home?"--Strether took him up. "Well, I won't tell them
this."
The young man at last looked away. "Then she does now care more than
he."
"Oh!" Strether oddly exclaimed.
But his companion immediately met it. "Haven't you after all had your
impression of it? That's how you've got hold of him."
"Ah but I haven't got hold of him!"
"Oh I say!" But it was all little Bilham said.
"It's at any rate none of my business. I mean," Strether explained,
"nothing else than getting hold of him is." It appeared, however, to
strike him as his business to add: "The fact remains nevertheless that
she has saved him."
Little Bilham just waited. "I thought that was what you were to do."
But Strether had his answer ready. "I'm speaking--in connexion with
her--of his manners and morals, his character and life. I'm speaking
of him as a person to deal with and talk with and live with--speaking
of him as a social animal."
"And isn't it as a social animal that you also want him?"
"Certainly; so that it's as if she had saved him FOR us."
"It strikes you accordingly then," the young man threw out, "as for you
all to save HER?"
"Oh for us 'all'--!" Strether could but laugh at that. It brought him
back, however, to the point he had really wished to make. "They've
accepted their situation--hard as it is. They're not free--at least
she's not; but they take what's left to them. It's a friendship, of a
beautiful sort; and that's what makes them so strong. They're
straight, they feel; and they keep each other up. It's doubtless she,
however, who, as you yourself have hinted, feels it most."
Little Bilham appeared to wonder what he had hinted. "Feels most that
they're straight?"
"Well, feels that SHE is, and the strength that comes from it. She
keeps HIM up--she keeps the whole thing up. When people are able to
it's fine. She's wonderful, wonderful, as Miss Barrace says; and he
is, in his way, too; however, as a mere man, he may sometimes rebel and
not feel that he finds his account in it. She has simply given him an
immense moral lift, and what that can explain is prodigious. That's why
I speak of it as a situation. It IS one, if there ever was." And
Strether, with his head back and his eyes on the ceiling, seemed to
lose himself in the vision of it.
His companion attended deeply. "You state it much better than I
could." "Oh you see it doesn't concern you."
Little Bilham considered. "I thought you said just now that it doesn't
concern you either."
"Well, it doesn't a bit as Madame de Vionnet's affair. But as we were
again saying just now, what did I come out for but to save him?"
"Yes--to remove him."
"To save him by removal; to win him over to HIMSELF thinking it best he
shall take up business--thinking he must immediately do therefore
what's necessary to that end."
"Well," said little Bilham after a moment, "you HAVE won him over. He
does think it best. He has within a day or two again said to me as
much."
"And that," Strether asked, "is why you consider that he cares less
than she?"
"Cares less for her than she for him? Yes, that's one of the reasons.
But other things too have given me the impression. A man, don't you
think?" little Bilham presently pursued, "CAN'T, in such conditions,
care so much as a woman. It takes different conditions to make him,
and then perhaps he cares more. Chad," he wound up, "has his possible
future before him."
"Are you speaking of his business future?"
"No--on the contrary; of the other, the future of what you so justly
call their situation. M. de Vionnet may live for ever."
"So that they can't marry?"
The young man waited a moment. "Not being able to marry is all they've
with any confidence to look forward to. A woman--a particular
woman--may stand that strain. But can a man?" he propounded.
Strether's answer was as prompt as if he had already, for himself,
worked it out. "Not without a very high ideal of conduct. But that's
just what we're attributing to Chad. And how, for that matter," he
mused, "does his going to America diminish the particular strain?
Wouldn't it seem rather to add to it?"
"Out of sight out of mind!" his companion laughed. Then more bravely:
"Wouldn't distance lessen the torment?" But before Strether could
reply, "The thing is, you see, Chad ought to marry!" he wound up.
Strether, for a little, appeared to think of it. "If you talk of
torments you don't diminish mine!" he then broke out. The next moment
he was on his feet with a question. "He ought to marry whom?"
Little Bilham rose more slowly. "Well, some one he CAN--some
thoroughly nice girl."
Strether's eyes, as they stood together, turned again to Jeanne. "Do
you mean HER?"
His friend made a sudden strange face. "After being in love with her
mother? No."
"But isn't it exactly your idea that he ISn't in love with her mother?"
His friend once more had a pause. "Well, he isn't at any rate in love
with Jeanne."
"I dare say not."
"How CAN he be with any other woman?"
"Oh that I admit. But being in love isn't, you know, here"--little
Bilham spoke in friendly reminder--"thought necessary, in strictness,
for marriage."
"And what torment--to call a torment--can there ever possibly be with a
woman like that?" As if from the interest of his own question Strether
had gone on without hearing. "Is it for her to have turned a man out
so wonderfully, too, only for somebody else?" He appeared to make a
point of this, and little Bilham looked at him now. "When it's for
each other that people give things up they don't miss them." Then he
threw off as with an extravagance of which he was conscious: "Let them
face the future together!"
Little Bilham looked at him indeed. "You mean that after all he
shouldn't go back?"
"I mean that if he gives her up--!"
"Yes?"
"Well, he ought to be ashamed of himself." But Strether spoke with a
sound that might have passed for a laugh.
Volume II
Book Seventh | Strether is at some swanky joint and Chad, Miss Barrace, and the Vionnets are all in attendance. Madame de Vionnet marches right up to him and asks why Maria Gostrey has suddenly left Paris. Strether has no clue. Madame says she just got a sudden note from Maria saying that Maria has had to go to the south of France to visit a sick friend. Which sounds kind of made up. De Vionnet is worried that Maria doesn't like her. But she doesn't know what Strether does--that Maria doesn't want to get herself in the middle of the whole Chad drama. Plus, Madame de Vionnet wants Strether to stop being so cagey around her. If he feels like he's buddies with the new-and-improved Chad Newsome, well, that means he better get better with Madame de Vionnet too, since Chad is basically her creation. Strether breaks away from the conversation and wanders over to hang with Bilham some more. He asks Bilham if he would ever propose marriage to Jeanne de Vionnet. Bilham is shocked at the question, since he's just a poor artist and Jeanne is a Countess' daughter. Strether says off-handedly that Bilham is good enough for her. But the claim lacks conviction. Looks like he's just trying to get a rise outta someone... Bilham says that he needs to think of Chad's feelings. Strether, sensing a chance for information, tells Bilham that Chad isn't in love with Jeanne. Bilham agrees, but says that Chad is Jeanne's best friend and it might still be weird for Bilham to get involved with her. Like a bromance before romance sort of thing, but with some of the roles switched. They return to the oft-discussed idea that Chad's connection to Madame de Vionnet and her daughter is a totally "virtuous" one. Strether mentions that up until this moment, he never fully believed it. But now he does. Bilham agrees that the relationship between Chad and the Vionnets is one of the finest things he's ever seen. Don't forget, words like "fine" and "virtuous" are very vague. Bilham adds a comment about how a man usually can't care as much about a relationship as a woman can. He seems to be referring to Chad and Madame de Vionnet. Bilham says that things would be better if Chad got married. But it's tough because he loves Madame de Vionnet. Strether hears this and says, "You mean in a platonic way, right?" and Bilham pretty much says, "Uh yeah, sure." Strether concludes the conversation by saying that Chad shouldn't go back to America; he owes too much to Madame de Vionnet to leave her. Whoa, about-face! |
Mrs. Weston's friends were all made happy by her safety; and if the
satisfaction of her well-doing could be increased to Emma, it was by
knowing her to be the mother of a little girl. She had been decided in
wishing for a Miss Weston. She would not acknowledge that it was with
any view of making a match for her, hereafter, with either of Isabella's
sons; but she was convinced that a daughter would suit both father
and mother best. It would be a great comfort to Mr. Weston, as he grew
older--and even Mr. Weston might be growing older ten years hence--to
have his fireside enlivened by the sports and the nonsense, the freaks
and the fancies of a child never banished from home; and Mrs. Weston--no
one could doubt that a daughter would be most to her; and it would be
quite a pity that any one who so well knew how to teach, should not have
their powers in exercise again.
"She has had the advantage, you know, of practising on me," she
continued--"like La Baronne d'Almane on La Comtesse d'Ostalis, in Madame
de Genlis' Adelaide and Theodore, and we shall now see her own little
Adelaide educated on a more perfect plan."
"That is," replied Mr. Knightley, "she will indulge her even more than
she did you, and believe that she does not indulge her at all. It will
be the only difference."
"Poor child!" cried Emma; "at that rate, what will become of her?"
"Nothing very bad.--The fate of thousands. She will be disagreeable
in infancy, and correct herself as she grows older. I am losing all my
bitterness against spoilt children, my dearest Emma. I, who am owing all
my happiness to _you_, would not it be horrible ingratitude in me to be
severe on them?"
Emma laughed, and replied: "But I had the assistance of all your
endeavours to counteract the indulgence of other people. I doubt whether
my own sense would have corrected me without it."
"Do you?--I have no doubt. Nature gave you understanding:--Miss Taylor
gave you principles. You must have done well. My interference was quite
as likely to do harm as good. It was very natural for you to say, what
right has he to lecture me?--and I am afraid very natural for you to
feel that it was done in a disagreeable manner. I do not believe I did
you any good. The good was all to myself, by making you an object of the
tenderest affection to me. I could not think about you so much without
doating on you, faults and all; and by dint of fancying so many errors,
have been in love with you ever since you were thirteen at least."
"I am sure you were of use to me," cried Emma. "I was very often
influenced rightly by you--oftener than I would own at the time. I
am very sure you did me good. And if poor little Anna Weston is to be
spoiled, it will be the greatest humanity in you to do as much for her
as you have done for me, except falling in love with her when she is
thirteen."
"How often, when you were a girl, have you said to me, with one of your
saucy looks--'Mr. Knightley, I am going to do so-and-so; papa says I
may, or I have Miss Taylor's leave'--something which, you knew, I
did not approve. In such cases my interference was giving you two bad
feelings instead of one."
"What an amiable creature I was!--No wonder you should hold my speeches
in such affectionate remembrance."
"'Mr. Knightley.'--You always called me, 'Mr. Knightley;' and, from
habit, it has not so very formal a sound.--And yet it is formal. I want
you to call me something else, but I do not know what."
"I remember once calling you 'George,' in one of my amiable fits, about
ten years ago. I did it because I thought it would offend you; but, as
you made no objection, I never did it again."
"And cannot you call me 'George' now?"
"Impossible!--I never can call you any thing but 'Mr. Knightley.' I
will not promise even to equal the elegant terseness of Mrs. Elton, by
calling you Mr. K.--But I will promise," she added presently, laughing
and blushing--"I will promise to call you once by your Christian name.
I do not say when, but perhaps you may guess where;--in the building in
which N. takes M. for better, for worse."
Emma grieved that she could not be more openly just to one important
service which his better sense would have rendered her, to the
advice which would have saved her from the worst of all her womanly
follies--her wilful intimacy with Harriet Smith; but it was too tender a
subject.--She could not enter on it.--Harriet was very seldom mentioned
between them. This, on his side, might merely proceed from her not being
thought of; but Emma was rather inclined to attribute it to delicacy,
and a suspicion, from some appearances, that their friendship were
declining. She was aware herself, that, parting under any other
circumstances, they certainly should have corresponded more, and that
her intelligence would not have rested, as it now almost wholly did, on
Isabella's letters. He might observe that it was so. The pain of being
obliged to practise concealment towards him, was very little inferior to
the pain of having made Harriet unhappy.
Isabella sent quite as good an account of her visitor as could be
expected; on her first arrival she had thought her out of spirits, which
appeared perfectly natural, as there was a dentist to be consulted; but,
since that business had been over, she did not appear to find Harriet
different from what she had known her before.--Isabella, to be sure,
was no very quick observer; yet if Harriet had not been equal to playing
with the children, it would not have escaped her. Emma's comforts and
hopes were most agreeably carried on, by Harriet's being to stay longer;
her fortnight was likely to be a month at least. Mr. and Mrs. John
Knightley were to come down in August, and she was invited to remain
till they could bring her back.
"John does not even mention your friend," said Mr. Knightley. "Here is
his answer, if you like to see it."
It was the answer to the communication of his intended marriage. Emma
accepted it with a very eager hand, with an impatience all alive to know
what he would say about it, and not at all checked by hearing that her
friend was unmentioned.
"John enters like a brother into my happiness," continued Mr. Knightley,
"but he is no complimenter; and though I well know him to have,
likewise, a most brotherly affection for you, he is so far from making
flourishes, that any other young woman might think him rather cool in
her praise. But I am not afraid of your seeing what he writes."
"He writes like a sensible man," replied Emma, when she had read the
letter. "I honour his sincerity. It is very plain that he considers the
good fortune of the engagement as all on my side, but that he is not
without hope of my growing, in time, as worthy of your affection, as
you think me already. Had he said any thing to bear a different
construction, I should not have believed him."
"My Emma, he means no such thing. He only means--"
"He and I should differ very little in our estimation of the two,"
interrupted she, with a sort of serious smile--"much less, perhaps, than
he is aware of, if we could enter without ceremony or reserve on the
subject."
"Emma, my dear Emma--"
"Oh!" she cried with more thorough gaiety, "if you fancy your brother
does not do me justice, only wait till my dear father is in the secret,
and hear his opinion. Depend upon it, he will be much farther from doing
_you_ justice. He will think all the happiness, all the advantage, on
your side of the question; all the merit on mine. I wish I may not
sink into 'poor Emma' with him at once.--His tender compassion towards
oppressed worth can go no farther."
"Ah!" he cried, "I wish your father might be half as easily convinced as
John will be, of our having every right that equal worth can give, to be
happy together. I am amused by one part of John's letter--did you notice
it?--where he says, that my information did not take him wholly by
surprize, that he was rather in expectation of hearing something of the
kind."
"If I understand your brother, he only means so far as your having
some thoughts of marrying. He had no idea of me. He seems perfectly
unprepared for that."
"Yes, yes--but I am amused that he should have seen so far into my
feelings. What has he been judging by?--I am not conscious of any
difference in my spirits or conversation that could prepare him at
this time for my marrying any more than at another.--But it was so, I
suppose. I dare say there was a difference when I was staying with them
the other day. I believe I did not play with the children quite so much
as usual. I remember one evening the poor boys saying, 'Uncle seems
always tired now.'"
The time was coming when the news must spread farther, and other
persons' reception of it tried. As soon as Mrs. Weston was sufficiently
recovered to admit Mr. Woodhouse's visits, Emma having it in view that
her gentle reasonings should be employed in the cause, resolved first to
announce it at home, and then at Randalls.--But how to break it to her
father at last!--She had bound herself to do it, in such an hour of Mr.
Knightley's absence, or when it came to the point her heart would have
failed her, and she must have put it off; but Mr. Knightley was to come
at such a time, and follow up the beginning she was to make.--She was
forced to speak, and to speak cheerfully too. She must not make it a
more decided subject of misery to him, by a melancholy tone herself.
She must not appear to think it a misfortune.--With all the spirits she
could command, she prepared him first for something strange, and then,
in a few words, said, that if his consent and approbation could be
obtained--which, she trusted, would be attended with no difficulty,
since it was a plan to promote the happiness of all--she and Mr.
Knightley meant to marry; by which means Hartfield would receive the
constant addition of that person's company whom she knew he loved, next
to his daughters and Mrs. Weston, best in the world.
Poor man!--it was at first a considerable shock to him, and he tried
earnestly to dissuade her from it. She was reminded, more than once, of
having always said she would never marry, and assured that it would be
a great deal better for her to remain single; and told of poor Isabella,
and poor Miss Taylor.--But it would not do. Emma hung about him
affectionately, and smiled, and said it must be so; and that he must
not class her with Isabella and Mrs. Weston, whose marriages taking them
from Hartfield, had, indeed, made a melancholy change: but she was not
going from Hartfield; she should be always there; she was introducing
no change in their numbers or their comforts but for the better; and she
was very sure that he would be a great deal the happier for having Mr.
Knightley always at hand, when he were once got used to the idea.--Did
he not love Mr. Knightley very much?--He would not deny that he did,
she was sure.--Whom did he ever want to consult on business but Mr.
Knightley?--Who was so useful to him, who so ready to write his letters,
who so glad to assist him?--Who so cheerful, so attentive, so attached
to him?--Would not he like to have him always on the spot?--Yes. That
was all very true. Mr. Knightley could not be there too often; he should
be glad to see him every day;--but they did see him every day as it
was.--Why could not they go on as they had done?
Mr. Woodhouse could not be soon reconciled; but the worst was overcome,
the idea was given; time and continual repetition must do the rest.--To
Emma's entreaties and assurances succeeded Mr. Knightley's, whose fond
praise of her gave the subject even a kind of welcome; and he was soon
used to be talked to by each, on every fair occasion.--They had all
the assistance which Isabella could give, by letters of the strongest
approbation; and Mrs. Weston was ready, on the first meeting, to
consider the subject in the most serviceable light--first, as a settled,
and, secondly, as a good one--well aware of the nearly equal importance
of the two recommendations to Mr. Woodhouse's mind.--It was agreed
upon, as what was to be; and every body by whom he was used to be
guided assuring him that it would be for his happiness; and having some
feelings himself which almost admitted it, he began to think that some
time or other--in another year or two, perhaps--it might not be so very
bad if the marriage did take place.
Mrs. Weston was acting no part, feigning no feelings in all that she
said to him in favour of the event.--She had been extremely surprized,
never more so, than when Emma first opened the affair to her; but she
saw in it only increase of happiness to all, and had no scruple in
urging him to the utmost.--She had such a regard for Mr. Knightley, as
to think he deserved even her dearest Emma; and it was in every respect
so proper, suitable, and unexceptionable a connexion, and in one
respect, one point of the highest importance, so peculiarly eligible,
so singularly fortunate, that now it seemed as if Emma could not safely
have attached herself to any other creature, and that she had herself
been the stupidest of beings in not having thought of it, and wished it
long ago.--How very few of those men in a rank of life to address Emma
would have renounced their own home for Hartfield! And who but Mr.
Knightley could know and bear with Mr. Woodhouse, so as to make such
an arrangement desirable!--The difficulty of disposing of poor Mr.
Woodhouse had been always felt in her husband's plans and her own, for
a marriage between Frank and Emma. How to settle the claims of Enscombe
and Hartfield had been a continual impediment--less acknowledged by Mr.
Weston than by herself--but even he had never been able to finish
the subject better than by saying--"Those matters will take care of
themselves; the young people will find a way." But here there was
nothing to be shifted off in a wild speculation on the future. It was
all right, all open, all equal. No sacrifice on any side worth the name.
It was a union of the highest promise of felicity in itself, and without
one real, rational difficulty to oppose or delay it.
Mrs. Weston, with her baby on her knee, indulging in such reflections
as these, was one of the happiest women in the world. If any thing could
increase her delight, it was perceiving that the baby would soon have
outgrown its first set of caps.
The news was universally a surprize wherever it spread; and Mr. Weston
had his five minutes share of it; but five minutes were enough to
familiarise the idea to his quickness of mind.--He saw the advantages
of the match, and rejoiced in them with all the constancy of his wife;
but the wonder of it was very soon nothing; and by the end of an hour he
was not far from believing that he had always foreseen it.
"It is to be a secret, I conclude," said he. "These matters are always a
secret, till it is found out that every body knows them. Only let me be
told when I may speak out.--I wonder whether Jane has any suspicion."
He went to Highbury the next morning, and satisfied himself on that
point. He told her the news. Was not she like a daughter, his eldest
daughter?--he must tell her; and Miss Bates being present, it passed,
of course, to Mrs. Cole, Mrs. Perry, and Mrs. Elton, immediately
afterwards. It was no more than the principals were prepared for; they
had calculated from the time of its being known at Randalls, how soon it
would be over Highbury; and were thinking of themselves, as the evening
wonder in many a family circle, with great sagacity.
In general, it was a very well approved match. Some might think him, and
others might think her, the most in luck. One set might recommend their
all removing to Donwell, and leaving Hartfield for the John Knightleys;
and another might predict disagreements among their servants; but yet,
upon the whole, there was no serious objection raised, except in one
habitation, the Vicarage.--There, the surprize was not softened by any
satisfaction. Mr. Elton cared little about it, compared with his wife;
he only hoped "the young lady's pride would now be contented;" and
supposed "she had always meant to catch Knightley if she could;" and,
on the point of living at Hartfield, could daringly exclaim, "Rather
he than I!"--But Mrs. Elton was very much discomposed indeed.--"Poor
Knightley! poor fellow!--sad business for him."--She was extremely
concerned; for, though very eccentric, he had a thousand good
qualities.--How could he be so taken in?--Did not think him at all in
love--not in the least.--Poor Knightley!--There would be an end of all
pleasant intercourse with him.--How happy he had been to come and dine
with them whenever they asked him! But that would be all over now.--Poor
fellow!--No more exploring parties to Donwell made for _her_. Oh!
no; there would be a Mrs. Knightley to throw cold water on every
thing.--Extremely disagreeable! But she was not at all sorry that
she had abused the housekeeper the other day.--Shocking plan, living
together. It would never do. She knew a family near Maple Grove who
had tried it, and been obliged to separate before the end of the first
quarter. | When Harriet writes to Emma about having a toothache, Emma arranges with Isabella to invite Harriet to London, where she can consult a dentist. Emma lends her own carriage for the journey. Emma, feeling relieved that Harriet is out of town, visits Jane to congratulate her on her future marriage. Emma is happy to be received by Jane, who is full of warmth and goodwill. Emma hears the voice of Mrs. Elton talking to Mrs. Bates. She is in high spirits, for she thinks that she alone knows about Jane's secret engagement. Mrs. Elton stops reading from Mrs. Smallridge's letter when she sees Emma. Mrs. Smallridge has written to express her resentment over Jane's refusal of the governess position. Mrs. Elton, in an effort to attract attention away from the letter, comments on Jane's improved health. She also proposes another party at Box Hill, to be arranged by she and Jane since the first one arranged by Emma had not been a success. Before Emma can reply, Miss Bates enters and thanks Emma for her kindness. Mrs. Elton reveals that her husband is soon to join her. When he comes in, he complains that he was unable to meet with Knightley, who was away from Donwell. Emma realizes that Knightley must be at Hartfield waiting for her. She, therefore, gets up and takes her leave. Jane walks Emma to the door. She tells her that she and Frank will marry after an appropriate period of mourning and settle at Enscombe. She then apologizes for her previous rudeness; Emma tells Jane there is no reason to apologize. |
ACT II. SCENE I.
The King of Navarre's park. A pavilion and tents at a
distance.
[Enter the PRINCESS OF FRANCE, ROSALINE, MARIA, KATHARINE, BOYET,
LORDS, and other Attendants.]
BOYET.
Now, madam, summon up your dearest spirits:
Consider who the king your father sends,
To whom he sends, and what's his embassy:
Yourself, held precious in the world's esteem,
To parley with the sole inheritor
Of all perfections that a man may owe,
Matchless Navarre; the plea of no less weight
Than Aquitaine, a dowry for a queen.
Be now as prodigal of all dear grace
As Nature was in making graces dear
When she did starve the general world beside,
And prodigally gave them all to you.
PRINCESS.
Good Lord Boyet, my beauty, though but mean,
Needs not the painted flourish of your praise:
Beauty is bought by judgment of the eye,
Not utt'red by base sale of chapmen's tongues.
I am less proud to hear you tell my worth
Than you much willing to be counted wise
In spending your wit in the praise of mine.
But now to task the tasker: good Boyet,
You are not ignorant, all-telling fame
Doth noise abroad, Navarre hath made a vow,
Till painful study shall outwear three years,
No woman may approach his silent court:
Therefore to's seemeth it a needful course,
Before we enter his forbidden gates,
To know his pleasure; and in that behalf,
Bold of your worthiness, we single you
As our best-moving fair solicitor.
Tell him the daughter of the King of France,
On serious business, craving quick dispatch,
Importunes personal conference with his Grace.
Haste, signify so much; while we attend,
Like humble-visag'd suitors, his high will.
BOYET.
Proud of employment, willingly I go.
PRINCESS.
All pride is willing pride, and yours is so.
[Exit BOYET.]
Who are the votaries, my loving lords,
That are vow-fellows with this virtuous duke?
FIRST LORD.
Lord Longaville is one.
PRINCESS.
Know you the man?
MARIA.
I know him, madam: at a marriage feast,
Between Lord Perigort and the beauteous heir
Of Jaques Falconbridge, solemnized
In Normandy, saw I this Longaville.
A man of sovereign parts, he is esteem'd,
Well fitted in arts, glorious in arms:
Nothing becomes him ill that he would well.
The only soil of his fair virtue's gloss,--
If virtue's gloss will stain with any soil,--
Is a sharp wit match'd with too blunt a will;
Whose edge hath power to cut, whose will still wills
It should none spare that come within his power.
PRINCESS.
Some merry mocking lord, belike; is't so?
MARIA.
They say so most that most his humours know.
PRINCESS.
Such short-liv'd wits do wither as they grow.
Who are the rest?
KATHARINE.
The young Dumain, a well-accomplish'd youth,
Of all that virtue love for virtue lov'd;
Most power to do most harm, least knowing ill,
For he hath wit to make an ill shape good,
And shape to win grace though he had no wit.
I saw him at the Duke Alencon's once;
And much too little of that good I saw
Is my report to his great worthiness.
ROSALINE.
Another of these students at that time
Was there with him, if I have heard a truth:
Berowne they call him; but a merrier man,
Within the limit of becoming mirth,
I never spent an hour's talk withal.
His eye begets occasion for his wit,
For every object that the one doth catch
The other turns to a mirth-moving jest,
Which his fair tongue, conceit's expositor,
Delivers in such apt and gracious words
That aged ears play truant at his tales,
And younger hearings are quite ravished;
So sweet and voluble is his discourse.
PRINCESS.
God bless my ladies! Are they all in love,
That every one her own hath garnished
With such bedecking ornaments of praise?
FIRST LORD.
Here comes Boyet.
[Re-enter BOYET.]
PRINCESS.
Now, what admittance, lord?
BOYET.
Navarre had notice of your fair approach,
And he and his competitors in oath
Were all address'd to meet you, gentle lady,
Before I came. Marry, thus much I have learnt;
He rather means to lodge you in the field,
Like one that comes here to besiege his court,
Than seek a dispensation for his oath,
To let you enter his unpeeled house.
Here comes Navarre.
[The LADIES mask.]
[Enter KING, LONGAVILLE, DUMAINE, BEROWNE, and ATTENDANTS.]
KING.
Fair Princess, welcome to the court of Navarre.
PRINCESS.
'Fair' I give you back again; and 'welcome' I have not yet: the
roof of this court is too high to be yours, and welcome to the
wide fields too base to be mine.
KING.
You shall be welcome, madam, to my court.
PRINCESS.
I will be welcome then: conduct me thither.
KING.
Hear me, dear lady; I have sworn an oath.
PRINCESS.
Our Lady help my lord! he'll be forsworn.
KING.
Not for the world, fair madam, by my will.
PRINCESS.
Why, will shall break it; will, and nothing else.
KING.
Your ladyship is ignorant what it is.
PRINCESS.
Were my lord so, his ignorance were wise,
Where now his knowledge must prove ignorance.
I hear your Grace hath sworn out house-keeping:
'Tis deadly sin to keep that oath, my lord,
And sin to break it.
But pardon me, I am too sudden bold:
To teach a teacher ill beseemeth me.
Vouchsafe to read the purpose of my coming,
And suddenly resolve me in my suit.
[Gives a paper.]
KING.
Madam, I will, if suddenly I may.
PRINCESS.
You will the sooner that I were away,
For you'll prove perjur'd if you make me stay.
BEROWNE.
Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
ROSALINE.
Did not I dance with you in Brabant once?
BEROWNE.
I know you did.
ROSALINE.
How needless was it then
To ask the question!
BEROWNE.
You must not be so quick.
ROSALINE.
'Tis long of you, that spur me with such questions.
BEROWNE.
Your wit's too hot, it speeds too fast, 'twill tire.
ROSALINE.
Not till it leave the rider in the mire.
BEROWNE.
What time o' day?
ROSALINE.
The hour that fools should ask.
BEROWNE.
Now fair befall your mask!
ROSALINE.
Fair fall the face it covers!
BEROWNE.
And send you many lovers!
ROSALINE.
Amen, so you be none.
BEROWNE.
Nay, then will I be gone.
KING.
Madam, your father here doth intimate
The payment of a hundred thousand crowns;
Being but the one half of an entire sum
Disbursed by my father in his wars.
But say that he or we,--as neither have,--
Receiv'd that sum, yet there remains unpaid
A hundred thousand more, in surety of the which,
One part of Aquitaine is bound to us,
Although not valued to the money's worth.
If then the King your father will restore
But that one half which is unsatisfied,
We will give up our right in Aquitaine,
And hold fair friendship with his majesty.
But that, it seems, he little purposeth,
For here he doth demand to have repaid
A hundred thousand crowns; and not demands,
On payment of a hundred thousand crowns,
To have his title live in Aquitaine;
Which we much rather had depart withal,
And have the money by our father lent,
Than Aquitaine so gelded as it is.
Dear Princess, were not his requests so far
From reason's yielding, your fair self should make
A yielding 'gainst some reason in my breast,
And go well satisfied to France again.
PRINCESS.
You do the king my father too much wrong,
And wrong the reputation of your name,
In so unseeming to confess receipt
Of that which hath so faithfully been paid.
KING.
I do protest I never heard of it;
And, if you prove it, I'll repay it back
Or yield up Aquitaine.
PRINCESS.
We arrest your word.
Boyet, you can produce acquittances
For such a sum from special officers
Of Charles his father.
KING.
Satisfy me so.
BOYET.
So please your Grace, the packet is not come,
Where that and other specialties are bound:
To-morrow you shall have a sight of them.
KING.
It shall suffice me; at which interview
All liberal reason I will yield unto.
Meantime receive such welcome at my hand
As honour, without breach of honour, may
Make tender of to thy true worthiness.
You may not come, fair Princess, in my gates;
But here without you shall be so receiv'd
As you shall deem yourself lodg'd in my heart,
Though so denied fair harbour in my house.
Your own good thoughts excuse me, and farewell:
To-morrow shall we visit you again.
PRINCESS.
Sweet health and fair desires consort your Grace!
KING.
Thy own wish wish I thee in every place.
[Exeunt KING and his Train.]
BEROWNE.
Lady, I will commend you to mine own heart.
ROSALINE.
Pray you, do my commendations; I would be glad to see it.
BEROWNE.
I would you heard it groan.
ROSALINE.
Is the fool sick?
BEROWNE.
Sick at the heart.
ROSALINE.
Alack! let it blood.
BEROWNE.
Would that do it good?
ROSALINE.
My physic says 'ay.'
BEROWNE.
Will you prick't with your eye?
ROSALINE.
No point, with my knife.
BEROWNE.
Now, God save thy life!
ROSALINE.
And yours from long living!
BEROWNE.
I cannot stay thanksgiving.
[Retiring.]
DUMAINE.
Sir, I pray you, a word: what lady is that same?
BOYET.
The heir of Alencon, Katharine her name.
DUMAINE.
A gallant lady! Monsieur, fare you well.
[Exit.]
LONGAVILLE.
I beseech you a word: what is she in the white?
BOYET.
A woman sometimes, an you saw her in the light.
LONGAVILLE.
Perchance light in the light. I desire her name.
BOYET.
She hath but one for herself; to desire that were a shame.
LONGAVILLE.
Pray you, sir, whose daughter?
BOYET.
Her mother's, I have heard.
LONGAVILLE.
God's blessing on your beard!
BOYET.
Good sir, be not offended.
She is an heir of Falconbridge.
LONGAVILLE.
Nay, my choler is ended.
She is a most sweet lady.
BOYET.
Not unlike, sir; that may be.
[Exit LONGAVILLE.]
BEROWNE.
What's her name in the cap?
BOYET.
Rosaline, by good hap.
BEROWNE.
Is she wedded or no?
BOYET.
To her will, sir, or so.
BEROWNE.
You are welcome, sir. Adieu!
BOYET.
Farewell to me, sir, and welcome to you.
[Exit BEROWNE.--LADIES unmask.]
MARIA.
That last is Berowne, the merry mad-cap lord;
Not a word with him but a jest.
BOYET.
And every jest but a word.
PRINCESS.
It was well done of you to take him at his word.
BOYET.
I was as willing to grapple as he was to board.
MARIA.
Two hot sheeps, marry!
BOYET.
And wherefore not ships?
No sheep, sweet lamb, unless we feed on your lips.
MARIA.
You sheep and I pasture: shall that finish the jest?
BOYET.
So you grant pasture for me.
[Offering to kiss her.]
MARIA.
Not so, gentle beast.
My lips are no common, though several they be.
BOYET.
Belonging to whom?
MARIA.
To my fortunes and me.
PRINCESS.
Good wits will be jangling; but, gentles, agree;
This civil war of wits were much better us'd
On Navarre and his book-men, for here 'tis abus'd.
BOYET.
If my observation,--which very seldom lies,
By the heart's still rhetoric disclosed with eyes,
Deceive me not now, Navarre is infected.
PRINCESS.
With what?
BOYET.
With that which we lovers entitle affected.
PRINCESS.
Your reason.
BOYET.
Why, all his behaviours did make their retire
To the court of his eye, peeping thorough desire;
His heart, like an agate, with your print impress'd,
Proud with his form, in his eye pride express'd;
His tongue, all impatient to speak and not see,
Did stumble with haste in his eyesight to be;
All senses to that sense did make their repair,
To feel only looking on fairest of fair.
Methought all his senses were lock'd in his eye,
As jewels in crystal for some prince to buy;
Who, tend'ring their own worth from where they were glass'd,
Did point you to buy them, along as you pass'd.
His face's own margent did quote such amazes
That all eyes saw his eyes enchanted with gazes.
I'll give you Aquitaine, and all that is his,
An you give him for my sake but one loving kiss.
PRINCESS.
Come, to our pavilion: Boyet is dispos'd.
BOYET.
But to speak that in words which his eye hath disclos'd.
I only have made a mouth of his eye,
By adding a tongue which I know will not lie.
ROSALINE.
Thou art an old love-monger, and speak'st skilfully.
MARIA.
He is Cupid's grandfather, and learns news of him.
ROSALINE.
Then was Venus like her mother; for her father is but grim.
BOYET.
Do you hear, my mad wenches?
MARIA.
No.
BOYET.
What, then, do you see?
ROSALINE.
Ay, our way to be gone.
BOYET.
You are too hard for me.
[Exeunt.] | The Princess of France arrives with her ladies, Rosaline, Maria, and Katherine, with Boyet, one of her attendants, and with two other lords. Boyet gives us an exposition. The Princess is coming on behalf of her father the King, to negotiate with the King of Navarre about a piece of land called Aquitaine. Boyet reminds her to be charming and generous to the King. The Princess shoots from the hip. She says that there's no need to flatter her, and wants to get to the point. She has heard that the King has taken a vow not to see any women, so she wants Boyet to announce their arrival and find out what's what. Boyet exits. The Princess asks her ladies what other lords have taken this vow with the King. It turns out they know the men and kind of like them! Maria describes Longaville. He's intelligent, a good warrior, does everything well. The only problem is he's got a mouth on him. Katherine describes Dumain. Virtuous, smart, and good-looking. Rosaline has Berowne. It's all about his mind: he's the funniest, most eloquent man she's ever met. Good lord, says the Princess--all my ladies are in love. Boyet comes back with the news that the King intends for them to camp in the field, as though they were enemies. The King enters with Longaville, Dumain, Berowne and attendants. The Ladies mask themselves. When the King greets the Princess politely, she doesn't reciprocate. She's a little miffed she can't gain access to the court. The King tries to apologize and explain about his oath, receiving no end of teasing from the Princess. Then she remembers she's there on business, and gives him a letter from her father about Aquitaine. Meanwhile Katharine--or Rosaline--has a battle of wits with Berowne. Back to the matter of Aquitaine. In response to the letter, the King gives a long speech. He claims that the Princess's father still owes him money for the land. Nuh-uhh, says the Princess. We're all settled and Boyet has the papers to prove it. The papers are still on the way. They'll have to wait till tomorrow to discuss the matter further. The King won't let them in the gates, but he'll try to make them comfortable in the grounds. As comfortable as in his own heart. He exits with Longaville and Dumain. Berowne stays behind to have a little flirt with Rosaline. Dumain reenters, asking Boyet for Katharine's name. Longaville reenters, asking after Maria. Boyet messes with him before giving it up. Berowne inquires about Rosaline. Yes, she's single. All the men exit with the necessary info. The ladies unmask. The game is on. Katharine and Boyet have a wit session, but the Princess asks them to save it for the boys of Navarre. Boyet has news for the Princess. The King thought she was attractive. He was ogling her the whole time he spouted that nonsense about Aquitaine. The Princess can't believe what she's hearing. Neither can the other maidens. They decide to go to their camp. |
In Trust
One morning when I had done jingling about with my baskets of keys,
as my beauty and I were walking round and round the garden I happened
to turn my eyes towards the house and saw a long thin shadow going in
which looked like Mr. Vholes. Ada had been telling me only that
morning of her hopes that Richard might exhaust his ardour in the
Chancery suit by being so very earnest in it; and therefore, not to
damp my dear girl's spirits, I said nothing about Mr. Vholes's
shadow.
Presently came Charley, lightly winding among the bushes and tripping
along the paths, as rosy and pretty as one of Flora's attendants
instead of my maid, saying, "Oh, if you please, miss, would you step
and speak to Mr. Jarndyce!"
It was one of Charley's peculiarities that whenever she was charged
with a message she always began to deliver it as soon as she beheld,
at any distance, the person for whom it was intended. Therefore I saw
Charley asking me in her usual form of words to "step and speak" to
Mr. Jarndyce long before I heard her. And when I did hear her, she
had said it so often that she was out of breath.
I told Ada I would make haste back and inquired of Charley as we went
in whether there was not a gentleman with Mr. Jarndyce. To which
Charley, whose grammar, I confess to my shame, never did any credit
to my educational powers, replied, "Yes, miss. Him as come down in
the country with Mr. Richard."
A more complete contrast than my guardian and Mr. Vholes I suppose
there could not be. I found them looking at one another across a
table, the one so open and the other so close, the one so broad and
upright and the other so narrow and stooping, the one giving out what
he had to say in such a rich ringing voice and the other keeping it
in in such a cold-blooded, gasping, fish-like manner that I thought I
never had seen two people so unmatched.
"You know Mr. Vholes, my dear," said my guardian. Not with the
greatest urbanity, I must say.
Mr. Vholes rose, gloved and buttoned up as usual, and seated himself
again, just as he had seated himself beside Richard in the gig. Not
having Richard to look at, he looked straight before him.
"Mr. Vholes," said my guardian, eyeing his black figure as if he were
a bird of ill omen, "has brought an ugly report of our most
unfortunate Rick." Laying a marked emphasis on "most unfortunate" as
if the words were rather descriptive of his connexion with Mr.
Vholes.
I sat down between them; Mr. Vholes remained immovable, except that
he secretly picked at one of the red pimples on his yellow face with
his black glove.
"And as Rick and you are happily good friends, I should like to
know," said my guardian, "what you think, my dear. Would you be so
good as to--as to speak up, Mr. Vholes?"
Doing anything but that, Mr. Vholes observed, "I have been saying
that I have reason to know, Miss Summerson, as Mr. C.'s professional
adviser, that Mr. C.'s circumstances are at the present moment in an
embarrassed state. Not so much in point of amount as owing to the
peculiar and pressing nature of liabilities Mr. C. has incurred and
the means he has of liquidating or meeting the same. I have staved
off many little matters for Mr. C., but there is a limit to staving
off, and we have reached it. I have made some advances out of pocket
to accommodate these unpleasantnesses, but I necessarily look to
being repaid, for I do not pretend to be a man of capital, and I have
a father to support in the Vale of Taunton, besides striving to
realize some little independence for three dear girls at home. My
apprehension is, Mr. C.'s circumstances being such, lest it should
end in his obtaining leave to part with his commission, which at all
events is desirable to be made known to his connexions."
Mr. Vholes, who had looked at me while speaking, here emerged into
the silence he could hardly be said to have broken, so stifled was
his tone, and looked before him again.
"Imagine the poor fellow without even his present resource," said my
guardian to me. "Yet what can I do? You know him, Esther. He would
never accept of help from me now. To offer it or hint at it would be
to drive him to an extremity, if nothing else did."
Mr. Vholes hereupon addressed me again.
"What Mr. Jarndyce remarks, miss, is no doubt the case, and is the
difficulty. I do not see that anything is to be done. I do not say
that anything is to be done. Far from it. I merely come down here
under the seal of confidence and mention it in order that everything
may be openly carried on and that it may not be said afterwards that
everything was not openly carried on. My wish is that everything
should be openly carried on. I desire to leave a good name behind me.
If I consulted merely my own interests with Mr. C., I should not be
here. So insurmountable, as you must well know, would be his
objections. This is not a professional attendance. This can he
charged to nobody. I have no interest in it except as a member of
society and a father--AND a son," said Mr. Vholes, who had nearly
forgotten that point.
It appeared to us that Mr. Vholes said neither more nor less than the
truth in intimating that he sought to divide the responsibility, such
as it was, of knowing Richard's situation. I could only suggest that
I should go down to Deal, where Richard was then stationed, and see
him, and try if it were possible to avert the worst. Without
consulting Mr. Vholes on this point, I took my guardian aside to
propose it, while Mr. Vholes gauntly stalked to the fire and warmed
his funeral gloves.
The fatigue of the journey formed an immediate objection on my
guardian's part, but as I saw he had no other, and as I was only too
happy to go, I got his consent. We had then merely to dispose of Mr.
Vholes.
"Well, sir," said Mr. Jarndyce, "Miss Summerson will communicate with
Mr. Carstone, and you can only hope that his position may be yet
retrievable. You will allow me to order you lunch after your journey,
sir."
"I thank you, Mr. Jarndyce," said Mr. Vholes, putting out his long
black sleeve to check the ringing of the bell, "not any. I thank you,
no, not a morsel. My digestion is much impaired, and I am but a poor
knife and fork at any time. If I was to partake of solid food at this
period of the day, I don't know what the consequences might be.
Everything having been openly carried on, sir, I will now with your
permission take my leave."
"And I would that you could take your leave, and we could all take
our leave, Mr. Vholes," returned my guardian bitterly, "of a cause
you know of."
Mr. Vholes, whose black dye was so deep from head to foot that it had
quite steamed before the fire, diffusing a very unpleasant perfume,
made a short one-sided inclination of his head from the neck and
slowly shook it.
"We whose ambition it is to be looked upon in the light of
respectable practitioners, sir, can but put our shoulders to the
wheel. We do it, sir. At least, I do it myself; and I wish to think
well of my professional brethren, one and all. You are sensible of an
obligation not to refer to me, miss, in communicating with Mr. C.?"
I said I would be careful not to do it.
"Just so, miss. Good morning. Mr. Jarndyce, good morning, sir." Mr.
Vholes put his dead glove, which scarcely seemed to have any hand in
it, on my fingers, and then on my guardian's fingers, and took his
long thin shadow away. I thought of it on the outside of the coach,
passing over all the sunny landscape between us and London, chilling
the seed in the ground as it glided along.
Of course it became necessary to tell Ada where I was going and why I
was going, and of course she was anxious and distressed. But she was
too true to Richard to say anything but words of pity and words of
excuse, and in a more loving spirit still--my dear devoted girl!--she
wrote him a long letter, of which I took charge.
Charley was to be my travelling companion, though I am sure I wanted
none and would willingly have left her at home. We all went to London
that afternoon, and finding two places in the mail, secured them. At
our usual bed-time, Charley and I were rolling away seaward with the
Kentish letters.
It was a night's journey in those coach times, but we had the mail to
ourselves and did not find the night very tedious. It passed with me
as I suppose it would with most people under such circumstances. At
one while my journey looked hopeful, and at another hopeless. Now I
thought I should do some good, and now I wondered how I could ever
have supposed so. Now it seemed one of the most reasonable things in
the world that I should have come, and now one of the most
unreasonable. In what state I should find Richard, what I should say
to him, and what he would say to me occupied my mind by turns with
these two states of feeling; and the wheels seemed to play one tune
(to which the burden of my guardian's letter set itself) over and
over again all night.
At last we came into the narrow streets of Deal, and very gloomy they
were upon a raw misty morning. The long flat beach, with its little
irregular houses, wooden and brick, and its litter of capstans, and
great boats, and sheds, and bare upright poles with tackle and
blocks, and loose gravelly waste places overgrown with grass and
weeds, wore as dull an appearance as any place I ever saw. The sea
was heaving under a thick white fog; and nothing else was moving but
a few early ropemakers, who, with the yarn twisted round their
bodies, looked as if, tired of their present state of existence, they
were spinning themselves into cordage.
But when we got into a warm room in an excellent hotel and sat down,
comfortably washed and dressed, to an early breakfast (for it was too
late to think of going to bed), Deal began to look more cheerful. Our
little room was like a ship's cabin, and that delighted Charley very
much. Then the fog began to rise like a curtain, and numbers of ships
that we had had no idea were near appeared. I don't know how many
sail the waiter told us were then lying in the downs. Some of these
vessels were of grand size--one was a large Indiaman just come home;
and when the sun shone through the clouds, making silvery pools in
the dark sea, the way in which these ships brightened, and shadowed,
and changed, amid a bustle of boats pulling off from the shore to
them and from them to the shore, and a general life and motion in
themselves and everything around them, was most beautiful.
The large Indiaman was our great attraction because she had come into
the downs in the night. She was surrounded by boats, and we said how
glad the people on board of her must be to come ashore. Charley was
curious, too, about the voyage, and about the heat in India, and the
serpents and the tigers; and as she picked up such information much
faster than grammar, I told her what I knew on those points. I told
her, too, how people in such voyages were sometimes wrecked and cast
on rocks, where they were saved by the intrepidity and humanity of
one man. And Charley asking how that could be, I told her how we knew
at home of such a case.
I had thought of sending Richard a note saying I was there, but it
seemed so much better to go to him without preparation. As he lived
in barracks I was a little doubtful whether this was feasible, but we
went out to reconnoitre. Peeping in at the gate of the barrack-yard,
we found everything very quiet at that time in the morning, and I
asked a sergeant standing on the guardhouse-steps where he lived. He
sent a man before to show me, who went up some bare stairs, and
knocked with his knuckles at a door, and left us.
"Now then!" cried Richard from within. So I left Charley in the
little passage, and going on to the half-open door, said, "Can I come
in, Richard? It's only Dame Durden."
He was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin
cases, books, boots, brushes, and portmanteaus strewn all about the
floor. He was only half dressed--in plain clothes, I observed, not in
uniform--and his hair was unbrushed, and he looked as wild as his
room. All this I saw after he had heartily welcomed me and I was
seated near him, for he started upon hearing my voice and caught me
in his arms in a moment. Dear Richard! He was ever the same to me.
Down to--ah, poor poor fellow!--to the end, he never received me but
with something of his old merry boyish manner.
"Good heaven, my dear little woman," said he, "how do you come here?
Who could have thought of seeing you! Nothing the matter? Ada is
well?"
"Quite well. Lovelier than ever, Richard!"
"Ah!" he said, leaning back in his chair. "My poor cousin! I was
writing to you, Esther."
So worn and haggard as he looked, even in the fullness of his
handsome youth, leaning back in his chair and crushing the closely
written sheet of paper in his hand!
"Have you been at the trouble of writing all that, and am I not to
read it after all?" I asked.
"Oh, my dear," he returned with a hopeless gesture. "You may read it
in the whole room. It is all over here."
I mildly entreated him not to be despondent. I told him that I had
heard by chance of his being in difficulty and had come to consult
with him what could best be done.
"Like you, Esther, but useless, and so NOT like you!" said he with a
melancholy smile. "I am away on leave this day--should have been gone
in another hour--and that is to smooth it over, for my selling out.
Well! Let bygones be bygones. So this calling follows the rest. I
only want to have been in the church to have made the round of all
the professions."
"Richard," I urged, "it is not so hopeless as that?"
"Esther," he returned, "it is indeed. I am just so near disgrace as
that those who are put in authority over me (as the catechism goes)
would far rather be without me than with me. And they are right.
Apart from debts and duns and all such drawbacks, I am not fit even
for this employment. I have no care, no mind, no heart, no soul, but
for one thing. Why, if this bubble hadn't broken now," he said,
tearing the letter he had written into fragments and moodily casting
them away, by driblets, "how could I have gone abroad? I must have
been ordered abroad, but how could I have gone? How could I, with my
experience of that thing, trust even Vholes unless I was at his
back!"
I suppose he knew by my face what I was about to say, but he caught
the hand I had laid upon his arm and touched my own lips with it to
prevent me from going on.
"No, Dame Durden! Two subjects I forbid--must forbid. The first is
John Jarndyce. The second, you know what. Call it madness, and I tell
you I can't help it now, and can't be sane. But it is no such thing;
it is the one object I have to pursue. It is a pity I ever was
prevailed upon to turn out of my road for any other. It would be
wisdom to abandon it now, after all the time, anxiety, and pains I
have bestowed upon it! Oh, yes, true wisdom. It would be very
agreeable, too, to some people; but I never will."
He was in that mood in which I thought it best not to increase his
determination (if anything could increase it) by opposing him. I took
out Ada's letter and put it in his hand.
"Am I to read it now?" he asked.
As I told him yes, he laid it on the table, and resting his head upon
his hand, began. He had not read far when he rested his head upon his
two hands--to hide his face from me. In a little while he rose as if
the light were bad and went to the window. He finished reading it
there, with his back towards me, and after he had finished and had
folded it up, stood there for some minutes with the letter in his
hand. When he came back to his chair, I saw tears in his eyes.
"Of course, Esther, you know what she says here?" He spoke in a
softened voice and kissed the letter as he asked me.
"Yes, Richard."
"Offers me," he went on, tapping his foot upon the floor, "the little
inheritance she is certain of so soon--just as little and as much as
I have wasted--and begs and prays me to take it, set myself right
with it, and remain in the service."
"I know your welfare to be the dearest wish of her heart," said I.
"And, oh, my dear Richard, Ada's is a noble heart."
"I am sure it is. I--I wish I was dead!"
He went back to the window, and laying his arm across it, leaned his
head down on his arm. It greatly affected me to see him so, but I
hoped he might become more yielding, and I remained silent. My
experience was very limited; I was not at all prepared for his
rousing himself out of this emotion to a new sense of injury.
"And this is the heart that the same John Jarndyce, who is not
otherwise to be mentioned between us, stepped in to estrange from
me," said he indignantly. "And the dear girl makes me this generous
offer from under the same John Jarndyce's roof, and with the same
John Jarndyce's gracious consent and connivance, I dare say, as a new
means of buying me off."
"Richard!" I cried out, rising hastily. "I will not hear you say such
shameful words!" I was very angry with him indeed, for the first time
in my life, but it only lasted a moment. When I saw his worn young
face looking at me as if he were sorry, I put my hand on his shoulder
and said, "If you please, my dear Richard, do not speak in such a
tone to me. Consider!"
He blamed himself exceedingly and told me in the most generous manner
that he had been very wrong and that he begged my pardon a thousand
times. At that I laughed, but trembled a little too, for I was rather
fluttered after being so fiery.
"To accept this offer, my dear Esther," said he, sitting down beside
me and resuming our conversation, "--once more, pray, pray forgive
me; I am deeply grieved--to accept my dearest cousin's offer is, I
need not say, impossible. Besides, I have letters and papers that I
could show you which would convince you it is all over here. I have
done with the red coat, believe me. But it is some satisfaction, in
the midst of my troubles and perplexities, to know that I am pressing
Ada's interests in pressing my own. Vholes has his shoulder to the
wheel, and he cannot help urging it on as much for her as for me,
thank God!"
His sanguine hopes were rising within him and lighting up his
features, but they made his face more sad to me than it had been
before.
"No, no!" cried Richard exultingly. "If every farthing of Ada's
little fortune were mine, no part of it should be spent in retaining
me in what I am not fit for, can take no interest in, and am weary
of. It should be devoted to what promises a better return, and should
be used where she has a larger stake. Don't be uneasy for me! I shall
now have only one thing on my mind, and Vholes and I will work it. I
shall not be without means. Free of my commission, I shall be able to
compound with some small usurers who will hear of nothing but their
bond now--Vholes says so. I should have a balance in my favour
anyway, but that would swell it. Come, come! You shall carry a letter
to Ada from me, Esther, and you must both of you be more hopeful of
me and not believe that I am quite cast away just yet, my dear."
I will not repeat what I said to Richard. I know it was tiresome, and
nobody is to suppose for a moment that it was at all wise. It only
came from my heart. He heard it patiently and feelingly, but I saw
that on the two subjects he had reserved it was at present hopeless
to make any representation to him. I saw too, and had experienced in
this very interview, the sense of my guardian's remark that it was
even more mischievous to use persuasion with him than to leave him as
he was.
Therefore I was driven at last to asking Richard if he would mind
convincing me that it really was all over there, as he had said, and
that it was not his mere impression. He showed me without hesitation
a correspondence making it quite plain that his retirement was
arranged. I found, from what he told me, that Mr. Vholes had copies
of these papers and had been in consultation with him throughout.
Beyond ascertaining this, and having been the bearer of Ada's letter,
and being (as I was going to be) Richard's companion back to London,
I had done no good by coming down. Admitting this to myself with a
reluctant heart, I said I would return to the hotel and wait until he
joined me there, so he threw a cloak over his shoulders and saw me to
the gate, and Charley and I went back along the beach.
There was a concourse of people in one spot, surrounding some naval
officers who were landing from a boat, and pressing about them with
unusual interest. I said to Charley this would be one of the great
Indiaman's boats now, and we stopped to look.
The gentlemen came slowly up from the waterside, speaking
good-humouredly to each other and to the people around and glancing
about them as if they were glad to be in England again. "Charley,
Charley," said I, "come away!" And I hurried on so swiftly that my
little maid was surprised.
It was not until we were shut up in our cabin-room and I had had time
to take breath that I began to think why I had made such haste. In
one of the sunburnt faces I had recognized Mr. Allan Woodcourt, and I
had been afraid of his recognizing me. I had been unwilling that he
should see my altered looks. I had been taken by surprise, and my
courage had quite failed me.
But I knew this would not do, and I now said to myself, "My dear,
there is no reason--there is and there can be no reason at all--why
it should be worse for you now than it ever has been. What you were
last month, you are to-day; you are no worse, you are no better. This
is not your resolution; call it up, Esther, call it up!" I was in a
great tremble--with running--and at first was quite unable to calm
myself; but I got better, and I was very glad to know it.
The party came to the hotel. I heard them speaking on the staircase.
I was sure it was the same gentlemen because I knew their voices
again--I mean I knew Mr. Woodcourt's. It would still have been a
great relief to me to have gone away without making myself known, but
I was determined not to do so. "No, my dear, no. No, no, no!"
I untied my bonnet and put my veil half up--I think I mean half down,
but it matters very little--and wrote on one of my cards that I
happened to be there with Mr. Richard Carstone, and I sent it in to
Mr. Woodcourt. He came immediately. I told him I was rejoiced to be
by chance among the first to welcome him home to England. And I saw
that he was very sorry for me.
"You have been in shipwreck and peril since you left us, Mr.
Woodcourt," said I, "but we can hardly call that a misfortune which
enabled you to be so useful and so brave. We read of it with the
truest interest. It first came to my knowledge through your old
patient, poor Miss Flite, when I was recovering from my severe
illness."
"Ah! Little Miss Flite!" he said. "She lives the same life yet?"
"Just the same."
I was so comfortable with myself now as not to mind the veil and to
be able to put it aside.
"Her gratitude to you, Mr. Woodcourt, is delightful. She is a most
affectionate creature, as I have reason to say."
"You--you have found her so?" he returned. "I--I am glad of that." He
was so very sorry for me that he could scarcely speak.
"I assure you," said I, "that I was deeply touched by her sympathy
and pleasure at the time I have referred to."
"I was grieved to hear that you had been very ill."
"I was very ill."
"But you have quite recovered?"
"I have quite recovered my health and my cheerfulness," said I. "You
know how good my guardian is and what a happy life we lead, and I
have everything to be thankful for and nothing in the world to
desire."
I felt as if he had greater commiseration for me than I had ever had
for myself. It inspired me with new fortitude and new calmness to
find that it was I who was under the necessity of reassuring him. I
spoke to him of his voyage out and home, and of his future plans, and
of his probable return to India. He said that was very doubtful. He
had not found himself more favoured by fortune there than here. He
had gone out a poor ship's surgeon and had come home nothing better.
While we were talking, and when I was glad to believe that I had
alleviated (if I may use such a term) the shock he had had in seeing
me, Richard came in. He had heard downstairs who was with me, and
they met with cordial pleasure.
I saw that after their first greetings were over, and when they spoke
of Richard's career, Mr. Woodcourt had a perception that all was not
going well with him. He frequently glanced at his face as if there
were something in it that gave him pain, and more than once he looked
towards me as though he sought to ascertain whether I knew what the
truth was. Yet Richard was in one of his sanguine states and in good
spirits and was thoroughly pleased to see Mr. Woodcourt again, whom
he had always liked.
Richard proposed that we all should go to London together; but Mr.
Woodcourt, having to remain by his ship a little longer, could not
join us. He dined with us, however, at an early hour, and became so
much more like what he used to be that I was still more at peace to
think I had been able to soften his regrets. Yet his mind was not
relieved of Richard. When the coach was almost ready and Richard ran
down to look after his luggage, he spoke to me about him.
I was not sure that I had a right to lay his whole story open, but I
referred in a few words to his estrangement from Mr Jarndyce and to
his being entangled in the ill-fated Chancery suit. Mr. Woodcourt
listened with interest and expressed his regret.
"I saw you observe him rather closely," said I, "Do you think him so
changed?"
"He is changed," he returned, shaking his head.
I felt the blood rush into my face for the first time, but it was
only an instantaneous emotion. I turned my head aside, and it was
gone.
"It is not," said Mr. Woodcourt, "his being so much younger or older,
or thinner or fatter, or paler or ruddier, as there being upon his
face such a singular expression. I never saw so remarkable a look in
a young person. One cannot say that it is all anxiety or all
weariness; yet it is both, and like ungrown despair."
"You do not think he is ill?" said I.
No. He looked robust in body.
"That he cannot be at peace in mind, we have too much reason to
know," I proceeded. "Mr. Woodcourt, you are going to London?"
"To-morrow or the next day."
"There is nothing Richard wants so much as a friend. He always liked
you. Pray see him when you get there. Pray help him sometimes with
your companionship if you can. You do not know of what service it
might be. You cannot think how Ada, and Mr. Jarndyce, and even I--how
we should all thank you, Mr. Woodcourt!"
"Miss Summerson," he said, more moved than he had been from the
first, "before heaven, I will be a true friend to him! I will accept
him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!"
"God bless you!" said I, with my eyes filling fast; but I thought
they might, when it was not for myself. "Ada loves him--we all love
him, but Ada loves him as we cannot. I will tell her what you say.
Thank you, and God bless you, in her name!"
Richard came back as we finished exchanging these hurried words and
gave me his arm to take me to the coach.
"Woodcourt," he said, unconscious with what application, "pray let us
meet in London!"
"Meet?" returned the other. "I have scarcely a friend there now but
you. Where shall I find you?"
"Why, I must get a lodging of some sort," said Richard, pondering.
"Say at Vholes's, Symond's Inn."
"Good! Without loss of time."
They shook hands heartily. When I was seated in the coach and Richard
was yet standing in the street, Mr. Woodcourt laid his friendly hand
on Richard's shoulder and looked at me. I understood him and waved
mine in thanks.
And in his last look as we drove away, I saw that he was very sorry
for me. I was glad to see it. I felt for my old self as the dead may
feel if they ever revisit these scenes. I was glad to be tenderly
remembered, to be gently pitied, not to be quite forgotten. | In Trust Mr. Vholes, Richard's attorney, comes to Bleak House to announce that Richard is in debt and going to lose his commission. Vholes is described as a "bird of ill-omen," gloved and buttoned up, as usual. Mr. Jarndyce asks Esther to go to Richard, since he will not accept help from him. Esther and Charley go to Deal, Kent, to find Richard in his barracks. His room is a wreck, and he is in civilian clothes: "he looked as wild as his room" . He reads Ada's letter that Esther brought him, offering all her inheritance when she comes of age, to use to keep his commission. He says it is too late; he is not just leaving because he wants to, he has been ordered to sell out, and he admits soldiering is not his calling. Now he will be free to spend fulltime on the Chancery suit. He is still bitter towards Jarndyce for interfering with his engagement. As Esther leaves, she sees Mr. Woodcourt, and at first she avoids him. Then she takes command of herself and goes out to greet him: "And I saw that he was very sorry for me" . His tender pity for her altered looks does her good; she takes new fortitude. He dines with Richard and Esther, and mentions to her later that Richard is much changed. She asks him to befriend Richard, and he replies, "I will accept him as a trust, and it shall be a sacred one!". |
CHAPTER IV
I
"THE Clarks have invited some folks to their house to meet us, tonight,"
said Kennicott, as he unpacked his suit-case.
"Oh, that is nice of them!"
"You bet. I told you you'd like 'em. Squarest people on earth. Uh,
Carrie----Would you mind if I sneaked down to the office for an hour,
just to see how things are?"
"Why, no. Of course not. I know you're keen to get back to work."
"Sure you don't mind?"
"Not a bit. Out of my way. Let me unpack."
But the advocate of freedom in marriage was as much disappointed as
a drooping bride at the alacrity with which he took that freedom and
escaped to the world of men's affairs. She gazed about their bedroom,
and its full dismalness crawled over her: the awkward knuckly L-shape
of it; the black walnut bed with apples and spotty pears carved on the
headboard; the imitation maple bureau, with pink-daubed scent-bottles
and a petticoated pin-cushion on a marble slab uncomfortably like a
gravestone; the plain pine washstand and the garlanded water-pitcher and
bowl. The scent was of horsehair and plush and Florida Water.
"How could people ever live with things like this?" she shuddered. She
saw the furniture as a circle of elderly judges, condemning her to death
by smothering. The tottering brocade chair squeaked, "Choke her--choke
her--smother her." The old linen smelled of the tomb. She was alone in
this house, this strange still house, among the shadows of dead thoughts
and haunting repressions. "I hate it! I hate it!" she panted. "Why did I
ever----"
She remembered that Kennicott's mother had brought these family
relics from the old home in Lac-qui-Meurt. "Stop it! They're perfectly
comfortable things. They're--comfortable. Besides----Oh, they're
horrible! We'll change them, right away."
Then, "But of course he HAS to see how things are at the office----"
She made a pretense of busying herself with unpacking. The chintz-lined,
silver-fitted bag which had seemed so desirable a luxury in St. Paul was
an extravagant vanity here. The daring black chemise of frail chiffon
and lace was a hussy at which the deep-bosomed bed stiffened in disgust,
and she hurled it into a bureau drawer, hid it beneath a sensible linen
blouse.
She gave up unpacking. She went to the window, with a purely literary
thought of village charm--hollyhocks and lanes and apple-cheeked
cottagers. What she saw was the side of the Seventh-Day Adventist
Church--a plain clapboard wall of a sour liver color; the ash-pile
back of the church; an unpainted stable; and an alley in which a Ford
delivery-wagon had been stranded. This was the terraced garden below her
boudoir; this was to be her scenery for----
"I mustn't! I mustn't! I'm nervous this afternoon. Am I sick? . . . Good
Lord, I hope it isn't that! Not now! How people lie! How these stories
lie! They say the bride is always so blushing and proud and happy when
she finds that out, but--I'd hate it! I'd be scared to death! Some
day but----Please, dear nebulous Lord, not now! Bearded sniffy old
men sitting and demanding that we bear children. If THEY had to bear
them----! I wish they did have to! Not now! Not till I've got hold of
this job of liking the ash-pile out there! . . . I must shut up. I'm
mildly insane. I'm going out for a walk. I'll see the town by myself. My
first view of the empire I'm going to conquer!"
She fled from the house.
She stared with seriousness at every concrete crossing, every
hitching-post, every rake for leaves; and to each house she devoted all
her speculation. What would they come to mean? How would they look six
months from now? In which of them would she be dining? Which of these
people whom she passed, now mere arrangements of hair and clothes, would
turn into intimates, loved or dreaded, different from all the other
people in the world?
As she came into the small business-section she inspected a broad-beamed
grocer in an alpaca coat who was bending over the apples and celery on a
slanted platform in front of his store. Would she ever talk to him? What
would he say if she stopped and stated, "I am Mrs. Dr. Kennicott. Some
day I hope to confide that a heap of extremely dubious pumpkins as a
window-display doesn't exhilarate me much."
(The grocer was Mr. Frederick F. Ludelmeyer, whose market is at the
corner of Main Street and Lincoln Avenue. In supposing that only she was
observant Carol was ignorant, misled by the indifference of cities. She
fancied that she was slipping through the streets invisible; but when
she had passed, Mr. Ludelmeyer puffed into the store and coughed at his
clerk, "I seen a young woman, she come along the side street. I bet she
iss Doc Kennicott's new bride, good-looker, nice legs, but she wore a
hell of a plain suit, no style, I wonder will she pay cash, I bet she
goes to Howland & Gould's more as she does here, what you done with the
poster for Fluffed Oats?")
II
When Carol had walked for thirty-two minutes she had completely covered
the town, east and west, north and south; and she stood at the corner of
Main Street and Washington Avenue and despaired.
Main Street with its two-story brick shops, its story-and-a-half wooden
residences, its muddy expanse from concrete walk to walk, its huddle
of Fords and lumber-wagons, was too small to absorb her. The broad,
straight, unenticing gashes of the streets let in the grasping prairie
on every side. She realized the vastness and the emptiness of the land.
The skeleton iron windmill on the farm a few blocks away, at the north
end of Main Street, was like the ribs of a dead cow. She thought of the
coming of the Northern winter, when the unprotected houses would crouch
together in terror of storms galloping out of that wild waste. They
were so small and weak, the little brown houses. They were shelters for
sparrows, not homes for warm laughing people.
She told herself that down the street the leaves were a splendor. The
maples were orange; the oaks a solid tint of raspberry. And the lawns
had been nursed with love. But the thought would not hold. At best the
trees resembled a thinned woodlot. There was no park to rest the eyes.
And since not Gopher Prairie but Wakamin was the county-seat, there was
no court-house with its grounds.
She glanced through the fly-specked windows of the most pretentious
building in sight, the one place which welcomed strangers and
determined their opinion of the charm and luxury of Gopher Prairie--the
Minniemashie House. It was a tall lean shabby structure, three stories
of yellow-streaked wood, the corners covered with sanded pine slabs
purporting to symbolize stone. In the hotel office she could see a
stretch of bare unclean floor, a line of rickety chairs with brass
cuspidors between, a writing-desk with advertisements in mother-of-pearl
letters upon the glass-covered back. The dining-room beyond was a jungle
of stained table-cloths and catsup bottles.
She looked no more at the Minniemashie House.
A man in cuffless shirt-sleeves with pink arm-garters, wearing a linen
collar but no tie, yawned his way from Dyer's Drug Store across to the
hotel. He leaned against the wall, scratched a while, sighed, and in a
bored way gossiped with a man tilted back in a chair. A lumber-wagon,
its long green box filled with large spools of barbed-wire fencing,
creaked down the block. A Ford, in reverse, sounded as though it
were shaking to pieces, then recovered and rattled away. In the Greek
candy-store was the whine of a peanut-roaster, and the oily smell of
nuts.
There was no other sound nor sign of life.
She wanted to run, fleeing from the encroaching prairie, demanding the
security of a great city. Her dreams of creating a beautiful town were
ludicrous. Oozing out from every drab wall, she felt a forbidding spirit
which she could never conquer.
She trailed down the street on one side, back on the other, glancing
into the cross streets. It was a private Seeing Main Street tour. She
was within ten minutes beholding not only the heart of a place called
Gopher Prairie, but ten thousand towns from Albany to San Diego:
Dyer's Drug Store, a corner building of regular and unreal blocks of
artificial stone. Inside the store, a greasy marble soda-fountain with
an electric lamp of red and green and curdled-yellow mosaic
shade. Pawed-over heaps of tooth-brushes and combs and packages of
shaving-soap. Shelves of soap-cartons, teething-rings, garden-seeds,
and patent medicines in yellow "packages-nostrums" for consumption, for
"women's diseases"--notorious mixtures of opium and alcohol, in
the very shop to which her husband sent patients for the filling of
prescriptions.
From a second-story window the sign "W. P. Kennicott, Phys. & Surgeon,"
gilt on black sand.
A small wooden motion-picture theater called "The Rosebud Movie Palace."
Lithographs announcing a film called "Fatty in Love."
Howland & Gould's Grocery. In the display window, black, overripe
bananas and lettuce on which a cat was sleeping. Shelves lined with red
crepe paper which was now faded and torn and concentrically spotted.
Flat against the wall of the second story the signs of lodges--the
Knights of Pythias, the Maccabees, the Woodmen, the Masons.
Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market--a reek of blood.
A jewelry shop with tinny-looking wrist-watches for women. In front of
it, at the curb, a huge wooden clock which did not go.
A fly-buzzing saloon with a brilliant gold and enamel whisky sign across
the front. Other saloons down the block. From them a stink of stale
beer, and thick voices bellowing pidgin German or trolling out dirty
songs--vice gone feeble and unenterprising and dull--the delicacy of a
mining-camp minus its vigor. In front of the saloons, farmwives sitting
on the seats of wagons, waiting for their husbands to become drunk and
ready to start home.
A tobacco shop called "The Smoke House," filled with young men shaking
dice for cigarettes. Racks of magazines, and pictures of coy fat
prostitutes in striped bathing-suits.
A clothing store with a display of "ox-blood-shade Oxfords with bull-dog
toes." Suits which looked worn and glossless while they were still new,
flabbily draped on dummies like corpses with painted cheeks.
The Bon Ton Store--Haydock & Simons'--the largest shop in town. The
first-story front of clear glass, the plates cleverly bound at the edges
with brass. The second story of pleasant tapestry brick. One window of
excellent clothes for men, interspersed with collars of floral pique
which showed mauve daisies on a saffron ground. Newness and an obvious
notion of neatness and service. Haydock & Simons. Haydock. She had met a
Haydock at the station; Harry Haydock; an active person of thirty-five.
He seemed great to her, now, and very like a saint. His shop was clean!
Axel Egge's General Store, frequented by Scandinavian farmers. In the
shallow dark window-space heaps of sleazy sateens, badly woven galateas,
canvas shoes designed for women with bulging ankles, steel and red glass
buttons upon cards with broken edges, a cottony blanket, a granite-ware
frying-pan reposing on a sun-faded crepe blouse.
Sam Clark's Hardware Store. An air of frankly metallic enterprise. Guns
and churns and barrels of nails and beautiful shiny butcher knives.
Chester Dashaway's House Furnishing Emporium. A vista of heavy oak
rockers with leather seats, asleep in a dismal row.
Billy's Lunch. Thick handleless cups on the wet oilcloth-covered
counter. An odor of onions and the smoke of hot lard. In the doorway a
young man audibly sucking a toothpick.
The warehouse of the buyer of cream and potatoes. The sour smell of a
dairy.
The Ford Garage and the Buick Garage, competent one-story brick
and cement buildings opposite each other. Old and new cars on
grease-blackened concrete floors. Tire advertisements. The roaring of
a tested motor; a racket which beat at the nerves. Surly young men in
khaki union-overalls. The most energetic and vital places in town.
A large warehouse for agricultural implements. An impressive barricade
of green and gold wheels, of shafts and sulky seats, belonging
to machinery of which Carol knew nothing--potato-planters,
manure-spreaders, silage-cutters, disk-harrows, breaking-plows.
A feed store, its windows opaque with the dust of bran, a patent
medicine advertisement painted on its roof.
Ye Art Shoppe, Prop. Mrs. Mary Ellen Wilks, Christian Science Library
open daily free. A touching fumble at beauty. A one-room shanty of
boards recently covered with rough stucco. A show-window delicately rich
in error: vases starting out to imitate tree-trunks but running off
into blobs of gilt--an aluminum ash-tray labeled "Greetings from
Gopher Prairie"--a Christian Science magazine--a stamped sofa-cushion
portraying a large ribbon tied to a small poppy, the correct skeins of
embroidery-silk lying on the pillow. Inside the shop, a glimpse of bad
carbon prints of bad and famous pictures, shelves of phonograph records
and camera films, wooden toys, and in the midst an anxious small woman
sitting in a padded rocking chair.
A barber shop and pool room. A man in shirt sleeves, presumably Del
Snafflin the proprietor, shaving a man who had a large Adam's apple.
Nat Hicks's Tailor Shop, on a side street off Main. A one-story
building. A fashion-plate showing human pitchforks in garments which
looked as hard as steel plate.
On another side street a raw red-brick Catholic Church with a varnished
yellow door.
The post-office--merely a partition of glass and brass shutting off
the rear of a mildewed room which must once have been a shop. A tilted
writing-shelf against a wall rubbed black and scattered with official
notices and army recruiting-posters.
The damp, yellow-brick schoolbuilding in its cindery grounds.
The State Bank, stucco masking wood.
The Farmers' National Bank. An Ionic temple of marble. Pure, exquisite,
solitary. A brass plate with "Ezra Stowbody, Pres't."
A score of similar shops and establishments.
Behind them and mixed with them, the houses, meek cottages or large,
comfortable, soundly uninteresting symbols of prosperity.
In all the town not one building save the Ionic bank which gave pleasure
to Carol's eyes; not a dozen buildings which suggested that, in the
fifty years of Gopher Prairie's existence, the citizens had realized
that it was either desirable or possible to make this, their common
home, amusing or attractive.
It was not only the unsparing unapologetic ugliness and the rigid
straightness which overwhelmed her. It was the planlessness, the flimsy
temporariness of the buildings, their faded unpleasant colors. The
street was cluttered with electric-light poles, telephone poles,
gasoline pumps for motor cars, boxes of goods. Each man had built
with the most valiant disregard of all the others. Between a large
new "block" of two-story brick shops on one side, and the fire-brick
Overland garage on the other side, was a one-story cottage turned into
a millinery shop. The white temple of the Farmers' Bank was elbowed back
by a grocery of glaring yellow brick. One store-building had a patchy
galvanized iron cornice; the building beside it was crowned with
battlements and pyramids of brick capped with blocks of red sandstone.
She escaped from Main Street, fled home.
She wouldn't have cared, she insisted, if the people had been comely.
She had noted a young man loafing before a shop, one unwashed hand
holding the cord of an awning; a middle-aged man who had a way of
staring at women as though he had been married too long and too
prosaically; an old farmer, solid, wholesome, but not clean--his face
like a potato fresh from the earth. None of them had shaved for three
days.
"If they can't build shrines, out here on the prairie, surely there's
nothing to prevent their buying safety-razors!" she raged.
She fought herself: "I must be wrong. People do live here. It CAN'T be
as ugly as--as I know it is! I must be wrong. But I can't do it. I can't
go through with it."
She came home too seriously worried for hysteria; and when she found
Kennicott waiting for her, and exulting, "Have a walk? Well, like
the town? Great lawns and trees, eh?" she was able to say, with a
self-protective maturity new to her, "It's very interesting."
III
The train which brought Carol to Gopher Prairie also brought Miss Bea
Sorenson.
Miss Bea was a stalwart, corn-colored, laughing young woman, and she was
bored by farm-work. She desired the excitements of city-life, and the
way to enjoy city-life was, she had decided, to "go get a yob as hired
girl in Gopher Prairie." She contentedly lugged her pasteboard telescope
from the station to her cousin, Tina Malmquist, maid of all work in the
residence of Mrs. Luke Dawson.
"Vell, so you come to town," said Tina.
"Ya. Ay get a yob," said Bea.
"Vell. . . . You got a fella now?"
"Ya. Yim Yacobson."
"Vell. I'm glat to see you. How much you vant a veek?"
"Sex dollar."
"There ain't nobody pay dat. Vait! Dr. Kennicott, I t'ink he marry a
girl from de Cities. Maybe she pay dat. Vell. You go take a valk."
"Ya," said Bea.
So it chanced that Carol Kennicott and Bea Sorenson were viewing Main
Street at the same time.
Bea had never before been in a town larger than Scandia Crossing, which
has sixty-seven inhabitants.
As she marched up the street she was meditating that it didn't hardly
seem like it was possible there could be so many folks all in one place
at the same time. My! It would take years to get acquainted with them
all. And swell people, too! A fine big gentleman in a new pink shirt
with a diamond, and not no washed-out blue denim working-shirt. A lovely
lady in a longery dress (but it must be an awful hard dress to wash).
And the stores!
Not just three of them, like there were at Scandia Crossing, but more
than four whole blocks!
The Bon Ton Store--big as four barns--my! it would simply scare a person
to go in there, with seven or eight clerks all looking at you. And the
men's suits, on figures just like human. And Axel Egge's, like home,
lots of Swedes and Norskes in there, and a card of dandy buttons, like
rubies.
A drug store with a soda fountain that was just huge, awful long, and
all lovely marble; and on it there was a great big lamp with the biggest
shade you ever saw--all different kinds colored glass stuck together;
and the soda spouts, they were silver, and they came right out of the
bottom of the lamp-stand! Behind the fountain there were glass shelves,
and bottles of new kinds of soft drinks, that nobody ever heard of.
Suppose a fella took you THERE!
A hotel, awful high, higher than Oscar Tollefson's new red barn; three
stories, one right on top of another; you had to stick your head back
to look clear up to the top. There was a swell traveling man in
there--probably been to Chicago, lots of times.
Oh, the dandiest people to know here! There was a lady going by, you
wouldn't hardly say she was any older than Bea herself; she wore a dandy
new gray suit and black pumps. She almost looked like she was looking
over the town, too. But you couldn't tell what she thought. Bea would
like to be that way--kind of quiet, so nobody would get fresh. Kind
of--oh, elegant.
A Lutheran Church. Here in the city there'd be lovely sermons, and
church twice on Sunday, EVERY Sunday!
And a movie show!
A regular theater, just for movies. With the sign "Change of bill every
evening." Pictures every evening!
There were movies in Scandia Crossing, but only once every two weeks,
and it took the Sorensons an hour to drive in--papa was such a tightwad
he wouldn't get a Ford. But here she could put on her hat any evening,
and in three minutes' walk be to the movies, and see lovely fellows in
dress-suits and Bill Hart and everything!
How could they have so many stores? Why! There was one just for tobacco
alone, and one (a lovely one--the Art Shoppy it was) for pictures and
vases and stuff, with oh, the dandiest vase made so it looked just like
a tree trunk!
Bea stood on the corner of Main Street and Washington Avenue. The roar
of the city began to frighten her. There were five automobiles on the
street all at the same time--and one of 'em was a great big car that
must of cost two thousand dollars--and the 'bus was starting for a train
with five elegant-dressed fellows, and a man was pasting up red bills
with lovely pictures of washing-machines on them, and the jeweler was
laying out bracelets and wrist-watches and EVERYTHING on real velvet.
What did she care if she got six dollars a week? Or two! It was worth
while working for nothing, to be allowed to stay here. And think how it
would be in the evening, all lighted up--and not with no lamps, but with
electrics! And maybe a gentleman friend taking you to the movies and
buying you a strawberry ice cream soda!
Bea trudged back.
"Vell? You lak it?" said Tina.
"Ya. Ay lak it. Ay t'ink maybe Ay stay here," said Bea.
IV
The recently built house of Sam Clark, in which was given the party to
welcome Carol, was one of the largest in Gopher Prairie. It had a clean
sweep of clapboards, a solid squareness, a small tower, and a large
screened porch. Inside, it was as shiny, as hard, and as cheerful as a
new oak upright piano.
Carol looked imploringly at Sam Clark as he rolled to the door and
shouted, "Welcome, little lady! The keys of the city are yourn!"
Beyond him, in the hallway and the living-room, sitting in a vast prim
circle as though they were attending a funeral, she saw the guests. They
were WAITING so! They were waiting for her! The determination to be all
one pretty flowerlet of appreciation leaked away. She begged of Sam,
"I don't dare face them! They expect so much. They'll swallow me in one
mouthful--glump!--like that!"
"Why, sister, they're going to love you--same as I would if I didn't
think the doc here would beat me up!"
"B-but----I don't dare! Faces to the right of me, faces in front of me,
volley and wonder!"
She sounded hysterical to herself; she fancied that to Sam Clark she
sounded insane. But he chuckled, "Now you just cuddle under Sam's wing,
and if anybody rubbers at you too long, I'll shoo 'em off. Here we go!
Watch my smoke--Sam'l, the ladies' delight and the bridegrooms' terror!"
His arm about her, he led her in and bawled, "Ladies and worser halves,
the bride! We won't introduce her round yet, because she'll never get
your bum names straight anyway. Now bust up this star-chamber!"
They tittered politely, but they did not move from the social security
of their circle, and they did not cease staring.
Carol had given creative energy to dressing for the event. Her hair was
demure, low on her forehead with a parting and a coiled braid. Now she
wished that she had piled it high. Her frock was an ingenue slip
of lawn, with a wide gold sash and a low square neck, which gave a
suggestion of throat and molded shoulders. But as they looked her over
she was certain that it was all wrong. She wished alternately that she
had worn a spinsterish high-necked dress, and that she had dared to
shock them with a violent brick-red scarf which she had bought in
Chicago.
She was led about the circle. Her voice mechanically produced safe
remarks:
"Oh, I'm sure I'm going to like it here ever so much," and "Yes, we did
have the best time in Colorado--mountains," and "Yes, I lived in St.
Paul several years. Euclid P. Tinker? No, I don't REMEMBER meeting him,
but I'm pretty sure I've heard of him."
Kennicott took her aside and whispered, "Now I'll introduce you to them,
one at a time."
"Tell me about them first."
"Well, the nice-looking couple over there are Harry Haydock and his
wife, Juanita. Harry's dad owns most of the Bon Ton, but it's Harry who
runs it and gives it the pep. He's a hustler. Next to him is Dave Dyer
the druggist--you met him this afternoon--mighty good duck-shot.
The tall husk beyond him is Jack Elder--Jackson Elder--owns the
planing-mill, and the Minniemashie House, and quite a share in the
Farmers' National Bank. Him and his wife are good sports--him and Sam
and I go hunting together a lot. The old cheese there is Luke Dawson,
the richest man in town. Next to him is Nat Hicks, the tailor."
"Really? A tailor?"
"Sure. Why not? Maybe we're slow, but we are democratic. I go hunting
with Nat same as I do with Jack Elder."
"I'm glad. I've never met a tailor socially. It must be charming to meet
one and not have to think about what you owe him. And do you----Would
you go hunting with your barber, too?"
"No but----No use running this democracy thing into the ground.
Besides, I've known Nat for years, and besides, he's a mighty good shot
and----That's the way it is, see? Next to Nat is Chet Dashaway. Great
fellow for chinning. He'll talk your arm off, about religion or politics
or books or anything."
Carol gazed with a polite approximation to interest at Mr. Dashaway,
a tan person with a wide mouth. "Oh, I know! He's the furniture-store
man!" She was much pleased with herself.
"Yump, and he's the undertaker. You'll like him. Come shake hands with
him."
"Oh no, no! He doesn't--he doesn't do the embalming and all
that--himself? I couldn't shake hands with an undertaker!"
"Why not? You'd be proud to shake hands with a great surgeon, just after
he'd been carving up people's bellies."
She sought to regain her afternoon's calm of maturity. "Yes. You're
right. I want--oh, my dear, do you know how much I want to like the
people you like? I want to see people as they are."
"Well, don't forget to see people as other folks see them as they are!
They have the stuff. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?
Born and brought up here!"
"Bresnahan?"
"Yes--you know--president of the Velvet Motor Company of Boston,
Mass.--make the Velvet Twelve--biggest automobile factory in New
England."
"I think I've heard of him."
"Sure you have. Why, he's a millionaire several times over! Well, Perce
comes back here for the black-bass fishing almost every summer, and he
says if he could get away from business, he'd rather live here than
in Boston or New York or any of those places. HE doesn't mind Chet's
undertaking."
"Please! I'll--I'll like everybody! I'll be the community sunbeam!"
He led her to the Dawsons.
Luke Dawson, lender of money on mortgages, owner of Northern cut-over
land, was a hesitant man in unpressed soft gray clothes, with bulging
eyes in a milky face. His wife had bleached cheeks, bleached hair,
bleached voice, and a bleached manner. She wore her expensive green
frock, with its passementeried bosom, bead tassels, and gaps between the
buttons down the back, as though she had bought it second-hand and was
afraid of meeting the former owner. They were shy. It was "Professor"
George Edwin Mott, superintendent of schools, a Chinese mandarin turned
brown, who held Carol's hand and made her welcome.
When the Dawsons and Mr. Mott had stated that they were "pleased to meet
her," there seemed to be nothing else to say, but the conversation went
on automatically.
"Do you like Gopher Prairie?" whimpered Mrs. Dawson.
"Oh, I'm sure I'm going to be ever so happy."
"There's so many nice people." Mrs. Dawson looked to Mr. Mott for social
and intellectual aid. He lectured:
"There's a fine class of people. I don't like some of these retired
farmers who come here to spend their last days--especially the Germans.
They hate to pay school-taxes. They hate to spend a cent. But the rest
are a fine class of people. Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from
here? Used to go to school right at the old building!"
"I heard he did."
"Yes. He's a prince. He and I went fishing together, last time he was
here."
The Dawsons and Mr. Mott teetered upon weary feet, and smiled at Carol
with crystallized expressions. She went on:
"Tell me, Mr. Mott: Have you ever tried any experiments with any of the
new educational systems? The modern kindergarten methods or the Gary
system?"
"Oh. Those. Most of these would-be reformers are simply
notoriety-seekers. I believe in manual training, but Latin and
mathematics always will be the backbone of sound Americanism, no matter
what these faddists advocate--heaven knows what they do want--knitting,
I suppose, and classes in wiggling the ears!"
The Dawsons smiled their appreciation of listening to a savant. Carol
waited till Kennicott should rescue her. The rest of the party waited
for the miracle of being amused.
Harry and Juanita Haydock, Rita Simons and Dr. Terry Gould--the young
smart set of Gopher Prairie. She was led to them. Juanita Haydock flung
at her in a high, cackling, friendly voice:
"Well, this is SO nice to have you here. We'll have some good
parties--dances and everything. You'll have to join the Jolly Seventeen.
We play bridge and we have a supper once a month. You play, of course?"
"N-no, I don't."
"Really? In St. Paul?"
"I've always been such a book-worm."
"We'll have to teach you. Bridge is half the fun of life." Juanita had
become patronizing, and she glanced disrespectfully at Carol's golden
sash, which she had previously admired.
Harry Haydock said politely, "How do you think you're going to like the
old burg?"
"I'm sure I shall like it tremendously."
"Best people on earth here. Great hustlers, too. Course I've had lots
of chances to go live in Minneapolis, but we like it here. Real he-town.
Did you know that Percy Bresnahan came from here?"
Carol perceived that she had been weakened in the biological struggle
by disclosing her lack of bridge. Roused to nervous desire to regain
her position she turned on Dr. Terry Gould, the young and pool-playing
competitor of her husband. Her eyes coquetted with him while she gushed:
"I'll learn bridge. But what I really love most is the outdoors. Can't
we all get up a boating party, and fish, or whatever you do, and have a
picnic supper afterwards?"
"Now you're talking!" Dr. Gould affirmed. He looked rather too obviously
at the cream-smooth slope of her shoulder. "Like fishing? Fishing is my
middle name. I'll teach you bridge. Like cards at all?"
"I used to be rather good at bezique."
She knew that bezique was a game of cards--or a game of something else.
Roulette, possibly. But her lie was a triumph. Juanita's handsome,
high-colored, horsey face showed doubt. Harry stroked his nose and said
humbly, "Bezique? Used to be great gambling game, wasn't it?"
While others drifted to her group, Carol snatched up the conversation.
She laughed and was frivolous and rather brittle. She could not
distinguish their eyes. They were a blurry theater-audience before which
she self-consciously enacted the comedy of being the Clever Little Bride
of Doc Kennicott:
"These-here celebrated Open Spaces, that's what I'm going out for. I'll
never read anything but the sporting-page again. Will converted me on
our Colorado trip. There were so many mousey tourists who were afraid
to get out of the motor 'bus that I decided to be Annie Oakley, the Wild
Western Wampire, and I bought oh! a vociferous skirt which revealed
my perfectly nice ankles to the Presbyterian glare of all the Ioway
schoolma'ams, and I leaped from peak to peak like the nimble chamoys,
and----You may think that Herr Doctor Kennicott is a Nimrod, but you
ought to have seen me daring him to strip to his B. V. D.'s and go
swimming in an icy mountain brook."
She knew that they were thinking of becoming shocked, but Juanita
Haydock was admiring, at least. She swaggered on:
"I'm sure I'm going to ruin Will as a respectable practitioner----Is he
a good doctor, Dr. Gould?"
Kennicott's rival gasped at this insult to professional ethics, and he
took an appreciable second before he recovered his social manner.
"I'll tell you, Mrs. Kennicott." He smiled at Kennicott, to imply that
whatever he might say in the stress of being witty was not to count
against him in the commercio-medical warfare. "There's some people
in town that say the doc is a fair to middlin' diagnostician and
prescription-writer, but let me whisper this to you--but for heaven's
sake don't tell him I said so--don't you ever go to him for anything
more serious than a pendectomy of the left ear or a strabismus of the
cardiograph."
No one save Kennicott knew exactly what this meant, but they laughed,
and Sam Clark's party assumed a glittering lemon-yellow color of brocade
panels and champagne and tulle and crystal chandeliers and sporting
duchesses. Carol saw that George Edwin Mott and the blanched Mr. and
Mrs. Dawson were not yet hypnotized. They looked as though they wondered
whether they ought to look as though they disapproved. She concentrated
on them:
"But I know whom I wouldn't have dared to go to Colorado with! Mr.
Dawson there! I'm sure he's a regular heart-breaker. When we were
introduced he held my hand and squeezed it frightfully."
"Haw! Haw! Haw!" The entire company applauded. Mr. Dawson was beatified.
He had been called many things--loan-shark, skinflint, tightwad,
pussyfoot--but he had never before been called a flirt.
"He is wicked, isn't he, Mrs. Dawson? Don't you have to lock him up?"
"Oh no, but maybe I better," attempted Mrs. Dawson, a tint on her pallid
face.
For fifteen minutes Carol kept it up. She asserted that she was going
to stage a musical comedy, that she preferred cafe parfait to beefsteak,
that she hoped Dr. Kennicott would never lose his ability to make love
to charming women, and that she had a pair of gold stockings. They gaped
for more. But she could not keep it up. She retired to a chair behind
Sam Clark's bulk. The smile-wrinkles solemnly flattened out in the faces
of all the other collaborators in having a party, and again they stood
about hoping but not expecting to be amused.
Carol listened. She discovered that conversation did not exist in Gopher
Prairie. Even at this affair, which brought out the young smart set,
the hunting squire set, the respectable intellectual set, and the solid
financial set, they sat up with gaiety as with a corpse.
Juanita Haydock talked a good deal in her rattling voice but it was
invariably of personalities: the rumor that Raymie Wutherspoon was going
to send for a pair of patent leather shoes with gray buttoned tops; the
rheumatism of Champ Perry; the state of Guy Pollock's grippe; and the
dementia of Jim Howland in painting his fence salmon-pink.
Sam Clark had been talking to Carol about motor cars, but he felt
his duties as host. While he droned, his brows popped up and down. He
interrupted himself, "Must stir 'em up." He worried at his wife, "Don't
you think I better stir 'em up?" He shouldered into the center of the
room, and cried:
"Let's have some stunts, folks."
"Yes, let's!" shrieked Juanita Haydock.
"Say, Dave, give us that stunt about the Norwegian catching a hen."
"You bet; that's a slick stunt; do that, Dave!" cheered Chet Dashaway.
Mr. Dave Dyer obliged.
All the guests moved their lips in anticipation of being called on for
their own stunts.
"Ella, come on and recite 'Old Sweetheart of Mine,' for us," demanded
Sam.
Miss Ella Stowbody, the spinster daughter of the Ionic bank, scratched
her dry palms and blushed. "Oh, you don't want to hear that old thing
again."
"Sure we do! You bet!" asserted Sam.
"My voice is in terrible shape tonight."
"Tut! Come on!"
Sam loudly explained to Carol, "Ella is our shark at elocuting. She's
had professional training. She studied singing and oratory and dramatic
art and shorthand for a year, in Milwaukee."
Miss Stowbody was reciting. As encore to "An Old Sweetheart of Mine,"
she gave a peculiarly optimistic poem regarding the value of smiles.
There were four other stunts: one Jewish, one Irish, one juvenile, and
Nat Hicks's parody of Mark Antony's funeral oration.
During the winter Carol was to hear Dave Dyer's hen-catching
impersonation seven times, "An Old Sweetheart of Mine" nine times, the
Jewish story and the funeral oration twice; but now she was ardent
and, because she did so want to be happy and simple-hearted, she was as
disappointed as the others when the stunts were finished, and the party
instantly sank back into coma.
They gave up trying to be festive; they began to talk naturally, as they
did at their shops and homes.
The men and women divided, as they had been tending to do all evening.
Carol was deserted by the men, left to a group of matrons who steadily
pattered of children, sickness, and cooks--their own shop-talk. She was
piqued. She remembered visions of herself as a smart married woman in
a drawing-room, fencing with clever men. Her dejection was relieved by
speculation as to what the men were discussing, in the corner between
the piano and the phonograph. Did they rise from these housewifely
personalities to a larger world of abstractions and affairs?
She made her best curtsy to Mrs. Dawson; she twittered, "I won't have my
husband leaving me so soon! I'm going over and pull the wretch's
ears." She rose with a jeune fille bow. She was self-absorbed and
self-approving because she had attained that quality of sentimentality.
She proudly dipped across the room and, to the interest and commendation
of all beholders, sat on the arm of Kennicott's chair.
He was gossiping with Sam Clark, Luke Dawson, Jackson Elder of the
planing-mill, Chet Dashaway, Dave Dyer, Harry Haydock, and Ezra
Stowbody, president of the Ionic bank.
Ezra Stowbody was a troglodyte. He had come to Gopher Prairie in 1865.
He was a distinguished bird of prey--swooping thin nose, turtle mouth,
thick brows, port-wine cheeks, floss of white hair, contemptuous eyes.
He was not happy in the social changes of thirty years. Three decades
ago, Dr. Westlake, Julius Flickerbaugh the lawyer, Merriman Peedy the
Congregational pastor and himself had been the arbiters. That was as
it should be; the fine arts--medicine, law, religion, and
finance--recognized as aristocratic; four Yankees democratically
chatting with but ruling the Ohioans and Illini and Swedes and Germans
who had ventured to follow them. But Westlake was old, almost retired;
Julius Flickerbaugh had lost much of his practice to livelier attorneys;
Reverend (not The Reverend) Peedy was dead; and nobody was impressed in
this rotten age of automobiles by the "spanking grays" which Ezra still
drove. The town was as heterogeneous as Chicago. Norwegians and Germans
owned stores. The social leaders were common merchants. Selling nails
was considered as sacred as banking. These upstarts--the Clarks, the
Haydocks--had no dignity. They were sound and conservative in politics,
but they talked about motor cars and pump-guns and heaven only knew
what new-fangled fads. Mr. Stowbody felt out of place with them. But
his brick house with the mansard roof was still the largest residence in
town, and he held his position as squire by occasionally appearing among
the younger men and reminding them by a wintry eye that without the
banker none of them could carry on their vulgar businesses.
As Carol defied decency by sitting down with the men, Mr. Stowbody was
piping to Mr. Dawson, "Say, Luke, when was't Biggins first settled in
Winnebago Township? Wa'n't it in 1879?"
"Why no 'twa'n't!" Mr. Dawson was indignant. "He come out from Vermont
in 1867--no, wait, in 1868, it must have been--and took a claim on the
Rum River, quite a ways above Anoka."
"He did not!" roared Mr. Stowbody. "He settled first in Blue Earth
County, him and his father!"
("What's the point at issue?") Carol whispered to Kennicott.
("Whether this old duck Biggins had an English setter or a Llewellyn.
They've been arguing it all evening!")
Dave Dyer interrupted to give tidings, "D' tell you that Clara Biggins
was in town couple days ago? She bought a hot-water bottle--expensive
one, too--two dollars and thirty cents!"
"Yaaaaaah!" snarled Mr. Stowbody. "Course. She's just like her grandad
was. Never save a cent. Two dollars and twenty--thirty, was it?--two
dollars and thirty cents for a hot-water bottle! Brick wrapped up in a
flannel petticoat just as good, anyway!"
"How's Ella's tonsils, Mr. Stowbody?" yawned Chet Dashaway.
While Mr. Stowbody gave a somatic and psychic study of them, Carol
reflected, "Are they really so terribly interested in Ella's tonsils,
or even in Ella's esophagus? I wonder if I could get them away from
personalities? Let's risk damnation and try."
"There hasn't been much labor trouble around here, has there, Mr.
Stowbody?" she asked innocently.
"No, ma'am, thank God, we've been free from that, except maybe with
hired girls and farm-hands. Trouble enough with these foreign farmers;
if you don't watch these Swedes they turn socialist or populist or some
fool thing on you in a minute. Of course, if they have loans you can
make 'em listen to reason. I just have 'em come into the bank for a
talk, and tell 'em a few things. I don't mind their being democrats,
so much, but I won't stand having socialists around. But thank God, we
ain't got the labor trouble they have in these cities. Even Jack Elder
here gets along pretty well, in the planing-mill, don't you, Jack?"
"Yep. Sure. Don't need so many skilled workmen in my place, and it's
a lot of these cranky, wage-hogging, half-baked skilled mechanics that
start trouble--reading a lot of this anarchist literature and union
papers and all."
"Do you approve of union labor?" Carol inquired of Mr. Elder.
"Me? I should say not! It's like this: I don't mind dealing with my men
if they think they've got any grievances--though Lord knows what's come
over workmen, nowadays--don't appreciate a good job. But still, if they
come to me honestly, as man to man, I'll talk things over with them. But
I'm not going to have any outsider, any of these walking delegates, or
whatever fancy names they call themselves now--bunch of rich grafters,
living on the ignorant workmen! Not going to have any of those fellows
butting in and telling ME how to run MY business!"
Mr. Elder was growing more excited, more belligerent and patriotic. "I
stand for freedom and constitutional rights. If any man don't like my
shop, he can get up and git. Same way, if I don't like him, he gits.
And that's all there is to it. I simply can't understand all these
complications and hoop-te-doodles and government reports and wage-scales
and God knows what all that these fellows are balling up the labor
situation with, when it's all perfectly simple. They like what I pay
'em, or they get out. That's all there is to it!"
"What do you think of profit-sharing?" Carol ventured.
Mr. Elder thundered his answer, while the others nodded, solemnly and
in tune, like a shop-window of flexible toys, comic mandarins and judges
and ducks and clowns, set quivering by a breeze from the open door:
"All this profit-sharing and welfare work and insurance and old-age
pension is simply poppycock. Enfeebles a workman's independence--and
wastes a lot of honest profit. The half-baked thinker that isn't dry
behind the ears yet, and these suffragettes and God knows what all
buttinskis there are that are trying to tell a business man how to run
his business, and some of these college professors are just about as
bad, the whole kit and bilin' of 'em are nothing in God's world but
socialism in disguise! And it's my bounden duty as a producer to resist
every attack on the integrity of American industry to the last ditch.
Yes--SIR!"
Mr. Elder wiped his brow.
Dave Dyer added, "Sure! You bet! What they ought to do is simply to
hang every one of these agitators, and that would settle the whole thing
right off. Don't you think so, doc?"
"You bet," agreed Kennicott.
The conversation was at last relieved of the plague of Carol's
intrusions and they settled down to the question of whether the justice
of the peace had sent that hobo drunk to jail for ten days or twelve.
It was a matter not readily determined. Then Dave Dyer communicated his
carefree adventures on the gipsy trail:
"Yep. I get good time out of the flivver. 'Bout a week ago I motored
down to New Wurttemberg. That's forty-three----No, let's see: It's
seventeen miles to Belldale, and 'bout six and three-quarters, call it
seven, to Torgenquist, and it's a good nineteen miles from there to New
Wurttemberg--seventeen and seven and nineteen, that makes, uh, let me
see: seventeen and seven 's twenty-four, plus nineteen, well say plus
twenty, that makes forty-four, well anyway, say about forty-three
or -four miles from here to New Wurttemberg. We got started about
seven-fifteen, prob'ly seven-twenty, because I had to stop and fill the
radiator, and we ran along, just keeping up a good steady gait----"
Mr. Dyer did finally, for reasons and purposes admitted and justified,
attain to New Wurttemberg.
Once--only once--the presence of the alien Carol was recognized. Chet
Dashaway leaned over and said asthmatically, "Say, uh, have you been
reading this serial 'Two Out' in Tingling Tales? Corking yarn! Gosh, the
fellow that wrote it certainly can sling baseball slang!"
The others tried to look literary. Harry Haydock offered, "Juanita is
a great hand for reading high-class stuff, like 'Mid the Magnolias' by
this Sara Hetwiggin Butts, and 'Riders of Ranch Reckless.' Books. But
me," he glanced about importantly, as one convinced that no other hero
had ever been in so strange a plight, "I'm so darn busy I don't have
much time to read."
"I never read anything I can't check against," said Sam Clark.
Thus ended the literary portion of the conversation, and for seven
minutes Jackson Elder outlined reasons for believing that the
pike-fishing was better on the west shore of Lake Minniemashie than on
the east--though it was indeed quite true that on the east shore Nat
Hicks had caught a pike altogether admirable.
The talk went on. It did go on! Their voices were monotonous,
thick, emphatic. They were harshly pompous, like men in the
smoking-compartments of Pullman cars. They did not bore Carol. They
frightened her. She panted, "They will be cordial to me, because my man
belongs to their tribe. God help me if I were an outsider!"
Smiling as changelessly as an ivory figurine she sat quiescent, avoiding
thought, glancing about the living-room and hall, noting their betrayal
of unimaginative commercial prosperity. Kennicott said, "Dandy interior,
eh? My idea of how a place ought to be furnished. Modern." She looked
polite, and observed the oiled floors, hard-wood staircase, unused
fireplace with tiles which resembled brown linoleum, cut-glass vases
standing upon doilies, and the barred, shut, forbidding unit bookcases
that were half filled with swashbuckler novels and unread-looking sets
of Dickens, Kipling, O. Henry, and Elbert Hubbard.
She perceived that even personalities were failing to hold the party.
The room filled with hesitancy as with a fog. People cleared their
throats, tried to choke down yawns. The men shot their cuffs and the
women stuck their combs more firmly into their back hair.
Then a rattle, a daring hope in every eye, the swinging of a door, the
smell of strong coffee, Dave Dyer's mewing voice in a triumphant, "The
eats!" They began to chatter. They had something to do. They could
escape from themselves. They fell upon the food--chicken sandwiches,
maple cake, drug-store ice cream. Even when the food was gone they
remained cheerful. They could go home, any time now, and go to bed!
They went, with a flutter of coats, chiffon scarfs, and good-bys.
Carol and Kennicott walked home.
"Did you like them?" he asked.
"They were terribly sweet to me."
"Uh, Carrie----You ought to be more careful about shocking folks.
Talking about gold stockings, and about showing your ankles to
schoolteachers and all!" More mildly: "You gave 'em a good time, but I'd
watch out for that, 'f I were you. Juanita Haydock is such a damn cat. I
wouldn't give her a chance to criticize me."
"My poor effort to lift up the party! Was I wrong to try to amuse them?"
"No! No! Honey, I didn't mean----You were the only up-and-coming person
in the bunch. I just mean----Don't get onto legs and all that immoral
stuff. Pretty conservative crowd."
She was silent, raw with the shameful thought that the attentive circle
might have been criticizing her, laughing at her.
"Don't, please don't worry!" he pleaded.
"Silence."
"Gosh; I'm sorry I spoke about it. I just meant----But they were crazy
about you. Sam said to me, 'That little lady of yours is the slickest
thing that ever came to this town,' he said; and Ma Dawson--I didn't
hardly know whether she'd like you or not, she's such a dried-up old
bird, but she said, 'Your bride is so quick and bright, I declare, she
just wakes me up.'"
Carol liked praise, the flavor and fatness of it, but she was so
energetically being sorry for herself that she could not taste this
commendation.
"Please! Come on! Cheer up!" His lips said it, his anxious shoulder said
it, his arm about her said it, as they halted on the obscure porch of
their house.
"Do you care if they think I'm flighty, Will?"
"Me? Why, I wouldn't care if the whole world thought you were this or
that or anything else. You're my--well, you're my soul!"
He was an undefined mass, as solid-seeming as rock. She found his
sleeve, pinched it, cried, "I'm glad! It's sweet to be wanted! You must
tolerate my frivolousness. You're all I have!"
He lifted her, carried her into the house, and with her arms about his
neck she forgot Main Street. | Will soon departs to check on his office and Carol is disappointed at the speed with which he reenters the world of men's affairs. Overcome by the dismal house, Carol goes to the bedroom window hoping for a picturesque view. Instead she sees the clapboard side of a church and a broken Ford delivery wagon. Feeling mildly insane she flees the house. As she walks, she wonders which of the ugly houses will mean something to her in six months and she ponders over a grocer's poor display of pumpkins. Parenthetically the narrator tells us that the grocer, Mr. Frederick F. Ludelmeyer, observes her, knows who she is, likes her legs but thinks her suit is too plain. It takes Carol only thirty-two minutes to see the whole town; the dearth of greenery and the town's exposure to the prairie saddens her. She sees Dyer's Drug Store, her husband's second story office, The Rosebud Movie Palace, Howland & Gould's Grocery, Dahl & Oleson's Meat Market, a saloon, a tobacco shop, The Bon Ton Store Haydock & Simmons', Axel Egge's General Store, Sam Clarke's Hardware Store, and other shops that similarly fail to impress her. She notices that the two auto garages are the busiest places in town. Depressed by the shabby, haphazard town she quickly returns home where she tells her husband that she finds the town interesting. A young farm girl named Bea Sorenson arrives in Gopher Prairie on the same train as Carol. She is looking for work as a maid. After visiting her cousin - who tells her that she will never earn six dollars a week unless Dr. Kennicott's new bride is willing to pay it - Bea walks around the town and finds everything exciting and beautiful. She decides to stay no matter what wages she earns. At a welcome party is held at the large house of Sam Clark and his wife Carol fears the group's scrutiny but Sam, boisterous and affable, takes her under his wing. Will introduces her to the group - Harry and Juanita Haydock, Dave Dyer, Jack Elder, Luke Dawson, Nat Hicks, Chet Dashaway and their wives. Will also makes it a point to mention that the president of Velvet Motor Company in New England, Percy Bresnahan, is from Gopher Prairie. During her conversations with the group Carol claims that she will like the town very much. Several people remind her that Percy Bresnahan grew up there. Juanita Haydock invites her to join the Jolly Seventeen, a ladies bridge group, and is surprised to learn that Carol has never played bridge. Carol tries to be witty and shocking and succeeds in winning over most of the group. Soon, however, dullness settles over the party that Carol realizes in the norm in Gopher Prairie. Petty gossip among the women and sports and cars among the men dominates the conversation until Sam Clark, feeling his duty as host, calls for some stunts. Everyone, it seems, can do something; recite a poem or singing a song but, as Carol soon learns, that's all they can do. Over the course of her first year in town she hears each person's stunt many times over. Soon the party divides into men and women and Carol, bored by the homemaking talk of the matrons, boldly joins the men. The ancient bank president, Ezra Stowbody, is holding forth on the problems with the Scandanavian immigrants. Carol finds the men's talk as boring as that of the women. Carol ventures to ask Stowbody about labor unions and receives a vitriolic opinion from all the men. Everyone leaves after the meal. On the way home Will cautions her against shocking topics and, noticing that she is hurt, tells her that she was well liked. When she asks if he cares that the group thinks her flighty he says no because she is his soul. He carries her over the threshold of the house |
ACT V. SCENE 2.
The Grecian camp. Before CALCHAS' tent
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. What, are you up here, ho? Speak.
CALCHAS. [Within] Who calls?
DIOMEDES. Diomed. Calchas, I think. Where's your daughter?
CALCHAS. [Within] She comes to you.
Enter TROILUS and ULYSSES, at a distance; after them
THERSITES
ULYSSES. Stand where the torch may not discover us.
Enter CRESSIDA
TROILUS. Cressid comes forth to him.
DIOMEDES. How now, my charge!
CRESSIDA. Now, my sweet guardian! Hark, a word with you.
[Whispers]
TROILUS. Yea, so familiar!
ULYSSES. She will sing any man at first sight.
THERSITES. And any man may sing her, if he can take her cliff;
she's noted.
DIOMEDES. Will you remember?
CRESSIDA. Remember? Yes.
DIOMEDES. Nay, but do, then;
And let your mind be coupled with your words.
TROILUS. What shall she remember?
ULYSSES. List!
CRESSIDA. Sweet honey Greek, tempt me no more to folly.
THERSITES. Roguery!
DIOMEDES. Nay, then-
CRESSIDA. I'll tell you what-
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! come, tell a pin; you are a forsworn-
CRESSIDA. In faith, I cannot. What would you have me do?
THERSITES. A juggling trick, to be secretly open.
DIOMEDES. What did you swear you would bestow on me?
CRESSIDA. I prithee, do not hold me to mine oath;
Bid me do anything but that, sweet Greek.
DIOMEDES. Good night.
TROILUS. Hold, patience!
ULYSSES. How now, Troyan!
CRESSIDA. Diomed!
DIOMEDES. No, no, good night; I'll be your fool no more.
TROILUS. Thy better must.
CRESSIDA. Hark! a word in your ear.
TROILUS. O plague and madness!
ULYSSES. You are moved, Prince; let us depart, I pray,
Lest your displeasure should enlarge itself
To wrathful terms. This place is dangerous;
The time right deadly; I beseech you, go.
TROILUS. Behold, I pray you.
ULYSSES. Nay, good my lord, go off;
You flow to great distraction; come, my lord.
TROILUS. I prithee stay.
ULYSSES. You have not patience; come.
TROILUS. I pray you, stay; by hell and all hell's torments,
I will not speak a word.
DIOMEDES. And so, good night.
CRESSIDA. Nay, but you part in anger.
TROILUS. Doth that grieve thee? O withered truth!
ULYSSES. How now, my lord?
TROILUS. By Jove, I will be patient.
CRESSIDA. Guardian! Why, Greek!
DIOMEDES. Fo, fo! adieu! you palter.
CRESSIDA. In faith, I do not. Come hither once again.
ULYSSES. You shake, my lord, at something; will you go?
You will break out.
TROILUS. She strokes his cheek.
ULYSSES. Come, come.
TROILUS. Nay, stay; by Jove, I will not speak a word:
There is between my will and all offences
A guard of patience. Stay a little while.
THERSITES. How the devil luxury, with his fat rump and potato
finger, tickles these together! Fry, lechery, fry!
DIOMEDES. But will you, then?
CRESSIDA. In faith, I will, lo; never trust me else.
DIOMEDES. Give me some token for the surety of it.
CRESSIDA. I'll fetch you one.
Exit
ULYSSES. You have sworn patience.
TROILUS. Fear me not, my lord;
I will not be myself, nor have cognition
Of what I feel. I am all patience.
Re-enter CRESSIDA
THERSITES. Now the pledge; now, now, now!
CRESSIDA. Here, Diomed, keep this sleeve.
TROILUS. O beauty! where is thy faith?
ULYSSES. My lord!
TROILUS. I will be patient; outwardly I will.
CRESSIDA. You look upon that sleeve; behold it well.
He lov'd me-O false wench!-Give't me again.
DIOMEDES. Whose was't?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter, now I ha't again.
I will not meet with you to-morrow night.
I prithee, Diomed, visit me no more.
THERSITES. Now she sharpens. Well said, whetstone.
DIOMEDES. I shall have it.
CRESSIDA. What, this?
DIOMEDES. Ay, that.
CRESSIDA. O all you gods! O pretty, pretty pledge!
Thy master now lies thinking on his bed
Of thee and me, and sighs, and takes my glove,
And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
As I kiss thee. Nay, do not snatch it from me;
He that takes that doth take my heart withal.
DIOMEDES. I had your heart before; this follows it.
TROILUS. I did swear patience.
CRESSIDA. You shall not have it, Diomed; faith, you shall not;
I'll give you something else.
DIOMEDES. I will have this. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. It is no matter.
DIOMEDES. Come, tell me whose it was.
CRESSIDA. 'Twas one's that lov'd me better than you will.
But, now you have it, take it.
DIOMEDES. Whose was it?
CRESSIDA. By all Diana's waiting women yond,
And by herself, I will not tell you whose.
DIOMEDES. To-morrow will I wear it on my helm,
And grieve his spirit that dares not challenge it.
TROILUS. Wert thou the devil and wor'st it on thy horn,
It should be challeng'd.
CRESSIDA. Well, well, 'tis done, 'tis past; and yet it is not;
I will not keep my word.
DIOMEDES. Why, then farewell;
Thou never shalt mock Diomed again.
CRESSIDA. You shall not go. One cannot speak a word
But it straight starts you.
DIOMEDES. I do not like this fooling.
THERSITES. Nor I, by Pluto; but that that likes not you
Pleases me best.
DIOMEDES. What, shall I come? The hour-
CRESSIDA. Ay, come-O Jove! Do come. I shall be plagu'd.
DIOMEDES. Farewell till then.
CRESSIDA. Good night. I prithee come. Exit DIOMEDES
Troilus, farewell! One eye yet looks on thee;
But with my heart the other eye doth see.
Ah, poor our sex! this fault in us I find,
The error of our eye directs our mind.
What error leads must err; O, then conclude,
Minds sway'd by eyes are full of turpitude.
Exit
THERSITES. A proof of strength she could not publish more,
Unless she said 'My mind is now turn'd whore.'
ULYSSES. All's done, my lord.
TROILUS. It is.
ULYSSES. Why stay we, then?
TROILUS. To make a recordation to my soul
Of every syllable that here was spoke.
But if I tell how these two did coact,
Shall I not lie in publishing a truth?
Sith yet there is a credence in my heart,
An esperance so obstinately strong,
That doth invert th' attest of eyes and ears;
As if those organs had deceptious functions
Created only to calumniate.
Was Cressid here?
ULYSSES. I cannot conjure, Troyan.
TROILUS. She was not, sure.
ULYSSES. Most sure she was.
TROILUS. Why, my negation hath no taste of madness.
ULYSSES. Nor mine, my lord. Cressid was here but now.
TROILUS. Let it not be believ'd for womanhood.
Think, we had mothers; do not give advantage
To stubborn critics, apt, without a theme,
For depravation, to square the general sex
By Cressid's rule. Rather think this not Cressid.
ULYSSES. What hath she done, Prince, that can soil our mothers?
TROILUS. Nothing at all, unless that this were she.
THERSITES. Will 'a swagger himself out on's own eyes?
TROILUS. This she? No; this is Diomed's Cressida.
If beauty have a soul, this is not she;
If souls guide vows, if vows be sanctimonies,
If sanctimony be the god's delight,
If there be rule in unity itself,
This was not she. O madness of discourse,
That cause sets up with and against itself!
Bifold authority! where reason can revolt
Without perdition, and loss assume all reason
Without revolt: this is, and is not, Cressid.
Within my soul there doth conduce a fight
Of this strange nature, that a thing inseparate
Divides more wider than the sky and earth;
And yet the spacious breadth of this division
Admits no orifex for a point as subtle
As Ariachne's broken woof to enter.
Instance, O instance! strong as Pluto's gates:
Cressid is mine, tied with the bonds of heaven.
Instance, O instance! strong as heaven itself:
The bonds of heaven are slipp'd, dissolv'd, and loos'd;
And with another knot, five-finger-tied,
The fractions of her faith, orts of her love,
The fragments, scraps, the bits, and greasy relics
Of her o'er-eaten faith, are bound to Diomed.
ULYSSES. May worthy Troilus be half-attach'd
With that which here his passion doth express?
TROILUS. Ay, Greek; and that shall be divulged well
In characters as red as Mars his heart
Inflam'd with Venus. Never did young man fancy
With so eternal and so fix'd a soul.
Hark, Greek: as much as I do Cressid love,
So much by weight hate I her Diomed.
That sleeve is mine that he'll bear on his helm;
Were it a casque compos'd by Vulcan's skill
My sword should bite it. Not the dreadful spout
Which shipmen do the hurricano call,
Constring'd in mass by the almighty sun,
Shall dizzy with more clamour Neptune's ear
In his descent than shall my prompted sword
Falling on Diomed.
THERSITES. He'll tickle it for his concupy.
TROILUS. O Cressid! O false Cressid! false, false, false!
Let all untruths stand by thy stained name,
And they'll seem glorious.
ULYSSES. O, contain yourself;
Your passion draws ears hither.
Enter AENEAS
AENEAS. I have been seeking you this hour, my lord.
Hector, by this, is arming him in Troy;
Ajax, your guard, stays to conduct you home.
TROILUS. Have with you, Prince. My courteous lord, adieu.
Fairwell, revolted fair!-and, Diomed,
Stand fast and wear a castle on thy head.
ULYSSES. I'll bring you to the gates.
TROILUS. Accept distracted thanks.
Exeunt TROILUS, AENEAS. and ULYSSES
THERSITES. Would I could meet that rogue Diomed! I would croak like
a raven; I would bode, I would bode. Patroclus will give me
anything for the intelligence of this whore; the parrot will not
do more for an almond than he for a commodious drab. Lechery,
lechery! Still wars and lechery! Nothing else holds fashion. A
burning devil take them!
Exit
ACT V. SCENE 3.
Troy. Before PRIAM'S palace
Enter HECTOR and ANDROMACHE
ANDROMACHE. When was my lord so much ungently temper'd
To stop his ears against admonishment?
Unarm, unarm, and do not fight to-day.
HECTOR. You train me to offend you; get you in.
By all the everlasting gods, I'll go.
ANDROMACHE. My dreams will, sure, prove ominous to the day.
HECTOR. No more, I say.
Enter CASSANDRA
CASSANDRA. Where is my brother Hector?
ANDROMACHE. Here, sister, arm'd, and bloody in intent.
Consort with me in loud and dear petition,
Pursue we him on knees; for I have dreamt
Of bloody turbulence, and this whole night
Hath nothing been but shapes and forms of slaughter.
CASSANDRA. O, 'tis true!
HECTOR. Ho! bid my trumpet sound.
CASSANDRA. No notes of sally, for the heavens, sweet brother!
HECTOR. Be gone, I say. The gods have heard me swear.
CASSANDRA. The gods are deaf to hot and peevish vows;
They are polluted off'rings, more abhorr'd
Than spotted livers in the sacrifice.
ANDROMACHE. O, be persuaded! Do not count it holy
To hurt by being just. It is as lawful,
For we would give much, to use violent thefts
And rob in the behalf of charity.
CASSANDRA. It is the purpose that makes strong the vow;
But vows to every purpose must not hold.
Unarm, sweet Hector.
HECTOR. Hold you still, I say.
Mine honour keeps the weather of my fate.
Life every man holds dear; but the dear man
Holds honour far more precious dear than life.
Enter TROILUS
How now, young man! Mean'st thou to fight to-day?
ANDROMACHE. Cassandra, call my father to persuade.
Exit CASSANDRA
HECTOR. No, faith, young Troilus; doff thy harness, youth;
I am to-day i' th' vein of chivalry.
Let grow thy sinews till their knots be strong,
And tempt not yet the brushes of the war.
Unarm thee, go; and doubt thou not, brave boy,
I'll stand to-day for thee and me and Troy.
TROILUS. Brother, you have a vice of mercy in you
Which better fits a lion than a man.
HECTOR. What vice is that, good Troilus?
Chide me for it.
TROILUS. When many times the captive Grecian falls,
Even in the fan and wind of your fair sword,
You bid them rise and live.
HECTOR. O, 'tis fair play!
TROILUS. Fool's play, by heaven, Hector.
HECTOR. How now! how now!
TROILUS. For th' love of all the gods,
Let's leave the hermit Pity with our mother;
And when we have our armours buckled on,
The venom'd vengeance ride upon our swords,
Spur them to ruthful work, rein them from ruth!
HECTOR. Fie, savage, fie!
TROILUS. Hector, then 'tis wars.
HECTOR. Troilus, I would not have you fight to-day.
TROILUS. Who should withhold me?
Not fate, obedience, nor the hand of Mars
Beck'ning with fiery truncheon my retire;
Not Priamus and Hecuba on knees,
Their eyes o'ergalled with recourse of tears;
Nor you, my brother, with your true sword drawn,
Oppos'd to hinder me, should stop my way,
But by my ruin.
Re-enter CASSANDRA, with PRIAM
CASSANDRA. Lay hold upon him, Priam, hold him fast;
He is thy crutch; now if thou lose thy stay,
Thou on him leaning, and all Troy on thee,
Fall all together.
PRIAM. Come, Hector, come, go back.
Thy wife hath dreamt; thy mother hath had visions;
Cassandra doth foresee; and I myself
Am like a prophet suddenly enrapt
To tell thee that this day is ominous.
Therefore, come back.
HECTOR. Aeneas is a-field;
And I do stand engag'd to many Greeks,
Even in the faith of valour, to appear
This morning to them.
PRIAM. Ay, but thou shalt not go.
HECTOR. I must not break my faith.
You know me dutiful; therefore, dear sir,
Let me not shame respect; but give me leave
To take that course by your consent and voice
Which you do here forbid me, royal Priam.
CASSANDRA. O Priam, yield not to him!
ANDROMACHE. Do not, dear father.
HECTOR. Andromache, I am offended with you.
Upon the love you bear me, get you in.
Exit ANDROMACHE
TROILUS. This foolish, dreaming, superstitious girl
Makes all these bodements.
CASSANDRA. O, farewell, dear Hector!
Look how thou diest. Look how thy eye turns pale.
Look how thy wounds do bleed at many vents.
Hark how Troy roars; how Hecuba cries out;
How poor Andromache shrills her dolours forth;
Behold distraction, frenzy, and amazement,
Like witless antics, one another meet,
And all cry, Hector! Hector's dead! O Hector!
TROILUS. Away, away!
CASSANDRA. Farewell!-yet, soft! Hector, I take my leave.
Thou dost thyself and all our Troy deceive.
Exit
HECTOR. You are amaz'd, my liege, at her exclaim.
Go in, and cheer the town; we'll forth, and fight,
Do deeds worth praise and tell you them at night.
PRIAM. Farewell. The gods with safety stand about thee!
Exeunt severally PRIAM and HECTOR.
Alarums
TROILUS. They are at it, hark! Proud Diomed, believe,
I come to lose my arm or win my sleeve.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. Do you hear, my lord? Do you hear?
TROILUS. What now?
PANDARUS. Here's a letter come from yond poor girl.
TROILUS. Let me read.
PANDARUS. A whoreson tisick, a whoreson rascally tisick so troubles
me, and the foolish fortune of this girl, and what one thing,
what another, that I shall leave you one o' th's days; and I have
a rheum in mine eyes too, and such an ache in my bones that
unless a man were curs'd I cannot tell what to think on't. What
says she there?
TROILUS. Words, words, mere words, no matter from the heart;
Th' effect doth operate another way.
[Tearing the letter]
Go, wind, to wind, there turn and change together.
My love with words and errors still she feeds,
But edifies another with her deeds. Exeunt severally
ACT V. SCENE 4.
The plain between Troy and the Grecian camp
Enter THERSITES. Excursions
THERSITES. Now they are clapper-clawing one another; I'll go look
on. That dissembling abominable varlet, Diomed, has got that same
scurvy doting foolish young knave's sleeve of Troy there in his
helm. I would fain see them meet, that that same young Troyan ass
that loves the whore there might send that Greekish whoremasterly
villain with the sleeve back to the dissembling luxurious drab of
a sleeve-less errand. A th' t'other side, the policy of those
crafty swearing rascals-that stale old mouse-eaten dry cheese,
Nestor, and that same dog-fox, Ulysses -is not prov'd worth a
blackberry. They set me up, in policy, that mongrel cur, Ajax,
against that dog of as bad a kind, Achilles; and now is the cur,
Ajax prouder than the cur Achilles, and will not arm to-day;
whereupon the Grecians begin to proclaim barbarism, and policy
grows into an ill opinion.
Enter DIOMEDES, TROILUS following
Soft! here comes sleeve, and t'other.
TROILUS. Fly not; for shouldst thou take the river Styx
I would swim after.
DIOMEDES. Thou dost miscall retire.
I do not fly; but advantageous care
Withdrew me from the odds of multitude.
Have at thee.
THERSITES. Hold thy whore, Grecian; now for thy whore,
Troyan-now the sleeve, now the sleeve!
Exeunt TROILUS and DIOMEDES fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. What art thou, Greek? Art thou for Hector's match?
Art thou of blood and honour?
THERSITES. No, no-I am a rascal; a scurvy railing knave; a very
filthy rogue.
HECTOR. I do believe thee. Live.
Exit
THERSITES. God-a-mercy, that thou wilt believe me; but a plague
break thy neck for frighting me! What's become of the wenching
rogues? I think they have swallowed one another. I would laugh at
that miracle. Yet, in a sort, lechery eats itself. I'll seek
them.
Exit
ACT V. SCENE 5.
Another part of the plain
Enter DIOMEDES and A SERVANT
DIOMEDES. Go, go, my servant, take thou Troilus' horse;
Present the fair steed to my lady Cressid.
Fellow, commend my service to her beauty;
Tell her I have chastis'd the amorous Troyan,
And am her knight by proof.
SERVANT. I go, my lord.
Exit
Enter AGAMEMNON
AGAMEMNON. Renew, renew! The fierce Polydamus
Hath beat down enon; bastard Margarelon
Hath Doreus prisoner,
And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,
Upon the pashed corses of the kings
Epistrophus and Cedius. Polixenes is slain;
Amphimacus and Thoas deadly hurt;
Patroclus ta'en, or slain; and Palamedes
Sore hurt and bruis'd. The dreadful Sagittary
Appals our numbers. Haste we, Diomed,
To reinforcement, or we perish all.
Enter NESTOR
NESTOR. Go, bear Patroclus' body to Achilles,
And bid the snail-pac'd Ajax arm for shame.
There is a thousand Hectors in the field;
Now here he fights on Galathe his horse,
And there lacks work; anon he's there afoot,
And there they fly or die, like scaled sculls
Before the belching whale; then is he yonder,
And there the strawy Greeks, ripe for his edge,
Fall down before him like the mower's swath.
Here, there, and everywhere, he leaves and takes;
Dexterity so obeying appetite
That what he will he does, and does so much
That proof is call'd impossibility.
Enter ULYSSES
ULYSSES. O, courage, courage, courage, Princes! Great
Achilles Is arming, weeping, cursing, vowing vengeance.
Patroclus' wounds have rous'd his drowsy blood,
Together with his mangled Myrmidons,
That noseless, handless, hack'd and chipp'd, come to
him, Crying on Hector. Ajax hath lost a friend
And foams at mouth, and he is arm'd and at it,
Roaring for Troilus; who hath done to-day
Mad and fantastic execution,
Engaging and redeeming of himself
With such a careless force and forceless care
As if that luck, in very spite of cunning,
Bade him win all.
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus! thou coward Troilus!
Exit
DIOMEDES. Ay, there, there.
NESTOR. So, so, we draw together.
Exit
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Where is this Hector?
Come, come, thou boy-queller, show thy face;
Know what it is to meet Achilles angry.
Hector! where's Hector? I will none but Hector.
Exeunt
ACT V. SCENE 6.
Another part of the plain
Enter AJAX
AJAX. Troilus, thou coward Troilus, show thy head.
Enter DIOMEDES
DIOMEDES. Troilus, I say! Where's Troilus?
AJAX. What wouldst thou?
DIOMEDES. I would correct him.
AJAX. Were I the general, thou shouldst have my office
Ere that correction. Troilus, I say! What, Troilus!
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. O traitor Diomed! Turn thy false face, thou traitor,
And pay thy life thou owest me for my horse.
DIOMEDES. Ha! art thou there?
AJAX. I'll fight with him alone. Stand, Diomed.
DIOMEDES. He is my prize. I will not look upon.
TROILUS. Come, both, you cogging Greeks; have at you
Exeunt fighting
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Yea, Troilus? O, well fought, my youngest brother!
Enter ACHILLES
ACHILLES. Now do I see thee, ha! Have at thee, Hector!
HECTOR. Pause, if thou wilt.
ACHILLES. I do disdain thy courtesy, proud Troyan.
Be happy that my arms are out of use;
My rest and negligence befriends thee now,
But thou anon shalt hear of me again;
Till when, go seek thy fortune.
Exit
HECTOR. Fare thee well.
I would have been much more a fresher man,
Had I expected thee.
Re-enter TROILUS
How now, my brother!
TROILUS. Ajax hath ta'en Aeneas. Shall it be?
No, by the flame of yonder glorious heaven,
He shall not carry him; I'll be ta'en too,
Or bring him off. Fate, hear me what I say:
I reck not though thou end my life to-day.
Exit
Enter one in armour
HECTOR. Stand, stand, thou Greek; thou art a goodly mark.
No? wilt thou not? I like thy armour well;
I'll frush it and unlock the rivets all
But I'll be master of it. Wilt thou not, beast, abide?
Why then, fly on; I'll hunt thee for thy hide.
Exeunt
ACT V. SCENE 7.
Another part of the plain
Enter ACHILLES, with Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Come here about me, you my Myrmidons;
Mark what I say. Attend me where I wheel;
Strike not a stroke, but keep yourselves in breath;
And when I have the bloody Hector found,
Empale him with your weapons round about;
In fellest manner execute your arms.
Follow me, sirs, and my proceedings eye.
It is decreed Hector the great must die.
Exeunt
Enter MENELAUS and PARIS, fighting; then THERSITES
THERSITES. The cuckold and the cuckold-maker are at it. Now, bull!
now, dog! 'Loo, Paris, 'loo! now my double-horn'd Spartan! 'loo,
Paris, 'loo! The bull has the game. Ware horns, ho!
Exeunt PARIS and MENELAUS
Enter MARGARELON
MARGARELON. Turn, slave, and fight.
THERSITES. What art thou?
MARGARELON. A bastard son of Priam's.
THERSITES. I am a bastard too; I love bastards. I am a bastard
begot, bastard instructed, bastard in mind, bastard in valour, in
everything illegitimate. One bear will not bite another, and
wherefore should one bastard? Take heed, the quarrel's most
ominous to us: if the son of a whore fight for a whore, he tempts
judgment. Farewell, bastard.
Exit
MARGARELON. The devil take thee, coward!
Exit
ACT V. SCENE 8.
Another part of the plain
Enter HECTOR
HECTOR. Most putrified core so fair without,
Thy goodly armour thus hath cost thy life.
Now is my day's work done; I'll take good breath:
Rest, sword; thou hast thy fill of blood and death!
[Disarms]
Enter ACHILLES and his Myrmidons
ACHILLES. Look, Hector, how the sun begins to set;
How ugly night comes breathing at his heels;
Even with the vail and dark'ning of the sun,
To close the day up, Hector's life is done.
HECTOR. I am unarm'd; forego this vantage, Greek.
ACHILLES. Strike, fellows, strike; this is the man I seek.
[HECTOR falls]
So, Ilion, fall thou next! Come, Troy, sink down;
Here lies thy heart, thy sinews, and thy bone.
On, Myrmidons, and cry you an amain
'Achilles hath the mighty Hector slain.'
[A retreat sounded]
Hark! a retire upon our Grecian part.
MYRMIDON. The Troyan trumpets sound the like, my lord.
ACHILLES. The dragon wing of night o'erspreads the earth
And, stickler-like, the armies separates.
My half-supp'd sword, that frankly would have fed,
Pleas'd with this dainty bait, thus goes to bed.
[Sheathes his sword]
Come, tie his body to my horse's tail;
Along the field I will the Troyan trail.
Exeunt
ACT V. SCENE 9.
Another part of the plain
Sound retreat. Shout. Enter AGAMEMNON, AJAX, MENELAUS, NESTOR,
DIOMEDES, and the rest, marching
AGAMEMNON. Hark! hark! what shout is this?
NESTOR. Peace, drums!
SOLDIERS. [Within] Achilles! Achilles! Hector's slain. Achilles!
DIOMEDES. The bruit is Hector's slain, and by Achilles.
AJAX. If it be so, yet bragless let it be;
Great Hector was as good a man as he.
AGAMEMNON. March patiently along. Let one be sent
To pray Achilles see us at our tent.
If in his death the gods have us befriended;
Great Troy is ours, and our sharp wars are ended.
Exeunt
ACT V. SCENE 10.
Another part of the plain
Enter AENEAS, PARIS, ANTENOR, and DEIPHOBUS
AENEAS. Stand, ho! yet are we masters of the field.
Never go home; here starve we out the night.
Enter TROILUS
TROILUS. Hector is slain.
ALL. Hector! The gods forbid!
TROILUS. He's dead, and at the murderer's horse's tail,
In beastly sort, dragg'd through the shameful field.
Frown on, you heavens, effect your rage with speed.
Sit, gods, upon your thrones, and smile at Troy.
I say at once let your brief plagues be mercy,
And linger not our sure destructions on.
AENEAS. My lord, you do discomfort all the host.
TROILUS. You understand me not that tell me so.
I do not speak of flight, of fear of death,
But dare all imminence that gods and men
Address their dangers in. Hector is gone.
Who shall tell Priam so, or Hecuba?
Let him that will a screech-owl aye be call'd
Go in to Troy, and say there 'Hector's dead.'
There is a word will Priam turn to stone;
Make wells and Niobes of the maids and wives,
Cold statues of the youth; and, in a word,
Scare Troy out of itself. But, march away;
Hector is dead; there is no more to say.
Stay yet. You vile abominable tents,
Thus proudly pight upon our Phrygian plains,
Let Titan rise as early as he dare,
I'll through and through you. And, thou great-siz'd coward,
No space of earth shall sunder our two hates;
I'll haunt thee like a wicked conscience still,
That mouldeth goblins swift as frenzy's thoughts.
Strike a free march to Troy. With comfort go;
Hope of revenge shall hide our inward woe.
Enter PANDARUS
PANDARUS. But hear you, hear you!
TROILUS. Hence, broker-lackey. Ignominy and shame
Pursue thy life and live aye with thy name!
Exeunt all but PANDARUS
PANDARUS. A goodly medicine for my aching bones! world! world! thus
is the poor agent despis'd! traitors and bawds, how earnestly are
you set a work, and how ill requited! Why should our endeavour be
so lov'd, and the performance so loathed? What verse for it? What
instance for it? Let me see-
Full merrily the humble-bee doth sing
Till he hath lost his honey and his sting;
And being once subdu'd in armed trail,
Sweet honey and sweet notes together fail.
Good traders in the flesh, set this in your painted
cloths. As many as be here of pander's hall,
Your eyes, half out, weep out at Pandar's fall;
Or, if you cannot weep, yet give some groans,
Though not for me, yet for your aching bones.
Brethren and sisters of the hold-door trade,
Some two months hence my will shall here be made.
It should be now, but that my fear is this,
Some galled goose of Winchester would hiss.
Till then I'll sweat and seek about for eases,
And at that time bequeath you my diseases.
Exit
THE END | At Calchas's tent, Diomedes calls to Cressida. Her father fetches her, while Troilus and Ulysses watch from one hiding place and Thersites from another. With Thersites's profanity and Troilus's shock providing a counterpoint, Diomedes woos Cressida, who behaves reluctantly but coyly toward his advances, fending him off for a time but never allowing him to leave. Eventually, she gives him a sleeve that Troilus presented to her as a love-token--then she takes it back, and says that she never wants to see Diomedes again--then she softens, gives it to him once more, and promises to wait for him later, when he will come to sleep with her. When she is gone, and Diomedes too, Troilus is in agony, first denying the evidence seen with his own eyes, and then pledging to find Diomedes on the field of battle and kill him. Finally, as morning nears, Aeneas arrives to lead him back to Troy. In the city, Hector girds for battle, while the women--his wife Andromache and sister Cassandra--plead with him not to go. Both have had dreams that prophesy his death, but he dismisses their warnings. Troilus comes in and says that he will be fighting too; indeed, he chides Hector for having been too merciful to his enemies in the past, saying that today Troilus plans to slay as many men as he can. Cassandra leads Priam in, and the old king pleads with his son not to fight, saying that he too feels foreboding about this day, but Hector refuses to listen and goes out to the battlefield. Pandarus brings Troilus a letter from Cressida; Troilus tears it up and follows Hector out to the field. As the battle rages, Thersites wanders the field, escaping death by brazen cowardice. The Greeks are being driven back, and Patroclus is killed; Agamemnon orders his body brought to Achilles, who is roused to fury and joins the battle. He duels with Hector briefly, but tires and retreats; Hector continues slaying, while Achilles finds the Myrmidons, his men, and sets out to find Hector again. Eventually, as the battle nears its close, Achilles and his men find Hector, who has finished fighting and taken off his helmet. Surrounding the unarmed Trojan, they stab him to death and then tie his body to a chariot and drag it around the walls of Troy. The Trojan soldiers are grief-stricken, and Troilus leads them into the city to bring the heavy news. On the way, he encounters Pandarus, and curses him. Left alone on the stage, the unhappy Pandarus wonders why he should be so abused, when his services were so eagerly desired only a little while before. |
SCENE IV.
Padua. Before BAPTISTA'S house
Enter TRANIO as LUCENTIO, and the PEDANT dressed like VINCENTIO
TRANIO. Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call?
PEDANT. Ay, what else? And, but I be deceived,
Signior Baptista may remember me
Near twenty years ago in Genoa,
Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus.
TRANIO. 'Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,
With such austerity as longeth to a father.
Enter BIONDELLO
PEDANT. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;
'Twere good he were school'd.
TRANIO. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,
Now do your duty throughly, I advise you.
Imagine 'twere the right Vincentio.
BIONDELLO. Tut, fear not me.
TRANIO. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista?
BIONDELLO. I told him that your father was at Venice,
And that you look'd for him this day in Padua.
TRANIO. Th'art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink.
Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir.
Enter BAPTISTA, and LUCENTIO as CAMBIO
Signior Baptista, you are happily met.
[To To the PEDANT] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;
I pray you stand good father to me now;
Give me Bianca for my patrimony.
PEDANT. Soft, son!
Sir, by your leave: having come to Padua
To gather in some debts, my son Lucentio
Made me acquainted with a weighty cause
Of love between your daughter and himself;
And- for the good report I hear of you,
And for the love he beareth to your daughter,
And she to him- to stay him not too long,
I am content, in a good father's care,
To have him match'd; and, if you please to like
No worse than I, upon some agreement
Me shall you find ready and willing
With one consent to have her so bestow'd;
For curious I cannot be with you,
Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well.
BAPTISTA. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say.
Your plainness and your shortness please me well.
Right true it is your son Lucentio here
Doth love my daughter, and she loveth him,
Or both dissemble deeply their affections;
And therefore, if you say no more than this,
That like a father you will deal with him,
And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,
The match is made, and all is done-
Your son shall have my daughter with consent.
TRANIO. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know best
We be affied, and such assurance ta'en
As shall with either part's agreement stand?
BAPTISTA. Not in my house, Lucentio, for you know
Pitchers have ears, and I have many servants;
Besides, old Gremio is heark'ning still,
And happily we might be interrupted.
TRANIO. Then at my lodging, an it like you.
There doth my father lie; and there this night
We'll pass the business privately and well.
Send for your daughter by your servant here;
My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently.
The worst is this, that at so slender warning
You are like to have a thin and slender pittance.
BAPTISTA. It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,
And bid Bianca make her ready straight;
And, if you will, tell what hath happened-
Lucentio's father is arriv'd in Padua,
And how she's like to be Lucentio's wife. Exit LUCENTIO
BIONDELLO. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart.
TRANIO. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone.
Exit BIONDELLO
Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way?
Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;
Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa.
BAPTISTA. I follow you. Exeunt
Re-enter LUCENTIO as CAMBIO, and BIONDELLO
BIONDELLO. Cambio.
LUCENTIO. What say'st thou, Biondello?
BIONDELLO. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you?
LUCENTIO. Biondello, what of that?
BIONDELLO. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to
expound
the meaning or moral of his signs and tokens.
LUCENTIO. I pray thee moralize them.
BIONDELLO. Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with the
deceiving
father of a deceitful son.
LUCENTIO. And what of him?
BIONDELLO. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper.
LUCENTIO. And then?
BIONDELLO. The old priest at Saint Luke's church is at your
command
at all hours.
LUCENTIO. And what of all this?
BIONDELLO. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a
counterfeit assurance. Take your assurance of her, cum
privilegio
ad imprimendum solum; to th' church take the priest, clerk,
and
some sufficient honest witnesses.
If this be not that you look for, I have more to say,
But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day.
LUCENTIO. Hear'st thou, Biondello?
BIONDELLO. I cannot tarry. I knew a wench married in an
afternoon
as she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and
so
may you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me
to
go to Saint Luke's to bid the priest be ready to come against
you
come with your appendix.
Exit
LUCENTIO. I may and will, if she be so contented.
She will be pleas'd; then wherefore should I doubt?
Hap what hap may, I'll roundly go about her;
It shall go hard if Cambio go without her. Exit | Lucentio and Bianca head to the church to be married while her father is busy making arrangements with Tranio and the Pedant. Petruchio, Kate, Vincentio, and Grumio arrive in Padua and stop at Lucentio's house. Vincentio insists his companions join him for a drink, but upon knocking at the door and announcing himself, he is surprised to find another man who claims to be Lucentio's father. When Biondello appears, Vincentio questions him. Biondello pretends not to recognize his master's father. When Tranio comes to investigate the commotion, he too pretends not to know Vincentio. When the Pedant defends Tranio, claiming he's Lucentio, Vincentio moans that Tranio must have murdered the real Lucentio and assumed his persona. Baptista, unwilling to put up with such wild behavior, orders Vincentio to prison. At this point the newlyweds, Lucentio and Bianca, return. Lucentio explains what has happened, why Tranio was masquerading as his master, and announces his marriage to Bianca. Baptista and Vincentio reconcile minimally and enter the house to untangle the situation in which they find themselves. Gremio, realizing he has no hope for a spouse, goes inside to join the wedding feast. Petruchio asks Kate for a kiss, and when she refuses, he threatens to return home again. Good humoredly, she kisses her husband before heading in to the feast. |
There is always after the death of anyone a kind of stupefaction;
so difficult is it to grasp this advent of nothingness and to resign
ourselves to believe in it. But still, when he saw that she did not
move, Charles threw himself upon her, crying--
"Farewell! farewell!"
Homais and Canivet dragged him from the room.
"Restrain yourself!"
"Yes." said he, struggling, "I'll be quiet. I'll not do anything. But
leave me alone. I want to see her. She is my wife!"
And he wept.
"Cry," said the chemist; "let nature take her course; that will solace
you."
Weaker than a child, Charles let himself be led downstairs into the
sitting-room, and Monsieur Homais soon went home. On the Place he
was accosted by the blind man, who, having dragged himself as far as
Yonville, in the hope of getting the antiphlogistic pomade, was asking
every passer-by where the druggist lived.
"There now! as if I hadn't got other fish to fry. Well, so much the
worse; you must come later on."
And he entered the shop hurriedly.
He had to write two letters, to prepare a soothing potion for Bovary, to
invent some lie that would conceal the poisoning, and work it up into an
article for the "Fanal," without counting the people who were waiting to
get the news from him; and when the Yonvillers had all heard his story
of the arsenic that she had mistaken for sugar in making a vanilla
cream. Homais once more returned to Bovary's.
He found him alone (Monsieur Canivet had left), sitting in an arm-chair
near the window, staring with an idiotic look at the flags of the floor.
"Now," said the chemist, "you ought yourself to fix the hour for the
ceremony."
"Why? What ceremony?" Then, in a stammering, frightened voice, "Oh, no!
not that. No! I want to see her here."
Homais, to keep himself in countenance, took up a water-bottle on the
whatnot to water the geraniums.
"Ah! thanks," said Charles; "you are good."
But he did not finish, choking beneath the crowd of memories that this
action of the druggist recalled to him.
Then to distract him, Homais thought fit to talk a little horticulture:
plants wanted humidity. Charles bowed his head in sign of approbation.
"Besides, the fine days will soon be here again."
"Ah!" said Bovary.
The druggist, at his wit's end, began softly to draw aside the small
window-curtain.
"Hallo! there's Monsieur Tuvache passing."
Charles repeated like a machine---
"Monsieur Tuvache passing!"
Homais did not dare to speak to him again about the funeral
arrangements; it was the priest who succeeded in reconciling him to
them.
He shut himself up in his consulting-room, took a pen, and after sobbing
for some time, wrote--
"I wish her to be buried in her wedding-dress, with white shoes, and a
wreath. Her hair is to be spread out over her shoulders. Three coffins,
one of oak, one of mahogany, one of lead. Let no one say anything to me.
I shall have strength. Over all there is to be placed a large piece of
green velvet. This is my wish; see that it is done."
The two men were much surprised at Bovary's romantic ideas. The chemist
at once went to him and said--
"This velvet seems to me a superfetation. Besides, the expense--"
"What's that to you?" cried Charles. "Leave me! You did not love her.
Go!"
The priest took him by the arm for a turn in the garden. He discoursed
on the vanity of earthly things. God was very great, was very good: one
must submit to his decrees without a murmur; nay, must even thank him.
Charles burst out into blasphemies: "I hate your God!"
"The spirit of rebellion is still upon you," sighed the ecclesiastic.
Bovary was far away. He was walking with great strides along by the
wall, near the espalier, and he ground his teeth; he raised to heaven
looks of malediction, but not so much as a leaf stirred.
A fine rain was falling: Charles, whose chest was bare, at last began to
shiver; he went in and sat down in the kitchen.
At six o'clock a noise like a clatter of old iron was heard on the
Place; it was the "Hirondelle" coming in, and he remained with his
forehead against the windowpane, watching all the passengers get
out, one after the other. Felicite put down a mattress for him in the
drawing-room. He threw himself upon it and fell asleep.
Although a philosopher, Monsieur Homais respected the dead. So bearing
no grudge to poor Charles, he came back again in the evening to sit up
with the body; bringing with him three volumes and a pocket-book for
taking notes.
Monsieur Bournisien was there, and two large candles were burning at the
head of the bed, that had been taken out of the alcove. The druggist, on
whom the silence weighed, was not long before he began formulating some
regrets about this "unfortunate young woman." and the priest replied
that there was nothing to do now but pray for her.
"Yet," Homais went on, "one of two things; either she died in a state of
grace (as the Church has it), and then she has no need of our prayers;
or else she departed impertinent (that is, I believe, the ecclesiastical
expression), and then--"
Bournisien interrupted him, replying testily that it was none the less
necessary to pray.
"But," objected the chemist, "since God knows all our needs, what can be
the good of prayer?"
"What!" cried the ecclesiastic, "prayer! Why, aren't you a Christian?"
"Excuse me," said Homais; "I admire Christianity. To begin with, it
enfranchised the slaves, introduced into the world a morality--"
"That isn't the question. All the texts-"
"Oh! oh! As to texts, look at history; it, is known that all the texts
have been falsified by the Jesuits."
Charles came in, and advancing towards the bed, slowly drew the
curtains.
Emma's head was turned towards her right shoulder, the corner of her
mouth, which was open, seemed like a black hole at the lower part of her
face; her two thumbs were bent into the palms of her hands; a kind
of white dust besprinkled her lashes, and her eyes were beginning to
disappear in that viscous pallor that looks like a thin web, as if
spiders had spun it over. The sheet sunk in from her breast to her
knees, and then rose at the tips of her toes, and it seemed to Charles
that infinite masses, an enormous load, were weighing upon her.
The church clock struck two. They could hear the loud murmur of the
river flowing in the darkness at the foot of the terrace. Monsieur
Bournisien from time to time blew his nose noisily, and Homais' pen was
scratching over the paper.
"Come, my good friend," he said, "withdraw; this spectacle is tearing
you to pieces."
Charles once gone, the chemist and the cure recommenced their
discussions.
"Read Voltaire," said the one, "read D'Holbach, read the
'Encyclopaedia'!"
"Read the 'Letters of some Portuguese Jews,'" said the other; "read 'The
Meaning of Christianity,' by Nicolas, formerly a magistrate."
They grew warm, they grew red, they both talked at once without
listening to each other. Bournisien was scandalized at such audacity;
Homais marvelled at such stupidity; and they were on the point of
insulting one another when Charles suddenly reappeared. A fascination
drew him. He was continually coming upstairs.
He stood opposite her, the better to see her, and he lost himself in a
contemplation so deep that it was no longer painful.
He recalled stories of catalepsy, the marvels of magnetism, and he
said to himself that by willing it with all his force he might perhaps
succeed in reviving her. Once he even bent towards he, and cried in a
low voice, "Emma! Emma!" His strong breathing made the flames of the
candles tremble against the wall.
At daybreak Madame Bovary senior arrived. Charles as he embraced her
burst into another flood of tears. She tried, as the chemist had done,
to make some remarks to him on the expenses of the funeral. He became so
angry that she was silent, and he even commissioned her to go to town at
once and buy what was necessary.
Charles remained alone the whole afternoon; they had taken Berthe
to Madame Homais'; Felicite was in the room upstairs with Madame
Lefrancois.
In the evening he had some visitors. He rose, pressed their hands,
unable to speak. Then they sat down near one another, and formed a large
semicircle in front of the fire. With lowered faces, and swinging one
leg crossed over the other knee, they uttered deep sighs at intervals;
each one was inordinately bored, and yet none would be the first to go.
Homais, when he returned at nine o'clock (for the last two days only
Homais seemed to have been on the Place), was laden with a stock of
camphor, of benzine, and aromatic herbs. He also carried a large jar
full of chlorine water, to keep off all miasmata. Just then the servant,
Madame Lefrancois, and Madame Bovary senior were busy about Emma,
finishing dressing her, and they were drawing down the long stiff veil
that covered her to her satin shoes.
Felicite was sobbing--"Ah! my poor mistress! my poor mistress!"
"Look at her," said the landlady, sighing; "how pretty she still is!
Now, couldn't you swear she was going to get up in a minute?"
Then they bent over her to put on her wreath. They had to raise the head
a little, and a rush of black liquid issued, as if she were vomiting,
from her mouth.
"Oh, goodness! The dress; take care!" cried Madame Lefrancois. "Now,
just come and help," she said to the chemist. "Perhaps you're afraid?"
"I afraid?" replied he, shrugging his shoulders. "I dare say! I've seen
all sorts of things at the hospital when I was studying pharmacy. We
used to make punch in the dissecting room! Nothingness does not terrify
a philosopher; and, as I often say, I even intend to leave my body to
the hospitals, in order, later on, to serve science."
The cure on his arrival inquired how Monsieur Bovary was, and, on
the reply of the druggist, went on--"The blow, you see, is still too
recent."
Then Homais congratulated him on not being exposed, like other people,
to the loss of a beloved companion; whence there followed a discussion
on the celibacy of priests.
"For," said the chemist, "it is unnatural that a man should do without
women! There have been crimes--"
"But, good heaven!" cried the ecclesiastic, "how do you expect an
individual who is married to keep the secrets of the confessional, for
example?"
Homais fell foul of the confessional. Bournisien defended it; he
enlarged on the acts of restitution that it brought about. He cited
various anecdotes about thieves who had suddenly become honest. Military
men on approaching the tribunal of penitence had felt the scales fall
from their eyes. At Fribourg there was a minister--
His companion was asleep. Then he felt somewhat stifled by the
over-heavy atmosphere of the room; he opened the window; this awoke the
chemist.
"Come, take a pinch of snuff," he said to him. "Take it; it'll relieve
you."
A continual barking was heard in the distance. "Do you hear that dog
howling?" said the chemist.
"They smell the dead," replied the priest. "It's like bees; they leave
their hives on the decease of any person."
Homais made no remark upon these prejudices, for he had again dropped
asleep. Monsieur Bournisien, stronger than he, went on moving his lips
gently for some time, then insensibly his chin sank down, he let fall
his big black boot, and began to snore.
They sat opposite one another, with protruding stomachs, puffed-up
faces, and frowning looks, after so much disagreement uniting at last in
the same human weakness, and they moved no more than the corpse by their
side, that seemed to be sleeping.
Charles coming in did not wake them. It was the last time; he came to
bid her farewell.
The aromatic herbs were still smoking, and spirals of bluish vapour
blended at the window-sash with the fog that was coming in. There were
few stars, and the night was warm. The wax of the candles fell in great
drops upon the sheets of the bed. Charles watched them burn, tiring his
eyes against the glare of their yellow flame.
The watering on the satin gown shimmered white as moonlight. Emma was
lost beneath it; and it seemed to him that, spreading beyond her own
self, she blended confusedly with everything around her--the silence,
the night, the passing wind, the damp odours rising from the ground.
Then suddenly he saw her in the garden at Tostes, on a bench against the
thorn hedge, or else at Rouen in the streets, on the threshold of their
house, in the yard at Bertaux. He again heard the laughter of the happy
boys beneath the apple-trees: the room was filled with the perfume
of her hair; and her dress rustled in his arms with a noise like
electricity. The dress was still the same.
For a long while he thus recalled all his lost joys, her attitudes,
her movements, the sound of her voice. Upon one fit of despair followed
another, and even others, inexhaustible as the waves of an overflowing
sea.
A terrible curiosity seized him. Slowly, with the tips of his fingers,
palpitating, he lifted her veil. But he uttered a cry of horror that
awoke the other two.
They dragged him down into the sitting-room. Then Felicite came up to
say that he wanted some of her hair.
"Cut some off," replied the druggist.
And as she did not dare to, he himself stepped forward, scissors in
hand. He trembled so that he pierced the skin of the temple in several
places. At last, stiffening himself against emotion, Homais gave two
or three great cuts at random that left white patches amongst that
beautiful black hair.
The chemist and the cure plunged anew into their occupations, not
without sleeping from time to time, of which they accused each other
reciprocally at each fresh awakening. Then Monsieur Bournisien sprinkled
the room with holy water and Homais threw a little chlorine water on the
floor.
Felicite had taken care to put on the chest of drawers, for each
of them, a bottle of brandy, some cheese, and a large roll. And the
druggist, who could not hold out any longer, about four in the morning
sighed--
"My word! I should like to take some sustenance."
The priest did not need any persuading; he went out to go and say mass,
came back, and then they ate and hobnobbed, giggling a little without
knowing why, stimulated by that vague gaiety that comes upon us after
times of sadness, and at the last glass the priest said to the druggist,
as he clapped him on the shoulder--
"We shall end by understanding one another."
In the passage downstairs they met the undertaker's men, who were coming
in. Then Charles for two hours had to suffer the torture of hearing the
hammer resound against the wood. Next day they lowered her into her
oak coffin, that was fitted into the other two; but as the bier was
too large, they had to fill up the gaps with the wool of a mattress. At
last, when the three lids had been planed down, nailed, soldered, it was
placed outside in front of the door; the house was thrown open, and the
people of Yonville began to flock round.
Old Rouault arrived, and fainted on the Place when he saw the black
cloth!
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.
The next day Charles had the child brought back. She asked for her
mamma. They told her she was away; that she would bring her back some
playthings. Berthe spoke of her again several times, then at last
thought no more of her. The child's gaiety broke Bovary's heart, and he
had to bear besides the intolerable consolations of the chemist.
Money troubles soon began again, Monsieur Lheureux urging on anew his
friend Vincart, and Charles pledged himself for exorbitant sums; for he
would never consent to let the smallest of the things that had belonged
to HER be sold. His mother was exasperated with him; he grew even more
angry than she did. He had altogether changed. She left the house.
Then everyone began "taking advantage" of him. Mademoiselle Lempereur
presented a bill for six months' teaching, although Emma had never taken
a lesson (despite the receipted bill she had shown Bovary); it was an
arrangement between the two women. The man at the circulating library
demanded three years' subscriptions; Mere Rollet claimed the postage due
for some twenty letters, and when Charles asked for an explanation, she
had the delicacy to reply--
"Oh, I don't know. It was for her business affairs."
With every debt he paid Charles thought he had come to the end of them.
But others followed ceaselessly. He sent in accounts for professional
attendance. He was shown the letters his wife had written. Then he had
to apologise.
Felicite now wore Madame Bovary's gowns; not all, for he had kept some
of them, and he went to look at them in her dressing-room, locking
himself up there; she was about her height, and often Charles, seeing
her from behind, was seized with an illusion, and cried out--
"Oh, stay, stay!"
But at Whitsuntide she ran away from Yonville, carried off by Theodore,
stealing all that was left of the wardrobe.
It was about this time that the widow Dupuis had the honour to inform
him of the "marriage of Monsieur Leon Dupuis her son, notary at Yvetot,
to Mademoiselle Leocadie Leboeuf of Bondeville." Charles, among the
other congratulations he sent him, wrote this sentence--
"How glad my poor wife would have been!"
One day when, wandering aimlessly about the house, he had gone up to the
attic, he felt a pellet of fine paper under his slipper. He opened it
and read: "Courage, Emma, courage. I would not bring misery into your
life." It was Rodolphe's letter, fallen to the ground between the boxes,
where it had remained, and that the wind from the dormer window had just
blown towards the door. And Charles stood, motionless and staring, in
the very same place where, long ago, Emma, in despair, and paler even
than he, had thought of dying. At last he discovered a small R at the
bottom of the second page. What did this mean? He remembered Rodolphe's
attentions, his sudden, disappearance, his constrained air when they
had met two or three times since. But the respectful tone of the letter
deceived him.
"Perhaps they loved one another platonically," he said to himself.
Besides, Charles was not of those who go to the bottom of things; he
shrank from the proofs, and his vague jealousy was lost in the immensity
of his woe.
Everyone, he thought, must have adored her; all men assuredly must have
coveted her. She seemed but the more beautiful to him for this; he
was seized with a lasting, furious desire for her, that inflamed his
despair, and that was boundless, because it was now unrealisable.
To please her, as if she were still living, he adopted her
predilections, her ideas; he bought patent leather boots and took to
wearing white cravats. He put cosmetics on his moustache, and, like her,
signed notes of hand. She corrupted him from beyond the grave.
He was obliged to sell his silver piece by piece; next he sold the
drawing-room furniture. All the rooms were stripped; but the bedroom,
her own room, remained as before. After his dinner Charles went up
there. He pushed the round table in front of the fire, and drew up her
armchair. He sat down opposite it. A candle burnt in one of the gilt
candlesticks. Berthe by his side was painting prints.
He suffered, poor man, at seeing her so badly dressed, with laceless
boots, and the arm-holes of her pinafore torn down to the hips; for the
charwoman took no care of her. But she was so sweet, so pretty, and her
little head bent forward so gracefully, letting the dear fair hair fall
over her rosy cheeks, that an infinite joy came upon him, a happiness
mingled with bitterness, like those ill-made wines that taste of
resin. He mended her toys, made her puppets from cardboard, or sewed up
half-torn dolls. Then, if his eyes fell upon the workbox, a ribbon lying
about, or even a pin left in a crack of the table, he began to dream,
and looked so sad that she became as sad as he.
No one now came to see them, for Justin had run away to Rouen, where he
was a grocer's assistant, and the druggist's children saw less and less
of the child, Monsieur Homais not caring, seeing the difference of their
social position, to continue the intimacy.
The blind man, whom he had not been able to cure with the pomade, had
gone back to the hill of Bois-Guillaume, where he told the travellers of
the vain attempt of the druggist, to such an extent, that Homais when
he went to town hid himself behind the curtains of the "Hirondelle" to
avoid meeting him. He detested him, and wishing, in the interests of his
own reputation, to get rid of him at all costs, he directed against
him a secret battery, that betrayed the depth of his intellect and the
baseness of his vanity. Thus, for six consecutive months, one could read
in the "Fanal de Rouen" editorials such as these--
"All who bend their steps towards the fertile plains of Picardy have, no
doubt, remarked, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a wretch suffering from
a horrible facial wound. He importunes, persecutes one, and levies a
regular tax on all travellers. Are we still living in the monstrous
times of the Middle Ages, when vagabonds were permitted to display in
our public places leprosy and scrofulas they had brought back from the
Crusades?"
Or--
"In spite of the laws against vagabondage, the approaches to our great
towns continue to be infected by bands of beggars. Some are seen going
about alone, and these are not, perhaps, the least dangerous. What are
our ediles about?"
Then Homais invented anecdotes--
"Yesterday, by the Bois-Guillaume hill, a skittish horse--" And then
followed the story of an accident caused by the presence of the blind
man.
He managed so well that the fellow was locked up. But he was released.
He began again, and Homais began again. It was a struggle. Homais won
it, for his foe was condemned to life-long confinement in an asylum.
This success emboldened him, and henceforth there was no longer a dog
run over, a barn burnt down, a woman beaten in the parish, of which
he did not immediately inform the public, guided always by the love of
progress and the hate of priests. He instituted comparisons between the
elementary and clerical schools to the detriment of the latter; called
to mind the massacre of St. Bartholomew a propos of a grant of one
hundred francs to the church, and denounced abuses, aired new views.
That was his phrase. Homais was digging and delving; he was becoming
dangerous.
However, he was stifling in the narrow limits of journalism, and soon a
book, a work was necessary to him. Then he composed "General Statistics
of the Canton of Yonville, followed by Climatological Remarks." The
statistics drove him to philosophy. He busied himself with great
questions: the social problem, moralisation of the poorer classes,
pisciculture, caoutchouc, railways, etc. He even began to blush at being
a bourgeois. He affected the artistic style, he smoked. He bought two
chic Pompadour statuettes to adorn his drawing-room.
He by no means gave up his shop. On the contrary, he kept well abreast
of new discoveries. He followed the great movement of chocolates; he
was the first to introduce "cocoa" and "revalenta" into the
Seine-Inferieure. He was enthusiastic about the hydro-electric
Pulvermacher chains; he wore one himself, and when at night he took off
his flannel vest, Madame Homais stood quite dazzled before the golden
spiral beneath which he was hidden, and felt her ardour redouble for
this man more bandaged than a Scythian, and splendid as one of the Magi.
He had fine ideas about Emma's tomb. First he proposed a broken column
with some drapery, next a pyramid, then a Temple of Vesta, a sort of
rotunda, or else a "mass of ruins." And in all his plans Homais always
stuck to the weeping willow, which he looked upon as the indispensable
symbol of sorrow.
Charles and he made a journey to Rouen together to look at some tombs
at a funeral furnisher's, accompanied by an artist, one Vaufrylard, a
friend of Bridoux's, who made puns all the time. At last, after having
examined some hundred designs, having ordered an estimate and made
another journey to Rouen, Charles decided in favour of a mausoleum,
which on the two principal sides was to have a "spirit bearing an
extinguished torch."
As to the inscription, Homais could think of nothing so fine as Sta
viator*, and he got no further; he racked his brain, he constantly
repeated Sta viator. At last he hit upon Amabilen conjugem calcas**,
which was adopted.
* Rest traveler.
** Tread upon a loving wife.
A strange thing was that Bovary, while continually thinking of Emma, was
forgetting her. He grew desperate as he felt this image fading from his
memory in spite of all efforts to retain it. Yet every night he dreamt
of her; it was always the same dream. He drew near her, but when he was
about to clasp her she fell into decay in his arms.
For a week he was seen going to church in the evening. Monsieur
Bournisien even paid him two or three visits, then gave him up.
Moreover, the old fellow was growing intolerant, fanatic, said Homais.
He thundered against the spirit of the age, and never failed, every
other week, in his sermon, to recount the death agony of Voltaire, who
died devouring his excrements, as everyone knows.
In spite of the economy with which Bovary lived, he was far from being
able to pay off his old debts. Lheureux refused to renew any more
bills. A distraint became imminent. Then he appealed to his mother, who
consented to let him take a mortgage on her property, but with a great
many recriminations against Emma; and in return for her sacrifice she
asked for a shawl that had escaped the depredations of Felicite. Charles
refused to give it her; they quarrelled.
She made the first overtures of reconciliation by offering to have the
little girl, who could help her in the house, to live with her. Charles
consented to this, but when the time for parting came, all his courage
failed him. Then there was a final, complete rupture.
As his affections vanished, he clung more closely to the love of his
child. She made him anxious, however, for she coughed sometimes, and had
red spots on her cheeks.
Opposite his house, flourishing and merry, was the family of the
chemist, with whom everything was prospering. Napoleon helped him in the
laboratory, Athalie embroidered him a skullcap, Irma cut out rounds of
paper to cover the preserves, and Franklin recited Pythagoras' table in
a breath. He was the happiest of fathers, the most fortunate of men.
Not so! A secret ambition devoured him. Homais hankered after the cross
of the Legion of Honour. He had plenty of claims to it.
"First, having at the time of the cholera distinguished myself by a
boundless devotion; second, by having published, at my expense,
various works of public utility, such as" (and he recalled his pamphlet
entitled, "Cider, its manufacture and effects," besides observation
on the lanigerous plant-louse, sent to the Academy; his volume of
statistics, and down to his pharmaceutical thesis); "without counting
that I am a member of several learned societies" (he was member of a
single one).
"In short!" he cried, making a pirouette, "if it were only for
distinguishing myself at fires!"
Then Homais inclined towards the Government. He secretly did the
prefect great service during the elections. He sold himself--in a word,
prostituted himself. He even addressed a petition to the sovereign
in which he implored him to "do him justice"; he called him "our good
king," and compared him to Henri IV.
And every morning the druggist rushed for the paper to see if his
nomination were in it. It was never there. At last, unable to bear it
any longer, he had a grass plot in his garden designed to represent the
Star of the Cross of Honour with two little strips of grass running from
the top to imitate the ribband. He walked round it with folded arms,
meditating on the folly of the Government and the ingratitude of men.
From respect, or from a sort of sensuality that made him carry on his
investigations slowly, Charles had not yet opened the secret drawer of
a rosewood desk which Emma had generally used. One day, however, he
sat down before it, turned the key, and pressed the spring. All Leon's
letters were there. There could be no doubt this time. He devoured them
to the very last, ransacked every corner, all the furniture, all the
drawers, behind the walls, sobbing, crying aloud, distraught, mad. He
found a box and broke it open with a kick. Rodolphe's portrait flew full
in his face in the midst of the overturned love-letters.
People wondered at his despondency. He never went out, saw no one,
refused even to visit his patients. Then they said "he shut himself up
to drink."
Sometimes, however, some curious person climbed on to the garden hedge,
and saw with amazement this long-bearded, shabbily clothed, wild man,
who wept aloud as he walked up and down.
In the evening in summer he took his little girl with him and led her to
the cemetery. They came back at nightfall, when the only light left in
the Place was that in Binet's window.
The voluptuousness of his grief was, however, incomplete, for he had no
one near him to share it, and he paid visits to Madame Lefrancois to be
able to speak of her.
But the landlady only listened with half an ear, having troubles
like himself. For Lheureux had at last established the "Favorites du
Commerce," and Hivert, who enjoyed a great reputation for doing errands,
insisted on a rise of wages, and was threatening to go over "to the
opposition shop."
One day when he had gone to the market at Argueil to sell his horse--his
last resource--he met Rodolphe.
They both turned pale when they caught sight of one another. Rodolphe,
who had only sent his card, first stammered some apologies, then grew
bolder, and even pushed his assurance (it was in the month of August and
very hot) to the length of inviting him to have a bottle of beer at the
public-house.
Leaning on the table opposite him, he chewed his cigar as he talked, and
Charles was lost in reverie at this face that she had loved. He seemed
to see again something of her in it. It was a marvel to him. He would
have liked to have been this man.
The other went on talking agriculture, cattle, pasturage, filling out
with banal phrases all the gaps where an allusion might slip in. Charles
was not listening to him; Rodolphe noticed it, and he followed the
succession of memories that crossed his face. This gradually grew
redder; the nostrils throbbed fast, the lips quivered. There was at
last a moment when Charles, full of a sombre fury, fixed his eyes on
Rodolphe, who, in something of fear, stopped talking. But soon the same
look of weary lassitude came back to his face.
"I don't blame you," he said.
Rodolphe was dumb. And Charles, his head in his hands, went on in a
broken voice, and with the resigned accent of infinite sorrow--
"No, I don't blame you now."
He even added a fine phrase, the only one he ever made--
"It is the fault of fatality!"
Rodolphe, who had managed the fatality, thought the remark very offhand
from a man in his position, comic even, and a little mean.
The next day Charles went to sit down on the seat in the arbour. Rays
of light were straying through the trellis, the vine leaves threw their
shadows on the sand, the jasmines perfumed the air, the heavens were
blue, Spanish flies buzzed round the lilies in bloom, and Charles was
suffocating like a youth beneath the vague love influences that filled
his aching heart.
At seven o'clock little Berthe, who had not seen him all the afternoon,
went to fetch him to dinner.
His head was thrown back against the wall, his eyes closed, his mouth
open, and in his hand was a long tress of black hair.
"Come along, papa," she said.
And thinking he wanted to play; she pushed him gently. He fell to the
ground. He was dead.
Thirty-six hours after, at the druggist's request, Monsieur Canivet came
thither. He made a post-mortem and found nothing.
When everything had been sold, twelve francs seventy-five centimes
remained, that served to pay for Mademoiselle Bovary's going to
her grandmother. The good woman died the same year; old Rouault was
paralysed, and it was an aunt who took charge of her. She is poor, and
sends her to a cotton-factory to earn a living.
Since Bovary's death three doctors have followed one another at Yonville
without any success, so severely did Homais attack them. He has an
enormous practice; the authorities treat him with consideration, and
public opinion protects him.
He has just received the cross of the Legion of Honour. | It took Charles a long time to recover from the initial shock of Emma's death. His mother arrived and helped to put affairs in order and thought that now Emma was gone she would be reinstated in Charles' affection. Emma's father also showed up for the funeral, but was too emotional to be of help. The priest and Homais sat up all night with the body and performed certain rites which they thought appropriate. The priest had a difficult time convincing Charles that the burial should take place soon. Charles gave directions for Emma to be buried in her wedding dress and quarreled with his mother about the expense of some parts of the funeral. As soon as the funeral is over, old Roualt goes home without even seeing little Berthe. Later that night the sexton sees Justin by Emma's grave and thinks that he now knows who has been stealing his potatoes. In the days which followed, Bovary was contacted by all Emma's creditors. Her debts included not merely those of Lheureux, but many bills to business concerns, tradesmen, and other people. Their total constituted a vast amount. Bovary tried to collect the fees due him in an effort to pay but learned that Emma had already done so. In the meantime, Leon became engaged to a young woman of good family. Bovary sent a letter of congratulations to Leon's mother, in which he remarked, innocently, that the news would have pleased his late wife. One night Bovary came across the letter from Rodolphe that Emma had lost in the attic a long time before. He read it, but assumed that there had been a platonic affection between them and was not concerned. He idealized Emma's memory and was pleased to learn that another had also admired her. In an attempt to pay his debts, Bovary had to sell nearly all the furniture, but even this amount was not sufficient. For sentimental reasons, though, he refrained from taking anything from her bedroom and kept it just the way it was before her death. Mrs. Bovary had come to live with him, but they had a quarrel over the possession of one of Emma's shawls and she left his house. The servant left also, taking most of Emma's wardrobe with her. Bovary began to live in seclusion. He avoided his old friends and neglected his practice. Homais, who had once been so close, and who was now a power in the community, shunned him, claiming that there was too big a gap in their social positions. Bovary often sat in Emma's room, examining her possessions and recalling their life together. One day he opened her desk and discovered the letters from Rodolphe and Leon. He read them with an air of disbelief and was very distressed when he realized their meaning and was forced to acknowledge that Emma had been unfaithful. After this he was always gloomy and seemed a broken man. He rarely left his house and kept away from people. Once he had to go to Rouen to sell his horse in order to raise more money. He met Rodolphe there and the two men had a drink together in a cafe. Rodolphe felt guilty and tried to make small talk. Finally Bovary told him that he knew the truth, but that he no longer held any grudge against him. The fault, Bovary said, was with Destiny. The next day Bovary died quietly while sitting in his garden. His house and remaining property were sold on behalf of his creditors, and there was just enough left over to send Berthe to stay with her grandmother. Mrs. Bovary died later that year and Roualt was seriously ill; Berthe was then sent to an aunt's house. This woman was very poor, and the little girl ended up working in a cotton mill. |
Now I do not propose to narrate at full length all the incidents of our
long travel up to Sitanda's Kraal, near the junction of the Lukanga and
Kalukwe Rivers. It was a journey of more than a thousand miles from
Durban, the last three hundred or so of which we had to make on foot,
owing to the frequent presence of the dreadful "tsetse" fly, whose bite
is fatal to all animals except donkeys and men.
We left Durban at the end of January, and it was in the second week of
May that we camped near Sitanda's Kraal. Our adventures on the way were
many and various, but as they are of the sort which befall every
African hunter--with one exception to be presently detailed--I shall
not set them down here, lest I should render this history too wearisome.
At Inyati, the outlying trading station in the Matabele country, of
which Lobengula (a great and cruel scoundrel) is king, with many
regrets we parted from our comfortable wagon. Only twelve oxen remained
to us out of the beautiful span of twenty which I had bought at Durban.
One we lost from the bite of a cobra, three had perished from "poverty"
and the want of water, one strayed, and the other three died from
eating the poisonous herb called "tulip." Five more sickened from this
cause, but we managed to cure them with doses of an infusion made by
boiling down the tulip leaves. If administered in time this is a very
effective antidote.
The wagon and the oxen we left in the immediate charge of Goza and Tom,
our driver and leader, both trustworthy boys, requesting a worthy
Scotch missionary who lived in this distant place to keep an eye on
them. Then, accompanied by Umbopa, Khiva, Ventvoegel, and half a dozen
bearers whom we hired on the spot, we started off on foot upon our wild
quest. I remember we were all a little silent on the occasion of this
departure, and I think that each of us was wondering if we should ever
see our wagon again; for my part I never expected to do so. For a while
we tramped on in silence, till Umbopa, who was marching in front, broke
into a Zulu chant about how some brave men, tired of life and the
tameness of things, started off into a vast wilderness to find new
things or die, and how, lo and behold! when they had travelled far into
the wilderness they found that it was not a wilderness at all, but a
beautiful place full of young wives and fat cattle, of game to hunt and
enemies to kill.
Then we all laughed and took it for a good omen. Umbopa was a cheerful
savage, in a dignified sort of way, when he was not suffering from one
of his fits of brooding, and he had a wonderful knack of keeping up our
spirits. We all grew very fond of him.
And now for the one adventure to which I am going to treat myself, for
I do dearly love a hunting yarn.
About a fortnight's march from Inyati we came across a peculiarly
beautiful bit of well-watered woodland country. The kloofs in the hills
were covered with dense bush, "idoro" bush as the natives call it, and
in some places, with the "wacht-een-beche," or "wait-a-little thorn,"
and there were great quantities of the lovely "machabell" tree, laden
with refreshing yellow fruit having enormous stones. This tree is the
elephant's favourite food, and there were not wanting signs that the
great brutes had been about, for not only was their spoor frequent, but
in many places the trees were broken down and even uprooted. The
elephant is a destructive feeder.
One evening, after a long day's march, we came to a spot of great
loveliness. At the foot of a bush-clad hill lay a dry river-bed, in
which, however, were to be found pools of crystal water all trodden
round with the hoof-prints of game. Facing this hill was a park-like
plain, where grew clumps of flat-topped mimosa, varied with occasional
glossy-leaved machabells, and all round stretched the sea of pathless,
silent bush.
As we emerged into this river-bed path suddenly we started a troop of
tall giraffes, who galloped, or rather sailed off, in their strange
gait, their tails screwed up over their backs, and their hoofs rattling
like castanets. They were about three hundred yards from us, and
therefore practically out of shot, but Good, who was walking ahead, and
who had an express loaded with solid ball in his hand, could not resist
temptation. Lifting his gun, he let drive at the last, a young cow. By
some extraordinary chance the ball struck it full on the back of the
neck, shattering the spinal column, and that giraffe went rolling head
over heels just like a rabbit. I never saw a more curious thing.
"Curse it!" said Good--for I am sorry to say he had a habit of using
strong language when excited--contracted, no doubt, in the course of
his nautical career; "curse it! I've killed him."
"_Ou_, Bougwan," ejaculated the Kafirs; "_ou! ou!_"
They called Good "Bougwan," or Glass Eye, because of his eye-glass.
"Oh, 'Bougwan!'" re-echoed Sir Henry and I, and from that day Good's
reputation as a marvellous shot was established, at any rate among the
Kafirs. Really he was a bad one, but whenever he missed we overlooked
it for the sake of that giraffe.
Having set some of the "boys" to cut off the best of the giraffe's
meat, we went to work to build a "scherm" near one of the pools and
about a hundred yards to its right. This is done by cutting a quantity
of thorn bushes and piling them in the shape of a circular hedge. Then
the space enclosed is smoothed, and dry tambouki grass, if obtainable,
is made into a bed in the centre, and a fire or fires lighted.
By the time the "scherm" was finished the moon peeped up, and our
dinners of giraffe steaks and roasted marrow-bones were ready. How we
enjoyed those marrow-bones, though it was rather a job to crack them! I
know of no greater luxury than giraffe marrow, unless it is elephant's
heart, and we had that on the morrow. We ate our simple meal by the
light of the moon, pausing at times to thank Good for his wonderful
shot; then we began to smoke and yarn, and a curious picture we must
have made squatting there round the fire. I, with my short grizzled
hair sticking up straight, and Sir Henry with his yellow locks, which
were getting rather long, were rather a contrast, especially as I am
thin, and short, and dark, weighing only nine stone and a half, and Sir
Henry is tall, and broad, and fair, and weighs fifteen. But perhaps the
most curious-looking of the three, taking all the circumstances of the
case into consideration, was Captain John Good, R.N. There he sat upon
a leather bag, looking just as though he had come in from a comfortable
day's shooting in a civilised country, absolutely clean, tidy, and well
dressed. He wore a shooting suit of brown tweed, with a hat to match,
and neat gaiters. As usual, he was beautifully shaved, his eye-glass
and his false teeth appeared to be in perfect order, and altogether he
looked the neatest man I ever had to do with in the wilderness. He even
sported a collar, of which he had a supply, made of white gutta-percha.
"You see, they weigh so little," he said to me innocently, when I
expressed my astonishment at the fact; "and I always like to turn out
like a gentleman." Ah! if he could have foreseen the future and the
raiment prepared for him.
Well, there we three sat yarning away in the beautiful moonlight, and
watching the Kafirs a few yards off sucking their intoxicating "daccha"
from a pipe of which the mouthpiece was made of the horn of an eland,
till one by one they rolled themselves up in their blankets and went to
sleep by the fire, that is, all except Umbopa, who was a little apart,
his chin resting on his hand, and thinking deeply. I noticed that he
never mixed much with the other Kafirs.
Presently, from the depths of the bush behind us, came a loud "_woof_,
_woof_!" "That's a lion," said I, and we all started up to listen.
Hardly had we done so, when from the pool, about a hundred yards off,
we heard the strident trumpeting of an elephant. "_Unkungunklovo_!
_Indlovu_!" "Elephant! Elephant!" whispered the Kafirs, and a few
minutes afterwards we saw a succession of vast shadowy forms moving
slowly from the direction of the water towards the bush.
Up jumped Good, burning for slaughter, and thinking, perhaps, that it
was as easy to kill elephant as he had found it to shoot giraffe, but I
caught him by the arm and pulled him down.
"It's no good," I whispered, "let them go."
"It seems that we are in a paradise of game. I vote we stop here a day
or two, and have a go at them," said Sir Henry, presently.
I was rather surprised, for hitherto Sir Henry had always been for
pushing forward as fast as possible, more especially since we
ascertained at Inyati that about two years ago an Englishman of the
name of Neville _had_ sold his wagon there, and gone on up country. But
I suppose his hunter instincts got the better of him for a while.
Good jumped at the idea, for he was longing to have a shot at those
elephants; and so, to speak the truth, did I, for it went against my
conscience to let such a herd as that escape without a pull at them.
"All right, my hearties," said I. "I think we want a little recreation.
And now let's turn in, for we ought to be off by dawn, and then perhaps
we may catch them feeding before they move on."
The others agreed, and we proceeded to make our preparations. Good took
off his clothes, shook them, put his eye-glass and his false teeth into
his trousers pocket, and folding each article neatly, placed it out of
the dew under a corner of his mackintosh sheet. Sir Henry and I
contented ourselves with rougher arrangements, and soon were curled up
in our blankets, and dropping off into the dreamless sleep that rewards
the traveller.
Going, going, go--What was that?
Suddenly, from the direction of the water came sounds of violent
scuffling, and next instant there broke upon our ears a succession of
the most awful roars. There was no mistaking their origin; only a lion
could make such a noise as that. We all jumped up and looked towards
the water, in the direction of which we saw a confused mass, yellow and
black in colour, staggering and struggling towards us. We seized our
rifles, and slipping on our veldtschoons, that is shoes made of
untanned hide, ran out of the scherm. By this time the mass had fallen,
and was rolling over and over on the ground, and when we reached the
spot it struggled no longer, but lay quite still.
Now we saw what it was. On the grass there lay a sable antelope
bull--the most beautiful of all the African antelopes--quite dead, and
transfixed by its great curved horns was a magnificent black-maned
lion, also dead. Evidently what had happened was this: The sable
antelope had come down to drink at the pool where the lion--no doubt
the same which we had heard--was lying in wait. While the antelope
drank, the lion had sprung upon him, only to be received upon the sharp
curved horns and transfixed. Once before I saw a similar thing happen.
Then the lion, unable to free himself, had torn and bitten at the back
and neck of the bull, which, maddened with fear and pain, had rushed on
until it dropped dead.
As soon as we had examined the beasts sufficiently we called the
Kafirs, and between us managed to drag their carcases up to the scherm.
After that we went in and lay down, to wake no more till dawn.
With the first light we were up and making ready for the fray. We took
with us the three eight-bore rifles, a good supply of ammunition, and
our large water-bottles, filled with weak cold tea, which I have always
found the best stuff to shoot on. After swallowing a little breakfast
we started, Umbopa, Khiva, and Ventvoegel accompanying us. The other
Kafirs we left with instructions to skin the lion and the sable
antelope, and to cut up the latter.
We had no difficulty in finding the broad elephant trail, which
Ventvoegel, after examination, pronounced to have been made by between
twenty and thirty elephants, most of them full-grown bulls. But the
herd had moved on some way during the night, and it was nine o'clock,
and already very hot, before, by the broken trees, bruised leaves and
bark, and smoking droppings, we knew that we could not be far from them.
Presently we caught sight of the herd, which numbered, as Ventvoegel had
said, between twenty and thirty, standing in a hollow, having finished
their morning meal, and flapping their great ears. It was a splendid
sight, for they were only about two hundred yards from us. Taking a
handful of dry grass, I threw it into the air to see how the wind was;
for if once they winded us I knew they would be off before we could get
a shot. Finding that, if anything, it blew from the elephants to us, we
crept on stealthily, and thanks to the cover managed to get within
forty yards or so of the great brutes. Just in front of us, and
broadside on, stood three splendid bulls, one of them with enormous
tusks. I whispered to the others that I would take the middle one; Sir
Henry covering the elephant to the left, and Good the bull with the big
tusks.
"Now," I whispered.
Boom! boom! boom! went the three heavy rifles, and down came Sir
Henry's elephant dead as a hammer, shot right through the heart. Mine
fell on to its knees and I thought that he was going to die, but in
another moment he was up and off, tearing along straight past me. As he
went I gave him the second barrel in the ribs, and this brought him
down in good earnest. Hastily slipping in two fresh cartridges I ran
close up to him, and a ball through the brain put an end to the poor
brute's struggles. Then I turned to see how Good had fared with the big
bull, which I had heard screaming with rage and pain as I gave mine its
quietus. On reaching the captain I found him in a great state of
excitement. It appeared that on receiving the bullet the bull had
turned and come straight for his assailant, who had barely time to get
out of his way, and then charged on blindly past him, in the direction
of our encampment. Meanwhile the herd had crashed off in wild alarm in
the other direction.
For awhile we debated whether to go after the wounded bull or to follow
the herd, and finally deciding for the latter alternative, departed,
thinking that we had seen the last of those big tusks. I have often
wished since that we had. It was easy work to follow the elephants, for
they had left a trail like a carriage road behind them, crushing down
the thick bush in their furious flight as though it were tambouki grass.
But to come up with them was another matter, and we had struggled on
under the broiling sun for over two hours before we found them. With
the exception of one bull, they were standing together, and I could
see, from their unquiet way and the manner in which they kept lifting
their trunks to test the air, that they were on the look-out for
mischief. The solitary bull stood fifty yards or so to this side of the
herd, over which he was evidently keeping sentry, and about sixty yards
from us. Thinking that he would see or wind us, and that it would
probably start them off again if we tried to get nearer, especially as
the ground was rather open, we all aimed at this bull, and at my
whispered word, we fired. The three shots took effect, and down he went
dead. Again the herd started, but unfortunately for them about a
hundred yards further on was a nullah, or dried-out water track, with
steep banks, a place very much resembling the one where the Prince
Imperial was killed in Zululand. Into this the elephants plunged, and
when we reached the edge we found them struggling in wild confusion to
get up the other bank, filling the air with their screams, and
trumpeting as they pushed one another aside in their selfish panic,
just like so many human beings. Now was our opportunity, and firing
away as quickly as we could load, we killed five of the poor beasts,
and no doubt should have bagged the whole herd, had they not suddenly
given up their attempts to climb the bank and rushed headlong down the
nullah. We were too tired to follow them, and perhaps also a little
sick of slaughter, eight elephants being a pretty good bag for one day.
So after we were rested a little, and the Kafirs had cut out the hearts
of two of the dead elephants for supper, we started homewards, very
well pleased with our day's work, having made up our minds to send the
bearers on the morrow to chop away the tusks.
Shortly after we re-passed the spot where Good had wounded the
patriarchal bull we came across a herd of eland, but did not shoot at
them, as we had plenty of meat. They trotted past us, and then stopped
behind a little patch of bush about a hundred yards away, wheeling
round to look at us. As Good was anxious to get a near view of them,
never having seen an eland close, he handed his rifle to Umbopa, and,
followed by Khiva, strolled up to the patch of bush. We sat down and
waited for him, not sorry of the excuse for a little rest.
The sun was just going down in its reddest glory, and Sir Henry and I
were admiring the lovely scene, when suddenly we heard an elephant
scream, and saw its huge and rushing form with uplifted trunk and tail
silhouetted against the great fiery globe of the sun. Next second we
saw something else, and that was Good and Khiva tearing back towards us
with the wounded bull--for it was he--charging after them. For a moment
we did not dare to fire--though at that distance it would have been of
little use if we had done so--for fear of hitting one of them, and the
next a dreadful thing happened--Good fell a victim to his passion for
civilised dress. Had he consented to discard his trousers and gaiters
like the rest of us, and to hunt in a flannel shirt and a pair of
veldt-schoons, it would have been all right. But as it was, his
trousers cumbered him in that desperate race, and presently, when he
was about sixty yards from us, his boot, polished by the dry grass,
slipped, and down he went on his face right in front of the elephant.
We gave a gasp, for we knew that he must die, and ran as hard as we
could towards him. In three seconds it had ended, but not as we
thought. Khiva, the Zulu boy, saw his master fall, and brave lad as he
was, turned and flung his assegai straight into the elephant's face. It
stuck in his trunk.
With a scream of pain, the brute seized the poor Zulu, hurled him to
the earth, and placing one huge foot on to his body about the middle,
twined its trunk round his upper part and _tore him in two_.
We rushed up mad with horror, and fired again and again, till presently
the elephant fell upon the fragments of the Zulu.
As for Good, he rose and wrung his hands over the brave man who had
given his life to save him, and, though I am an old hand, I felt a lump
grow in my throat. Umbopa stood contemplating the huge dead elephant
and the mangled remains of poor Khiva.
"Ah, well," he said presently, "he is dead, but he died like a man!" | Quatermain relates how the newly formed party journeys from Durban to Sitanda's Kraal, a trek of over a thousand miles. The journey takes nearly four months, during which they encounter events common to such an expedition. By the time they reach Inyata, they are forced to leave their wagon since eight of the twenty oxen have perished or been lost. The wagon is left in the care of the two Zulu servants, Goza and Tom, who are instructed to seek out a Scottish missionary in the area to take care of the wagon. The hunting party of Quatermain, Sir Henry, Captain Good, Umbopa, Khiva and Ventvogel--along with several bearers carrying their belongings--continue their trip. Along the way, Umbopa further proves his value by chanting an upbeat Zulu song promising a good end to the journey. About two weeks' march from Inyata, the party enters a beautiful area full of wild giraffes. As the giraffes gallop away, Captain Good tries for a shot at them on a whim; to his surprise, he manages to hit a distant giraffe in the spine and kill it with his single shot. Although Quatermain declares the shot lucky and not characteristic of Good's usual hunting prowess in his narrative, he nonetheless relates how this amazing shot gives Good a reputation for accuracy among the rest of the hunting party. The men camp that night and, prior to sleep, hear the low growl of a lion nearby. They also hear an elephant; this leads Sir Henry to consider pausing in their quest for his lost brother long enough to hunt for a day or two. During the night they are awakened by a fearful noise and splashing from the nearby river--they discover it to be the lion and his would-be prey, an antelope, locked in the throes of their death-struggle. Both animals die, killed by the ferocity or fear of each other, and Quatermain's party reaps the benefit of their animosity by skinning both animals and filleting the antelope for food. The next day the party encounters a herd of elephants, which they fire upon. Sir Henry fells his elephant in one shot. Quatermain's target runs away after being struck, forcing the hunter to pursue it to take it down. Captain Good hits the bull elephant, but instead of fleeing it turns on its attacker and charges Good. Once the bull has passed, the party chooses to follow the herd rather than the wounded bull elephant. In all, Quatermain's party collects eight elephants. In the meantime, Captain Good has run afoul of the wounded bull elephant. Quatermain and his fellows hear the enraged elephant, then see it crashing through the greenery in hot pursuit of Captain Good and Khiva. Good falls--slipping on his over-"civilized" polished boots--and is nearly done for, but Khiva draws the bull's attention by throwing his spear at it. The bull elephant turns its ire on Khiva, crushing him under one foot while pulling him in half with its trunk. Captain Good is moved to anguish by Khiva's sacrifice, and Quatermain almost weeps, but the implacable Umbopa stares thoughtfully at Khiva's remains and states "he is dead, but he died like a man." |
Near Misenum.
[Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one side, with drum and
trumpet; at the other, CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS,
MAECENAS, with Soldiers marching.]
POMPEY.
Your hostages I have, so have you mine;
And we shall talk before we fight.
CAESAR.
Most meet
That first we come to words; and therefore have we
Our written purposes before us sent;
Which, if thou hast consider'd, let us know
If 'twill tie up thy discontented sword,
And carry back to Sicily much tall youth
That else must perish here.
POMPEY.
To you all three,
The senators alone of this great world,
Chief factors for the gods,--I do not know
Wherefore my father should revengers want,
Having a son and friends; since Julius Caesar,
Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
There saw you labouring for him. What was't
That mov'd pale Cassius to conspire; and what
Made the all-honour'd, honest Roman, Brutus,
With the arm'd rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,
To drench the Capitol, but that they would
Have one man but a man? And that is it
Hath made me rig my navy; at whose burden
The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant
To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome
Cast on my noble father.
CAESAR.
Take your time.
ANTONY.
Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;
We'll speak with thee at sea: at land thou know'st
How much we do o'er-count thee.
POMPEY.
At land, indeed,
Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house:
But, since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
Remain in't as thou mayst.
LEPIDUS.
Be pleas'd to tell us,--
For this is from the present,--how you take
The offers we have sent you.
CAESAR.
There's the point.
ANTONY.
Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
What it is worth embrac'd.
CAESAR.
And what may follow,
To try a larger fortune.
POMPEY.
You have made me offer
Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send
Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon,
To part with unhack'd edges and bear back
Our targes undinted.
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
That's our offer.
POMPEY.
Know, then,
I came before you here a man prepar'd
To take this offer: but Mark Antony
Put me to some impatience:--though I lose
The praise of it by telling, you must know,
When Caesar and your brother were at blows,
Your mother came to Sicily, and did find
Her welcome friendly.
ANTONY.
I have heard it, Pompey,
And am well studied for a liberal thanks
Which I do owe you.
POMPEY.
Let me have your hand:
I did not think, sir, to have met you here.
ANTONY.
The beds i' the East are soft; and, thanks to you,
That call'd me, timelier than my purpose, hither;
For I have gained by it.
CAESAR.
Since I saw you last
There is a change upon you.
POMPEY.
Well, I know not
What counts harsh fortune casts upon my face;
But in my bosom shall she never come
To make my heart her vassal.
LEPIDUS.
Well met here.
POMPEY.
I hope so, Lepidus.--Thus we are agreed:
I crave our composition may be written,
And seal'd between us.
CAESAR.
That's the next to do.
POMPEY.
We'll feast each other ere we part; and let's
Draw lots who shall begin.
ANTONY.
That will I, Pompey.
POMPEY.
No, Antony, take the lot: but, first
Or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
Grew fat with feasting there.
ANTONY.
You have heard much.
POMPEY.
I have fair meanings, sir.
ANTONY.
And fair words to them.
POMPEY.
Then so much have I heard;
And I have heard Apollodorus carried,--
ENOBARBUS.
No more of that:--he did so.
POMPEY.
What, I pray you?
ENOBARBUS.
A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.
POMPEY.
I know thee now: how far'st thou, soldier?
ENOBARBUS.
Well;
And well am like to do; for I perceive
Four feasts are toward.
POMPEY.
Let me shake thy hand;
I never hated thee: I have seen thee fight,
When I have envied thy behaviour.
ENOBARBUS.
Sir,
I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye
When you have well deserv'd ten times as much
As I have said you did.
POMPEY.
Enjoy thy plainness;
It nothing ill becomes thee.--
Aboard my galley I invite you all:
Will you lead, lords?
CAESAR, ANTONY, and LEPIDUS.
Show's the way, sir.
POMPEY.
Come.
[Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS.]
MENAS.
[Aside.] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this treaty.--
You and I have known, sir.
ENOBARBUS.
At sea, I think.
MENAS.
We have, sir.
ENOBARBUS.
You have done well by water.
MENAS.
And you by land.
ENOBARBUS.
I will praise any man that will praise me; though it cannot be
denied what I have done by land.
MENAS.
Nor what I have done by water.
ENOBARBUS.
Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you have been a
great thief by sea.
MENAS.
And you by land.
ENOBARBUS.
There I deny my land service. But give me your hand, Menas: if
our eyes had authority, here they might take two thieves kissing.
MENAS.
All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
ENOBARBUS.
But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
MENAS.
No slander; they steal hearts.
ENOBARBUS.
We came hither to fight with you.
MENAS.
For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking. Pompey doth
this day laugh away his fortune.
ENOBARBUS.
If he do, sure he cannot weep it back again.
MENAS.
You have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here: pray you,
is he married to Cleopatra?
ENOBARBUS.
Caesar's sister is called Octavia.
MENAS.
True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.
ENOBARBUS.
But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.
MENAS.
Pray you, sir?
ENOBARBUS.
'Tis true.
MENAS.
Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.
ENOBARBUS.
If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not prophesy so.
MENAS.
I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage than
the love of the parties.
ENOBARBUS.
I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems to tie
their friendship together will be the very strangler of their
amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.
MENAS.
Who would not have his wife so?
ENOBARBUS.
Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He will to
his Egyptian dish again: then shall the sighs of Octavia blow the
fire up in Caesar; and, as I said before, that which is the
strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of their
variance. Antony will use his affection where it is: he married
but his occasion here.
MENAS.
And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a health
for you.
ENOBARBUS.
I shall take it, sir: we have used our throats in Egypt.
MENAS.
Come, let's away.
[Exeunt.] | Before waging a war, Pompey and the triumvirs hold a meeting. Pompey tells Caesar, Lepidus, and Antony that he is fighting to avenge his father, whose defeat by Julius Caesar led him into Egypt, where he was killed. Antony informs Pompey that despite the latter's strength at sea, the triumvirs' army will prevail. The three offer Pompey rule over Sicily and Sardinia should he agree to rid the sea of pirates and to send payments of wheat to Rome as a tax. Pompey admits that he was ready to accept this offer until Antony offended him by refusing to acknowledge the hospitality he showed Antony's mother on her recent visit to Sicily. Antony assures Pompey that he intended to offer a gracious thanks, at which the men shake hands and make peace. Pompey invites the Romans aboard his ship for dinner, and the triumvirs join him. Enobarbus and Menas stay behind discussing their military careers, the current political situation, and Antony's marriage to Octavia. Enobarbus repeats that he is sure Antony will inevitably return to Egypt. After the talk, the two go to dinner |
CHAPTER IX
Can Music's voice, can Beauty's eye,
Can Painting's glowing hand supply
A charm so suited to my mind,
As blows this hollow gust of wind?
As drops this little weeping rill,
Soft tinkling down the moss-grown hill;
While, through the west, where sinks the crimson day,
Meek Twilight slowly sails, and waves her banners gray?
MASON
Emily, some time after her return to La Vallee, received letters from
her aunt, Madame Cheron, in which, after some common-place condolement
and advice, she invited her to Tholouse, and added, that, as her late
brother had entrusted Emily's EDUCATION to her, she should consider
herself bound to overlook her conduct. Emily, at this time, wished
only to remain at La Vallee, in the scenes of her early happiness, now
rendered infinitely dear to her, as the late residence of those, whom
she had lost for ever, where she could weep unobserved, retrace their
steps, and remember each minute particular of their manners. But she was
equally anxious to avoid the displeasure of Madame Cheron.
Though her affection would not suffer her to question, even a moment,
the propriety of St. Aubert's conduct in appointing Madame Cheron for
her guardian, she was sensible, that this step had made her happiness
depend, in a great degree, on the humour of her aunt. In her reply, she
begged permission to remain, at present, at La Vallee, mentioning the
extreme dejection of her spirits, and the necessity she felt for quiet
and retirement to restore them. These she knew were not to be found at
Madame Cheron's, whose inclinations led her into a life of dissipation,
which her ample fortune encouraged; and, having given her answer, she
felt somewhat more at ease.
In the first days of her affliction, she was visited by Monsieur
Barreaux, a sincere mourner for St. Aubert. 'I may well lament my
friend,' said he, 'for I shall never meet with his resemblance. If I
could have found such a man in what is called society, I should not have
left it.'
M. Barreaux's admiration of her father endeared him extremely to Emily,
whose heart found almost its first relief in conversing of her parents,
with a man, whom she so much revered, and who, though with such an
ungracious appearance, possessed to much goodness of heart and delicacy
of mind.
Several weeks passed away in quiet retirement, and Emily's affliction
began to soften into melancholy. She could bear to read the books she
had before read with her father; to sit in his chair in the library--to
watch the flowers his hand had planted--to awaken the tones of that
instrument his fingers had pressed, and sometimes even to play his
favourite air.
When her mind had recovered from the first shock of affliction,
perceiving the danger of yielding to indolence, and that activity alone
could restore its tone, she scrupulously endeavoured to pass all her
hours in employment. And it was now that she understood the full value
of the education she had received from St. Aubert, for in cultivating
her understanding he had secured her an asylum from indolence, without
recourse to dissipation, and rich and varied amusement and information,
independent of the society, from which her situation secluded her. Nor
were the good effects of this education confined to selfish advantages,
since, St. Aubert having nourished every amiable qualify of her heart,
it now expanded in benevolence to all around her, and taught her, when
she could not remove the misfortunes of others, at least to soften them
by sympathy and tenderness;--a benevolence that taught her to feel for
all, that could suffer.
Madame Cheron returned no answer to Emily's letter, who began to
hope, that she should be permitted to remain some time longer in her
retirement, and her mind had now so far recovered its strength, that she
ventured to view the scenes, which most powerfully recalled the images
of past times. Among these was the fishing-house; and, to indulge still
more the affectionate melancholy of the visit, she took thither her
lute, that she might again hear there the tones, to which St. Aubert and
her mother had so often delighted to listen. She went alone, and at that
still hour of the evening which is so soothing to fancy and to grief.
The last time she had been here she was in company with Monsieur and
Madame St. Aubert, a few days preceding that, on which the latter was
seized with a fatal illness. Now, when Emily again entered the woods,
that surrounded the building, they awakened so forcibly the memory of
former times, that her resolution yielded for a moment to excess of
grief. She stopped, leaned for support against a tree, and wept for some
minutes, before she had recovered herself sufficiently to proceed. The
little path, that led to the building, was overgrown with grass and the
flowers which St. Aubert had scattered carelessly along the border
were almost choked with weeds--the tall thistle--the fox-glove, and the
nettle. She often paused to look on the desolate spot, now so silent and
forsaken, and when, with a trembling hand, she opened the door of the
fishing-house, 'Ah!' said she, 'every thing--every thing remains as when
I left it last--left it with those who never must return!' She went to
a window, that overhung the rivulet, and, leaning over it, with her eyes
fixed on the current, was soon lost in melancholy reverie. The lute
she had brought lay forgotten beside her; the mournful sighing of the
breeze, as it waved the high pines above, and its softer whispers among
the osiers, that bowed upon the banks below, was a kind of music more
in unison with her feelings. It did not vibrate on the chords of
unhappy memory, but was soothing to the heart as the voice of Pity. She
continued to muse, unconscious of the gloom of evening, and that the
sun's last light trembled on the heights above, and would probably have
remained so much longer, if a sudden footstep, without the building,
had not alarmed her attention, and first made her recollect that she was
unprotected. In the next moment, a door opened, and a stranger appeared,
who stopped on perceiving Emily, and then began to apologize for his
intrusion. But Emily, at the sound of his voice, lost her fear in a
stronger emotion: its tones were familiar to her ear, and, though she
could not readily distinguish through the dusk the features of the
person who spoke, she felt a remembrance too strong to be distrusted.
He repeated his apology, and Emily then said something in reply, when
the stranger eagerly advancing, exclaimed, 'Good God! can it be--surely
I am not mistaken--ma'amselle St. Aubert?--is it not?'
'It is indeed,' said Emily, who was confirmed in her first conjecture,
for she now distinguished the countenance of Valancourt, lighted up with
still more than its usual animation. A thousand painful recollections
crowded to her mind, and the effort, which she made to support herself,
only served to increase her agitation. Valancourt, meanwhile, having
enquired anxiously after her health, and expressed his hopes, that M.
St. Aubert had found benefit from travelling, learned from the flood of
tears, which she could no longer repress, the fatal truth. He led her
to a seat, and sat down by her, while Emily continued to weep, and
Valancourt to hold the hand, which she was unconscious he had taken,
till it was wet with the tears, which grief for St. Aubert and sympathy
for herself had called forth.
'I feel,' said he at length, 'I feel how insufficient all attempt at
consolation must be on this subject. I can only mourn with you, for I
cannot doubt the source of your tears. Would to God I were mistaken!'
Emily could still answer only by tears, till she rose, and begged they
might leave the melancholy spot, when Valancourt, though he saw her
feebleness, could not offer to detain her, but took her arm within his,
and led her from the fishing-house. They walked silently through the
woods, Valancourt anxious to know, yet fearing to ask any particulars
concerning St. Aubert; and Emily too much distressed to converse.
After some time, however, she acquired fortitude enough to speak of her
father, and to give a brief account of the manner of his death; during
which recital Valancourt's countenance betrayed strong emotion, and,
when he heard that St. Aubert had died on the road, and that Emily
had been left among strangers, he pressed her hand between his, and
involuntarily exclaimed, 'Why was I not there!' but in the next moment
recollected himself, for he immediately returned to the mention of her
father; till, perceiving that her spirits were exhausted, he gradually
changed the subject, and spoke of himself. Emily thus learned that,
after they had parted, he had wandered, for some time, along the shores
of the Mediterranean, and had then returned through Languedoc into
Gascony, which was his native province, and where he usually resided.
When he had concluded his little narrative, he sunk into a silence,
which Emily was not disposed to interrupt, and it continued, till they
reached the gate of the chateau, when he stopped, as if he had known
this to be the limit of his walk. Here, saying, that it was his
intention to return to Estuviere on the following day, he asked her if
she would permit him to take leave of her in the morning; and Emily,
perceiving that she could not reject an ordinary civility, without
expressing by her refusal an expectation of something more, was
compelled to answer, that she should be at home.
She passed a melancholy evening, during which the retrospect of all
that had happened, since she had seen Valancourt, would rise to her
imagination; and the scene of her father's death appeared in tints
as fresh, as if it had passed on the preceding day. She remembered
particularly the earnest and solemn manner, in which he had required her
to destroy the manuscript papers, and, awakening from the lethargy,
in which sorrow had held her, she was shocked to think she had not yet
obeyed him, and determined, that another day should not reproach her
with the neglect. | There's a new sheriff in town, Emily, and it's Madame Cheron. The good Madame invites Emily to her estates in Tholouse, but Em hopes to put her off for as long as possible. Emily heads over to the old fishing-house to be mopey, and who should she run into but Valancourt. It's a total coincidence that he's wandering around near her house. Emily fills Valancourt in on what happened while he was off traipsing around the country. Valancourt says he's taking off the next day, but will Emily be around tomorrow morning? He sure would like to see her. Emily's down with that, but seeing Valancourt reminds her of her father's death. Time to burn those papers, girl. |
Chapter XLVI. The Son of Biscarrat.
The Bretons of the Isle were very proud of this victory; Aramis did not
encourage them in the feeling.
"What will happen," said he to Porthos, when everybody was gone home,
"will be that the anger of the king will be roused by the account of the
resistance; and that these brave people will be decimated or shot when
they are taken, which cannot fail to take place."
"From which it results, then," said Porthos, "that what we have done is
of not the slightest use."
"For the moment it may be," replied the bishop, "for we have a prisoner
from whom we shall learn what our enemies are preparing to do."
"Yes, let us interrogate the prisoner," said Porthos, "and the means of
making him speak are very simple. We are going to supper; we will invite
him to join us; as he drinks he will talk."
This was done. The officer was at first rather uneasy, but became
reassured on seeing what sort of men he had to deal with. He gave,
without having any fear of compromising himself, all the details
imaginable of the resignation and departure of D'Artagnan. He explained
how, after that departure, the new leader of the expedition had ordered
a surprise upon Belle-Isle. There his explanations stopped. Aramis
and Porthos exchanged a glance that evinced their despair. No more
dependence to be placed now on D'Artagnan's fertile imagination--no
further resource in the event of defeat. Aramis, continuing his
interrogations, asked the prisoner what the leaders of the expedition
contemplated doing with the leaders of Belle-Isle.
"The orders are," replied he, "to kill _during_ combat, or hang
_afterwards_."
Porthos and Aramis looked at each other again, and the color mounted to
their faces.
"I am too light for the gallows," replied Aramis; "people like me are
not hung."
"And I am too heavy," said Porthos; "people like me break the cord."
"I am sure," said the prisoner, gallantly, "that we could have
guaranteed you the exact kind of death you preferred."
"A thousand thanks!" said Aramis, seriously. Porthos bowed.
"One more cup of wine to your health," said he, drinking himself. From
one subject to another the chat with the officer was prolonged. He was
an intelligent gentleman, and suffered himself to be led on by the charm
of Aramis's wit and Porthos's cordial _bonhomie_.
"Pardon me," said he, "if I address a question to you; but men who are
in their sixth bottle have a clear right to forget themselves a little."
"Address it!" cried Porthos; "address it!"
"Speak," said Aramis.
"Were you not, gentlemen, both in the musketeers of the late king?"
"Yes, monsieur, and amongst the best of them, if you please," said
Porthos.
"That is true; I should say even the best of all soldiers, messieurs, if
I did not fear to offend the memory of my father."
"Of your father?" cried Aramis.
"Do you know what my name is?"
"_Ma foi!_ no, monsieur; but you can tell us, and--"
"I am called Georges de Biscarrat."
"Oh!" cried Porthos, in his turn. "Biscarrat! Do you remember that name,
Aramis?"
"Biscarrat!" reflected the bishop. "It seems to me--"
"Try to recollect, monsieur," said the officer.
"_Pardieu!_ that won't take me long," said Porthos. "Biscarrat--called
Cardinal--one of the four who interrupted us on the day on which we
formed our friendship with D'Artagnan, sword in hand."
"Precisely, gentlemen."
"The only one," cried Aramis, eagerly, "we could not scratch."
"Consequently, a capital blade?" said the prisoner.
"That's true! most true!" exclaimed both friends together. "_Ma foi!_
Monsieur Biscarrat, we are delighted to make the acquaintance of such a
brave man's son."
Biscarrat pressed the hands held out by the two musketeers. Aramis
looked at Porthos as much as to say, "Here is a man who will help us,"
and without delay,--"Confess, monsieur," said he, "that it is good to
have once been a good man."
"My father always said so, monsieur."
"Confess, likewise, that it is a sad circumstance in which you find
yourself, of falling in with men destined to be shot or hung, and
to learn that these men are old acquaintances, in fact, hereditary
friends."
"Oh! you are not reserved for such a frightful fate as that, messieurs
and friends!" said the young man, warmly.
"Bah! you said so yourself."
"I said so just now, when I did not know you; but now that I know you, I
say--you will evade this dismal fate, if you wish!"
"How--if we wish?" echoed Aramis, whose eyes beamed with intelligence as
he looked alternately at the prisoner and Porthos.
"Provided," continued Porthos, looking, in his turn, with noble
intrepidity, at M. Biscarrat and the bishop--"provided nothing
disgraceful be required of us."
"Nothing at all will be required of you, gentlemen," replied the
officer--"what should they ask of you? If they find you they will kill
you, that is a predetermined thing; try, then, gentlemen, to prevent
their finding you."
"I don't think I am mistaken," said Porthos, with dignity; "but it
appears evident to me that if they want to find us, they must come and
seek us here."
"In that you are perfectly right, my worthy friend," replied Aramis,
constantly consulting with his looks the countenance of Biscarrat, who
had grown silent and constrained. "You wish, Monsieur de Biscarrat, to
say something to us, to make us some overture, and you dare not--is that
true?"
"Ah! gentlemen and friends! it is because by speaking I betray the
watchword. But, hark! I hear a voice that frees mine by dominating it."
"Cannon!" said Porthos.
"Cannon and musketry, too!" cried the bishop.
On hearing at a distance, among the rocks, these sinister reports of a
combat which they thought had ceased:
"What can that be?" asked Porthos.
"Eh! _Pardieu!_" cried Aramis; "that is just what I expected."
"What is that?"
"That the attack made by you was nothing but a feint; is not that true,
monsieur? And whilst your companions allowed themselves to be repulsed,
you were certain of effecting a landing on the other side of the
island."
"Oh! several, monsieur."
"We are lost, then," said the bishop of Vannes, quietly.
"Lost! that is possible," replied the Seigneur de Pierrefonds, "but we
are not taken or hung." And so saying, he rose from the table, went to
the wall, and coolly took down his sword and pistols, which he examined
with the care of an old soldier who is preparing for battle, and who
feels that life, in a great measure, depends upon the excellence and
right conditions of his arms.
At the report of the cannon, at the news of the surprise which might
deliver up the island to the royal troops, the terrified crowd rushed
precipitately to the fort to demand assistance and advice from their
leaders. Aramis, pale and downcast, between two flambeaux, showed
himself at the window which looked into the principal court, full of
soldiers waiting for orders and bewildered inhabitants imploring succor.
"My friends," said D'Herblay, in a grave and sonorous voice, "M.
Fouquet, your protector, your friend, you father, has been arrested by
an order of the king, and thrown into the Bastile." A sustained yell of
vengeful fury came floating up to the window at which the bishop stood,
and enveloped him in a magnetic field.
"Avenge Monsieur Fouquet!" cried the most excited of his hearers, "death
to the royalists!"
"No, my friends," replied Aramis, solemnly; "no, my friends; no
resistance. The king is master in his kingdom. The king is the mandatory
of God. The king and God have struck M. Fouquet. Humble yourselves
before the hand of God. Love God and the king, who have struck M.
Fouquet. But do not avenge your seigneur, do not think of avenging him.
You would sacrifice yourselves in vain--you, your wives and children,
your property, your liberty. Lay down your arms, my friends--lay down
your arms! since the king commands you so to do--and retire peaceably to
your dwellings. It is I who ask you to do so; it is I who beg you to do
so; it is I who now, in the hour of need, command you to do so, in the
name of M. Fouquet."
The crowd collected under the window uttered a prolonged roar of anger
and terror. "The soldiers of Louis XIV. have reached the island,"
continued Aramis. "From this time it would no longer be a fight betwixt
them and you--it would be a massacre. Begone, then, begone, and forget;
this time I command you, in the name of the Lord of Hosts!"
The mutineers retired slowly, submissive, silent.
"Ah! what have you just been saying, my friend?" said Porthos.
"Monsieur," said Biscarrat to the bishop, "you may save all these
inhabitants, but thus you will neither save yourself nor your friend."
"Monsieur de Biscarrat," said the bishop of Vannes, with a singular
accent of nobility and courtesy, "Monsieur de Biscarrat, be kind enough
to resume your liberty."
"I am very willing to do so, monsieur; but--"
"That would render us a service, for when announcing to the king's
lieutenant the submission of the islanders, you will perhaps obtain some
grace for us on informing him of the manner in which that submission has
been effected."
"Grace!" replied Porthos with flashing eyes, "what is the meaning of
that word?"
Aramis touched the elbow of his friend roughly, as he had been
accustomed to do in the days of their youth, when he wanted to warn
Porthos that he had committed, or was about to commit, a blunder.
Porthos understood him, and was silent immediately.
"I will go, messieurs," replied Biscarrat, a little surprised likewise
at the word "grace" pronounced by the haughty musketeer, of and to whom,
but a few minutes before, he had related with so much enthusiasm the
heroic exploits with which his father had delighted him.
"Go, then, Monsieur Biscarrat," said Aramis, bowing to him, "and at
parting receive the expression of our entire gratitude."
"But you, messieurs, you whom I think it an honor to call my friends,
since you have been willing to accept that title, what will become of
you in the meantime?" replied the officer, very much agitated at taking
leave of the two ancient adversaries of his father.
"We will wait here."
"But, _mon Dieu!_--the order is precise and formal."
"I am bishop of Vannes, Monsieur de Biscarrat; and they no more shoot a
bishop than they hang a gentleman."
"Ah! yes, monsieur--yes, monseigneur," replied Biscarrat; "it is true,
you are right, there is still that chance for you. Then, I will depart,
I will repair to the commander of the expedition, the king's lieutenant.
Adieu! then, messieurs, or rather, to meet again, I hope."
The worthy officer, jumping upon a horse given him by Aramis, departed
in the direction of the sound of cannon, which, by surging the crowd
into the fort, had interrupted the conversation of the two friends with
their prisoner. Aramis watched the departure, and when left alone with
Porthos:
"Well, do you comprehend?" said he.
"_Ma foi!_ no."
"Did not Biscarrat inconvenience you here?"
"No; he is a brave fellow."
"Yes; but the grotto of Locmaria--is it necessary all the world should
know it?"
"Ah! that is true, that is true; I comprehend. We are going to escape by
the cavern."
"If you please," cried Aramis, gayly. "Forward, friend Porthos; our boat
awaits us. King Louis has not caught us--_yet_." | Aramis and Porthos hope to question their prisoner and learn of their enemy's plans. Porthos suggests inviting the man to supper and giving him lots of alcohol. The prisoner is nervous at first as he tells them that the plan is for killing during the fighting, and, if taken alive, for a hanging afterwards. By the sixth bottle of wine, the prisoner begs permission to ask a question. He asks if Porthos and Aramis were once Musketeers in the King's service. He tells them his name is Biscarrat. The name rings a bell with Porthos and Aramis. It turns out that their prisoner is the son of a man named Biscarrat, one of the four swordsmen who attacked the musketeers on the day they formed their friendship with D'Artagnan. Aramis remembers Biscarrat to be the only one of their enemies who they did not wound. Porthos and Aramis are pleased to meet Biscarrat. They shake hands warmly. Aramis immediately thinks of ways he can put this friendship to use. The noise of gunfire rings through the night. Aramis cries in horror, realizing that the previous battle was nothing more than an attempt to give men on the other side of the island time to land. Porthos begins cleaning and preparing his weapons. A terrified crowd rushes into the fort seeking guidance. Their allegiance is to Fouquet rather than to the King, and Aramis finally tells them all that Fouquet has been taken arrested. Although the crowd is determined to resist the royalists, Aramis counsels them all to surrender and obey the King. He commands them to do so in the name of their former master. The crowd isn't happy, but they listen to Aramis. Biscarrat tells Aramis that he may have saved the inhabitants of the isle, but that the lives of him and Porthos are still at stake. Aramis releases Biscarrat and gives him a horse so he can return to his comrades. Aramis and Porthos head for the grotto of Locmaria. It is their final chance to escape. |
SCENE III.
Rome. The Forum
Enter seven or eight citizens
FIRST CITIZEN. Once, if he do require our voices, we ought not
to
deny him.
SECOND CITIZEN. We may, sir, if we will.
THIRD CITIZEN. We have power in ourselves to do it, but it is a
power that we have no power to do; for if he show us his
wounds
and tell us his deeds, we are to put our tongues into those
wounds and speak for them; so, if he tell us his noble deeds,
we
must also tell him our noble acceptance of them. Ingratitude
is
monstrous, and for the multitude to be ingrateful were to
make a
monster of the multitude; of the which we being members
should
bring ourselves to be monstrous members.
FIRST CITIZEN. And to make us no better thought of, a little
help
will serve; for once we stood up about the corn, he himself
stuck
not to call us the many-headed multitude.
THIRD CITIZEN. We have been call'd so of many; not that our
heads
are some brown, some black, some auburn, some bald, but that
our
wits are so diversely colour'd; and truly I think if all our
wits
were to issue out of one skull, they would fly east, west,
north,
south, and their consent of one direct way should be at once
to
all the points o' th' compass.
SECOND CITIZEN. Think you so? Which way do you judge my wit
would
fly?
THIRD CITIZEN. Nay, your wit will not so soon out as another
man's
will- 'tis strongly wedg'd up in a block-head; but if it were
at
liberty 'twould sure southward.
SECOND CITIZEN. Why that way?
THIRD CITIZEN. To lose itself in a fog; where being three parts
melted away with rotten dews, the fourth would return for
conscience' sake, to help to get thee a wife.
SECOND CITIZEN. You are never without your tricks; you may, you
may.
THIRD CITIZEN. Are you all resolv'd to give your voices? But
that's
no matter, the greater part carries it. I say, if he would
incline to the people, there was never a worthier man.
Enter CORIOLANUS, in a gown of humility,
with MENENIUS
Here he comes, and in the gown of humility. Mark his
behaviour.
We are not to stay all together, but to come by him where he
stands, by ones, by twos, and by threes. He's to make his
requests by particulars, wherein every one of us has a single
honour, in giving him our own voices with our own tongues;
therefore follow me, and I'll direct you how you shall go by
him.
ALL. Content, content. Exeunt citizens
MENENIUS. O sir, you are not right; have you not known
The worthiest men have done't?
CORIOLANUS. What must I say?
'I pray, sir'- Plague upon't! I cannot bring
My tongue to such a pace. 'Look, sir, my wounds
I got them in my country's service, when
Some certain of your brethren roar'd and ran
From th' noise of our own drums.'
MENENIUS. O me, the gods!
You must not speak of that. You must desire them
To think upon you.
CORIOLANUS. Think upon me? Hang 'em!
I would they would forget me, like the virtues
Which our divines lose by 'em.
MENENIUS. You'll mar all.
I'll leave you. Pray you speak to 'em, I pray you,
In wholesome manner. Exit
Re-enter three of the citizens
CORIOLANUS. Bid them wash their faces
And keep their teeth clean. So, here comes a brace.
You know the cause, sir, of my standing here.
THIRD CITIZEN. We do, sir; tell us what hath brought you to't.
CORIOLANUS. Mine own desert.
SECOND CITIZEN. Your own desert?
CORIOLANUS. Ay, not mine own desire.
THIRD CITIZEN. How, not your own desire?
CORIOLANUS. No, sir, 'twas never my desire yet to trouble the
poor
with begging.
THIRD CITIZEN. You must think, if we give you anything, we hope
to
gain by you.
CORIOLANUS. Well then, I pray, your price o' th' consulship?
FIRST CITIZEN. The price is to ask it kindly.
CORIOLANUS. Kindly, sir, I pray let me ha't. I have wounds to
show
you, which shall be yours in private. Your good voice, sir;
what
say you?
SECOND CITIZEN. You shall ha' it, worthy sir.
CORIOLANUS. A match, sir. There's in all two worthy voices
begg'd.
I have your alms. Adieu.
THIRD CITIZEN. But this is something odd.
SECOND CITIZEN. An 'twere to give again- but 'tis no matter.
Exeunt the three citizens
Re-enter two other citizens
CORIOLANUS. Pray you now, if it may stand with the tune of your
voices that I may be consul, I have here the customary gown.
FOURTH CITIZEN. You have deserved nobly of your country, and
you
have not deserved nobly.
CORIOLANUS. Your enigma?
FOURTH CITIZEN. You have been a scourge to her enemies; you
have
been a rod to her friends. You have not indeed loved the
common
people.
CORIOLANUS. You should account me the more virtuous, that I
have
not been common in my love. I will, sir, flatter my sworn
brother, the people, to earn a dearer estimation of them;
'tis a
condition they account gentle; and since the wisdom of their
choice is rather to have my hat than my heart, I will
practise
the insinuating nod and be off to them most counterfeitly.
That
is, sir, I will counterfeit the bewitchment of some popular
man
and give it bountiful to the desirers. Therefore, beseech you
I
may be consul.
FIFTH CITIZEN. We hope to find you our friend; and therefore
give
you our voices heartily.
FOURTH CITIZEN. You have received many wounds for your country.
CORIOLANUS. I will not seal your knowledge with showing them. I
will make much of your voices, and so trouble you no farther.
BOTH CITIZENS. The gods give you joy, sir, heartily!
Exeunt citizens
CORIOLANUS. Most sweet voices!
Better it is to die, better to starve,
Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.
Why in this wolvish toge should I stand here
To beg of Hob and Dick that do appear
Their needless vouches? Custom calls me to't.
What custom wills, in all things should we do't,
The dust on antique time would lie unswept,
And mountainous error be too highly heap'd
For truth to o'erpeer. Rather than fool it so,
Let the high office and the honour go
To one that would do thus. I am half through:
The one part suffered, the other will I do.
Re-enter three citizens more
Here come more voices.
Your voices. For your voices I have fought;
Watch'd for your voices; for your voices bear
Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six
I have seen and heard of; for your voices have
Done many things, some less, some more. Your voices?
Indeed, I would be consul.
SIXTH CITIZEN. He has done nobly, and cannot go without any
honest
man's voice.
SEVENTH CITIZEN. Therefore let him be consul. The gods give him
joy, and make him good friend to the people!
ALL. Amen, amen. God save thee, noble consul!
Exeunt citizens
CORIOLANUS. Worthy voices!
Re-enter MENENIUS with BRUTUS and SICINIUS
MENENIUS. You have stood your limitation, and the tribunes
Endue you with the people's voice. Remains
That, in th' official marks invested, you
Anon do meet the Senate.
CORIOLANUS. Is this done?
SICINIUS. The custom of request you have discharg'd.
The people do admit you, and are summon'd
To meet anon, upon your approbation.
CORIOLANUS. Where? At the Senate House?
SICINIUS. There, Coriolanus.
CORIOLANUS. May I change these garments?
SICINIUS. You may, sir.
CORIOLANUS. That I'll straight do, and, knowing myself again,
Repair to th' Senate House.
MENENIUS. I'll keep you company. Will you along?
BRUTUS. We stay here for the people.
SICINIUS. Fare you well.
Exeunt CORIOLANUS and MENENIUS
He has it now; and by his looks methinks
'Tis warm at's heart.
BRUTUS. With a proud heart he wore
His humble weeds. Will you dismiss the people?
Re-enter citizens
SICINIUS. How now, my masters! Have you chose this man?
FIRST CITIZEN. He has our voices, sir.
BRUTUS. We pray the gods he may deserve your loves.
SECOND CITIZEN. Amen, sir. To my poor unworthy notice,
He mock'd us when he begg'd our voices.
THIRD CITIZEN. Certainly;
He flouted us downright.
FIRST CITIZEN. No, 'tis his kind of speech- he did not mock us.
SECOND CITIZEN. Not one amongst us, save yourself, but says
He us'd us scornfully. He should have show'd us
His marks of merit, wounds receiv'd for's country.
SICINIUS. Why, so he did, I am sure.
ALL. No, no; no man saw 'em.
THIRD CITIZEN. He said he had wounds which he could show in
private,
And with his hat, thus waving it in scorn,
'I would be consul,' says he; 'aged custom
But by your voices will not so permit me;
Your voices therefore.' When we granted that,
Here was 'I thank you for your voices. Thank you,
Your most sweet voices. Now you have left your voices,
I have no further with you.' Was not this mockery?
SICINIUS. Why either were you ignorant to see't,
Or, seeing it, of such childish friendliness
To yield your voices?
BRUTUS. Could you not have told him-
As you were lesson'd- when he had no power
But was a petty servant to the state,
He was your enemy; ever spake against
Your liberties and the charters that you bear
I' th' body of the weal; and now, arriving
A place of potency and sway o' th' state,
If he should still malignantly remain
Fast foe to th' plebeii, your voices might
Be curses to yourselves? You should have said
That as his worthy deeds did claim no less
Than what he stood for, so his gracious nature
Would think upon you for your voices, and
Translate his malice towards you into love,
Standing your friendly lord.
SICINIUS. Thus to have said,
As you were fore-advis'd, had touch'd his spirit
And tried his inclination; from him pluck'd
Either his gracious promise, which you might,
As cause had call'd you up, have held him to;
Or else it would have gall'd his surly nature,
Which easily endures not article
Tying him to aught. So, putting him to rage,
You should have ta'en th' advantage of his choler
And pass'd him unelected.
BRUTUS. Did you perceive
He did solicit you in free contempt
When he did need your loves; and do you think
That his contempt shall not be bruising to you
When he hath power to crush? Why, had your bodies
No heart among you? Or had you tongues to cry
Against the rectorship of judgment?
SICINIUS. Have you
Ere now denied the asker, and now again,
Of him that did not ask but mock, bestow
Your su'd-for tongues?
THIRD CITIZEN. He's not confirm'd: we may deny him yet.
SECOND CITIZENS. And will deny him;
I'll have five hundred voices of that sound.
FIRST CITIZEN. I twice five hundred, and their friends to piece
'em.
BRUTUS. Get you hence instantly, and tell those friends
They have chose a consul that will from them take
Their liberties, make them of no more voice
Than dogs, that are as often beat for barking
As therefore kept to do so.
SICINIUS. Let them assemble;
And, on a safer judgment, all revoke
Your ignorant election. Enforce his pride
And his old hate unto you; besides, forget not
With what contempt he wore the humble weed;
How in his suit he scorn'd you; but your loves,
Thinking upon his services, took from you
Th' apprehension of his present portance,
Which, most gibingly, ungravely, he did fashion
After the inveterate hate he bears you.
BRUTUS. Lay
A fault on us, your tribunes, that we labour'd,
No impediment between, but that you must
Cast your election on him.
SICINIUS. Say you chose him
More after our commandment than as guided
By your own true affections; and that your minds,
Pre-occupied with what you rather must do
Than what you should, made you against the grain
To voice him consul. Lay the fault on us.
BRUTUS. Ay, spare us not. Say we read lectures to you,
How youngly he began to serve his country,
How long continued; and what stock he springs of-
The noble house o' th' Marcians; from whence came
That Ancus Marcius, Numa's daughter's son,
Who, after great Hostilius, here was king;
Of the same house Publius and Quintus were,
That our best water brought by conduits hither;
And Censorinus, nobly named so,
Twice being by the people chosen censor,
Was his great ancestor.
SICINIUS. One thus descended,
That hath beside well in his person wrought
To be set high in place, we did commend
To your remembrances; but you have found,
Scaling his present bearing with his past,
That he's your fixed enemy, and revoke
Your sudden approbation.
BRUTUS. Say you ne'er had done't-
Harp on that still- but by our putting on;
And presently, when you have drawn your number,
Repair to th' Capitol.
CITIZENS. We will so; almost all
Repent in their election. Exeunt plebeians
BRUTUS. Let them go on;
This mutiny were better put in hazard
Than stay, past doubt, for greater.
If, as his nature is, he fall in rage
With their refusal, both observe and answer
The vantage of his anger.
SICINIUS. To th' Capitol, come.
We will be there before the stream o' th' people;
And this shall seem, as partly 'tis, their own,
Which we have goaded onward. Exeunt | Scene three opens in the market place where the citizens gather to meet Coriolanus. The conversation prior to the entrance of Coriolanus provides us with a glimpse of the public opinion. A discussion among the citizens reveals the discontent which Coriolanus provokes among the commoners. Although they admire him, they do not think he has their best interests in mind. This leads to general comments about the patricians, all of whom appear self-serving and disdainful towards them. Menenius arrives with Coriolanus, who is wearing a gown of humility and has come to solicit the citizens votes by displaying his wounds. Coriolanus continues to complain to Menenius about the formalities, saying that he would rather mock the cowardice of the commoners who retreated in the war than falsely flatter; but he promises Menenius that he will be on his best behavior, hiding his true feelings. When Menenius leaves, Coriolanus attempts to ingratiate himself to the commoners and beg for their votes, but most of his comments sound condescending and reveal his distaste for them. When Coriolanus is finally left alone, he enters into his first soliloquy in the play. He reflects that it is better to die than to solicit votes from the commoners and wear this wolvish toge. He consoles himself that only half of the ordeal remains. As other commoners enter, Coriolanus sarcastically solicits their votes. Finally Menenius enters with the tribunes; they announce that Coriolanus has gained the votes of all the citizens and says that now they can go to the Senate to complete the proceedings. Coriolanus says that he wants to change his garments before going to the Senate, and Menenius offers to go with him. The two tribunes are left alone to discuss the results of the vote. When the citizens re-enter, they inform the tribunes that Coriolanus has gained their votes, but that public opinion has already started turning against him. As the citizens begin to recount their encounters with Coriolanus and his disdainful comments to them, a general dismay about him is revealed. Sicinius cleverly expresses disbelief over his behavior, which serves to further excite the commoners. Sicinius and Brutus then both emphasize Coriolanus excessive pride. Before long, the crowd has totally reversed its opinion of Coriolanus, and the two tribunes again reveal their insidious power play by begging the commoners to blame their decision to vote for him on them. The commoners now call Coriolanus their chief enemy; wanting to revoke their vote, they set off for the Capitol. When the tribunes are again alone, Brutus comments that it is better for the citizens to rebel now than later. They also predict that Coriolanus will surely fly into a fit of anger when he learns that the citizens have changed their minds. The two men leave for the Capitol to witness Coriolanus next public outrage. |
It was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in
another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example. But when
the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved
presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then Jo
found her promise very hard to keep. How could she 'comfort Father and
Mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her
sister, how could she 'make the house cheerful' when all its light and
warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when Beth left the old
home for the new, and where in all the world could she 'find some
useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving
service which had been its own reward? She tried in a blind, hopeless
way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it
seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made
heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along. Some
people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow. It was not
fair, for she tried more than Amy to be good, but never got any reward,
only disappointment, trouble and hard work.
Poor Jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came
over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house,
devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that
never seemed to grow any easier. "I can't do it. I wasn't meant for a
life like this, and I know I shall break away and do something
desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself,
when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable
state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the
inevitable.
But someone did come and help her, though Jo did not recognize her good
angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple
spells best fitted to poor humanity. Often she started up at night,
thinking Beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed
made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, "Oh, Beth,
come back! Come back!" she did not stretch out her yearning arms in
vain. For, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her
sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with
words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears
that were mute reminders of a greater grief than Jo's, and broken
whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went
hand-in-hand with natural sorrow. Sacred moments, when heart talked to
heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing,
which chastened grief and strengthened love. Feeling this, Jo's burden
seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more
endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
When aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found
help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray
head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly,
"Father, talk to me as you did to Beth. I need it more than she did,
for I'm all wrong."
"My dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter
in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and
did not fear to ask for it.
Then, sitting in Beth's little chair close beside him, Jo told her
troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that
discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all
the sad bewilderment which we call despair. She gave him entire
confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation
in the act. For the time had come when they could talk together not
only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to
serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love. Happy,
thoughtful times there in the old study which Jo called 'the church of
one member', and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered
cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit. For the parents who had
taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach
another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its
beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
Other helps had Jo--humble, wholesome duties and delights that would
not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned
to see and value. Brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful
as they once had been, for Beth had presided over both, and something
of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and
the old brush, never thrown away. As she used them, Jo found herself
humming the songs Beth used to hum, imitating Beth's orderly ways, and
giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and
cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she
didn't know it till Hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand...
"You thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that dear
lamb ef you can help it. We don't say much, but we see it, and the
Lord will bless you for't, see ef He don't."
As they sat sewing together, Jo discovered how much improved her sister
Meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly
impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and
children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
"Marriage is an excellent thing, after all. I wonder if I should
blossom out half as well as you have, if I tried it?, always
_'perwisin'_ I could," said Jo, as she constructed a kite for Demi in
the topsy-turvy nursery.
"It's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your
nature, Jo. You are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but
silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it. Love
will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will
fall off."
"Frost opens chestnut burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring
them down. Boys go nutting, and I don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned Jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would
ever carry up, for Daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
Meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of Jo's old spirit, but
she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her
power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of
Meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom Jo loved tenderly.
Grief is the best opener of some hearts, and Jo's was nearly ready for
the bag. A little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's
impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the
burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet. If she suspected this, she
would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately
she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she
dropped.
Now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at
this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the
world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in
her pocket. But, you see, Jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a
struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out
her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood
suggested. It's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do
it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all
together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way. Jo
had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if
she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing! She
had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard,
and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to
devote her life to Father and Mother, trying to make home as happy to
them as they had to her? And if difficulties were necessary to
increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a
restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and
desires, and cheerfully live for others?
Providence had taken her at her word. Here was the task, not what she
had expected, but better because self had no part in it. Now, could she
do it? She decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she
found the helps I have suggested. Still another was given her, and she
took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as Christian took the
refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed
the hill called Difficulty.
"Why don't you write? That always used to make you happy," said her
mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed Jo.
"I've no heart to write, and if I had, nobody cares for my things."
"We do. Write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
Try it, dear. I'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."
"Don't believe I can." But Jo got out her desk and began to overhaul
her half-finished manuscripts.
An hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching
away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which
caused Mrs. March to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success
of her suggestion. Jo never knew how it happened, but something got
into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it,
for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it,
much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her
utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested.
Letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the
appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as
well as friends admired it. For a small thing it was a great success,
and Jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and
condemned all at once.
"I don't understand it. What can there be in a simple little story
like that to make people praise it so?" she said, quite bewildered.
"There is truth in it, Jo, that's the secret. Humor and pathos make it
alive, and you have found your style at last. You wrote with no
thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.
You have had the bitter, now comes the sweet. Do your best, and grow
as happy as we are in your success."
"If there is anything good or true in what I write, it isn't mine. I
owe it all to you and Mother and Beth," said Jo, more touched by her
father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
So taught by love and sorrow, Jo wrote her little stories, and sent
them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very
charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly
welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like
dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
When Amy and Laurie wrote of their engagement, Mrs. March feared that
Jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon
set at rest, for though Jo looked grave at first, she took it very
quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for 'the children' before she
read the letter twice. It was a sort of written duet, wherein each
glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and
satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.
"You like it, Mother?" said Jo, as they laid down the closely written
sheets and looked at one another.
"Yes, I hoped it would be so, ever since Amy wrote that she had refused
Fred. I felt sure then that something better than what you call the
'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her
letters made me suspect that love and Laurie would win the day."
"How sharp you are, Marmee, and how silent! You never said a word to
me."
"Mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have
girls to manage. I was half afraid to put the idea into your head,
lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was
settled."
"I'm not the scatterbrain I was. You may trust me. I'm sober and
sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."
"So you are, my dear, and I should have made you mine, only I fancied
it might pain you to learn that your Teddy loved someone else."
"Now, Mother, did you really think I could be so silly and selfish,
after I'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"
"I knew you were sincere then, Jo, but lately I have thought that if he
came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another
answer. Forgive me, dear, I can't help seeing that you are very
lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to
my heart. So I fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he
tried now."
"No, Mother, it is better as it is, and I'm glad Amy has learned to
love him. But you are right in one thing. I am lonely, and perhaps if
Teddy had tried again, I might have said 'Yes', not because I love him
any more, but because I care more to be loved than when he went away."
"I'm glad of that, Jo, for it shows that you are getting on. There are
plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with Father and Mother,
sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all
comes to give you your reward."
"Mothers are the best lovers in the world, but I don't mind whispering
to Marmee that I'd like to try all kinds. It's very curious, but the
more I try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the
more I seem to want. I'd no idea hearts could take in so many. Mine
is so elastic, it never seems full now, and I used to be quite
contented with my family. I don't understand it."
"I do," and Mrs. March smiled her wise smile, as Jo turned back the
leaves to read what Amy said of Laurie.
"It is so beautiful to be loved as Laurie loves me. He isn't
sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but I see and feel it in all he
says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that I don't seem
to be the same girl I was. I never knew how good and generous and
tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and I find it
full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know
it's mine. He says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage
now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'. I pray he
may, and try to be all he believes me, for I love my gallant captain
with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while
God lets us be together. Oh, Mother, I never knew how much like heaven
this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!"
"And that's our cool, reserved, and worldly Amy! Truly, love does work
miracles. How very, very happy they must be!" and Jo laid the rustling
sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a
lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he
finds himself alone in the workaday world again.
By-and-by Jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not
walk. A restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again,
not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one
sister should have all she asked, the other nothing. It was not true,
she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for
affection was strong, and Amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for
someone to 'love with heart and soul, and cling to while God let them
be together'. Up in the garret, where Jo's unquiet wanderings ended
stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners
name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended
now for all. Jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own,
leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic
collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye. She
drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at
kind Mrs. Kirke's. She had smiled at first, then she looked
thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in
the Professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of
her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new
meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.
"Wait for me, my friend. I may be a little late, but I shall surely
come."
"Oh, if he only would! So kind, so good, so patient with me always, my
dear old Fritz. I didn't value him half enough when I had him, but now
how I should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me,
and I'm all alone."
And holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be
fulfilled, Jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried,
as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
Was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits? Or was it the waking
up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its
inspirer? Who shall say? | Jo had promised Beth that she would take her place in being a comfort to their parents and in helping to keep the home running smoothly. However, she finds that it is more of a burden than she can handle with Beth gone. She and Marmee consol each other, and Jo finds some relief in the household chores that once had been Beth's. Seeing her loneliness and despair, Marmee urges Jo to take up her writing again. Jo does so hesitantly, but her first story is enthusiastically accepted and more requested. Jo receives word that Laurie and Amy are engaged. Jo is happy for them both but still feels lonely and unhappy for herself. She wanders into the garret where mementoes of their past are stored. There she comes across her old workbooks and a note from Frizt saying that he will be coming. Jo wishes he would come for she feels like everyone is going away from her and she would love to see her dear old friend. |
Promptly at seven the next morning Jurgis reported for work. He came
to the door that had been pointed out to him, and there he waited for
nearly two hours. The boss had meant for him to enter, but had not said
this, and so it was only when on his way out to hire another man that
he came upon Jurgis. He gave him a good cursing, but as Jurgis did not
understand a word of it he did not object. He followed the boss, who
showed him where to put his street clothes, and waited while he donned
the working clothes he had bought in a secondhand shop and brought with
him in a bundle; then he led him to the "killing beds." The work which
Jurgis was to do here was very simple, and it took him but a few minutes
to learn it. He was provided with a stiff besom, such as is used by
street sweepers, and it was his place to follow down the line the man
who drew out the smoking entrails from the carcass of the steer; this
mass was to be swept into a trap, which was then closed, so that no one
might slip into it. As Jurgis came in, the first cattle of the morning
were just making their appearance; and so, with scarcely time to look
about him, and none to speak to any one, he fell to work. It was a
sweltering day in July, and the place ran with steaming hot blood--one
waded in it on the floor. The stench was almost overpowering, but to
Jurgis it was nothing. His whole soul was dancing with joy--he was at
work at last! He was at work and earning money! All day long he was
figuring to himself. He was paid the fabulous sum of seventeen and a
half cents an hour; and as it proved a rush day and he worked until
nearly seven o'clock in the evening, he went home to the family with
the tidings that he had earned more than a dollar and a half in a single
day!
At home, also, there was more good news; so much of it at once that
there was quite a celebration in Aniele's hall bedroom. Jonas had been
to have an interview with the special policeman to whom Szedvilas had
introduced him, and had been taken to see several of the bosses, with
the result that one had promised him a job the beginning of the next
week. And then there was Marija Berczynskas, who, fired with jealousy by
the success of Jurgis, had set out upon her own responsibility to get a
place. Marija had nothing to take with her save her two brawny arms
and the word "job," laboriously learned; but with these she had marched
about Packingtown all day, entering every door where there were signs of
activity. Out of some she had been ordered with curses; but Marija was
not afraid of man or devil, and asked every one she saw--visitors and
strangers, or work-people like herself, and once or twice even high and
lofty office personages, who stared at her as if they thought she was
crazy. In the end, however, she had reaped her reward. In one of the
smaller plants she had stumbled upon a room where scores of women and
girls were sitting at long tables preparing smoked beef in cans; and
wandering through room after room, Marija came at last to the place
where the sealed cans were being painted and labeled, and here she had
the good fortune to encounter the "forelady." Marija did not understand
then, as she was destined to understand later, what there was attractive
to a "forelady" about the combination of a face full of boundless good
nature and the muscles of a dray horse; but the woman had told her to
come the next day and she would perhaps give her a chance to learn the
trade of painting cans. The painting of cans being skilled piecework,
and paying as much as two dollars a day, Marija burst in upon the family
with the yell of a Comanche Indian, and fell to capering about the room
so as to frighten the baby almost into convulsions.
Better luck than all this could hardly have been hoped for; there was
only one of them left to seek a place. Jurgis was determined that Teta
Elzbieta should stay at home to keep house, and that Ona should help
her. He would not have Ona working--he was not that sort of a man, he
said, and she was not that sort of a woman. It would be a strange thing
if a man like him could not support the family, with the help of
the board of Jonas and Marija. He would not even hear of letting the
children go to work--there were schools here in America for children,
Jurgis had heard, to which they could go for nothing. That the priest
would object to these schools was something of which he had as yet no
idea, and for the present his mind was made up that the children of Teta
Elzbieta should have as fair a chance as any other children. The oldest
of them, little Stanislovas, was but thirteen, and small for his age
at that; and while the oldest son of Szedvilas was only twelve, and had
worked for over a year at Jones's, Jurgis would have it that Stanislovas
should learn to speak English, and grow up to be a skilled man.
So there was only old Dede Antanas; Jurgis would have had him rest
too, but he was forced to acknowledge that this was not possible, and,
besides, the old man would not hear it spoken of--it was his whim to
insist that he was as lively as any boy. He had come to America as
full of hope as the best of them; and now he was the chief problem that
worried his son. For every one that Jurgis spoke to assured him that it
was a waste of time to seek employment for the old man in Packingtown.
Szedvilas told him that the packers did not even keep the men who had
grown old in their own service--to say nothing of taking on new ones.
And not only was it the rule here, it was the rule everywhere in
America, so far as he knew. To satisfy Jurgis he had asked the
policeman, and brought back the message that the thing was not to be
thought of. They had not told this to old Anthony, who had consequently
spent the two days wandering about from one part of the yards to
another, and had now come home to hear about the triumph of the others,
smiling bravely and saying that it would be his turn another day.
Their good luck, they felt, had given them the right to think about a
home; and sitting out on the doorstep that summer evening, they held
consultation about it, and Jurgis took occasion to broach a weighty
subject. Passing down the avenue to work that morning he had seen two
boys leaving an advertisement from house to house; and seeing that there
were pictures upon it, Jurgis had asked for one, and had rolled it up
and tucked it into his shirt. At noontime a man with whom he had been
talking had read it to him and told him a little about it, with the
result that Jurgis had conceived a wild idea.
He brought out the placard, which was quite a work of art. It was nearly
two feet long, printed on calendered paper, with a selection of colors
so bright that they shone even in the moonlight. The center of the
placard was occupied by a house, brilliantly painted, new, and dazzling.
The roof of it was of a purple hue, and trimmed with gold; the house
itself was silvery, and the doors and windows red. It was a two-story
building, with a porch in front, and a very fancy scrollwork around the
edges; it was complete in every tiniest detail, even the doorknob, and
there was a hammock on the porch and white lace curtains in the windows.
Underneath this, in one corner, was a picture of a husband and wife
in loving embrace; in the opposite corner was a cradle, with
fluffy curtains drawn over it, and a smiling cherub hovering upon
silver-colored wings. For fear that the significance of all this should
be lost, there was a label, in Polish, Lithuanian, and German--"Dom.
Namai. Heim." "Why pay rent?" the linguistic circular went on to demand.
"Why not own your own home? Do you know that you can buy one for less
than your rent? We have built thousands of homes which are now occupied
by happy families."--So it became eloquent, picturing the blissfulness
of married life in a house with nothing to pay. It even quoted "Home,
Sweet Home," and made bold to translate it into Polish--though for some
reason it omitted the Lithuanian of this. Perhaps the translator found
it a difficult matter to be sentimental in a language in which a sob is
known as a gukcziojimas and a smile as a nusiszypsojimas.
Over this document the family pored long, while Ona spelled out its
contents. It appeared that this house contained four rooms, besides a
basement, and that it might be bought for fifteen hundred dollars, the
lot and all. Of this, only three hundred dollars had to be paid down,
the balance being paid at the rate of twelve dollars a month. These were
frightful sums, but then they were in America, where people talked about
such without fear. They had learned that they would have to pay a
rent of nine dollars a month for a flat, and there was no way of doing
better, unless the family of twelve was to exist in one or two rooms, as
at present. If they paid rent, of course, they might pay forever, and be
no better off; whereas, if they could only meet the extra expense in the
beginning, there would at last come a time when they would not have any
rent to pay for the rest of their lives.
They figured it up. There was a little left of the money belonging to
Teta Elzbieta, and there was a little left to Jurgis. Marija had about
fifty dollars pinned up somewhere in her stockings, and Grandfather
Anthony had part of the money he had gotten for his farm. If they all
combined, they would have enough to make the first payment; and if
they had employment, so that they could be sure of the future, it might
really prove the best plan. It was, of course, not a thing even to be
talked of lightly; it was a thing they would have to sift to the bottom.
And yet, on the other hand, if they were going to make the venture, the
sooner they did it the better, for were they not paying rent all the
time, and living in a most horrible way besides? Jurgis was used to
dirt--there was nothing could scare a man who had been with a railroad
gang, where one could gather up the fleas off the floor of the sleeping
room by the handful. But that sort of thing would not do for Ona. They
must have a better place of some sort soon--Jurgis said it with all the
assurance of a man who had just made a dollar and fifty-seven cents in
a single day. Jurgis was at a loss to understand why, with wages as they
were, so many of the people of this district should live the way they
did.
The next day Marija went to see her "forelady," and was told to report
the first of the week, and learn the business of can-painter. Marija
went home, singing out loud all the way, and was just in time to join
Ona and her stepmother as they were setting out to go and make inquiry
concerning the house. That evening the three made their report to the
men--the thing was altogether as represented in the circular, or at any
rate so the agent had said. The houses lay to the south, about a mile
and a half from the yards; they were wonderful bargains, the gentleman
had assured them--personally, and for their own good. He could do this,
so he explained to them, for the reason that he had himself no interest
in their sale--he was merely the agent for a company that had built
them. These were the last, and the company was going out of business, so
if any one wished to take advantage of this wonderful no-rent plan, he
would have to be very quick. As a matter of fact there was just a little
uncertainty as to whether there was a single house left; for the agent
had taken so many people to see them, and for all he knew the company
might have parted with the last. Seeing Teta Elzbieta's evident grief at
this news, he added, after some hesitation, that if they really intended
to make a purchase, he would send a telephone message at his own
expense, and have one of the houses kept. So it had finally been
arranged--and they were to go and make an inspection the following
Sunday morning.
That was Thursday; and all the rest of the week the killing gang
at Brown's worked at full pressure, and Jurgis cleared a dollar
seventy-five every day. That was at the rate of ten and one-half dollars
a week, or forty-five a month. Jurgis was not able to figure, except it
was a very simple sum, but Ona was like lightning at such things, and
she worked out the problem for the family. Marija and Jonas were each
to pay sixteen dollars a month board, and the old man insisted that he
could do the same as soon as he got a place--which might be any day now.
That would make ninety-three dollars. Then Marija and Jonas were between
them to take a third share in the house, which would leave only eight
dollars a month for Jurgis to contribute to the payment. So they would
have eighty-five dollars a month--or, supposing that Dede Antanas did
not get work at once, seventy dollars a month--which ought surely to be
sufficient for the support of a family of twelve.
An hour before the time on Sunday morning the entire party set out. They
had the address written on a piece of paper, which they showed to some
one now and then. It proved to be a long mile and a half, but they
walked it, and half an hour or so later the agent put in an appearance.
He was a smooth and florid personage, elegantly dressed, and he spoke
their language freely, which gave him a great advantage in dealing with
them. He escorted them to the house, which was one of a long row of the
typical frame dwellings of the neighborhood, where architecture is a
luxury that is dispensed with. Ona's heart sank, for the house was not
as it was shown in the picture; the color scheme was different, for
one thing, and then it did not seem quite so big. Still, it was freshly
painted, and made a considerable show. It was all brand-new, so the
agent told them, but he talked so incessantly that they were quite
confused, and did not have time to ask many questions. There were all
sorts of things they had made up their minds to inquire about, but when
the time came, they either forgot them or lacked the courage. The other
houses in the row did not seem to be new, and few of them seemed to be
occupied. When they ventured to hint at this, the agent's reply was that
the purchasers would be moving in shortly. To press the matter would
have seemed to be doubting his word, and never in their lives had any
one of them ever spoken to a person of the class called "gentleman"
except with deference and humility.
The house had a basement, about two feet below the street line, and a
single story, about six feet above it, reached by a flight of steps. In
addition there was an attic, made by the peak of the roof, and having
one small window in each end. The street in front of the house was
unpaved and unlighted, and the view from it consisted of a few exactly
similar houses, scattered here and there upon lots grown up with dingy
brown weeds. The house inside contained four rooms, plastered white; the
basement was but a frame, the walls being unplastered and the floor not
laid. The agent explained that the houses were built that way, as the
purchasers generally preferred to finish the basements to suit their own
taste. The attic was also unfinished--the family had been figuring that
in case of an emergency they could rent this attic, but they found that
there was not even a floor, nothing but joists, and beneath them the
lath and plaster of the ceiling below. All of this, however, did not
chill their ardor as much as might have been expected, because of the
volubility of the agent. There was no end to the advantages of the
house, as he set them forth, and he was not silent for an instant; he
showed them everything, down to the locks on the doors and the catches
on the windows, and how to work them. He showed them the sink in the
kitchen, with running water and a faucet, something which Teta Elzbieta
had never in her wildest dreams hoped to possess. After a discovery such
as that it would have seemed ungrateful to find any fault, and so they
tried to shut their eyes to other defects.
Still, they were peasant people, and they hung on to their money by
instinct; it was quite in vain that the agent hinted at promptness--they
would see, they would see, they told him, they could not decide until
they had had more time. And so they went home again, and all day and
evening there was figuring and debating. It was an agony to them to have
to make up their minds in a matter such as this. They never could agree
all together; there were so many arguments upon each side, and one would
be obstinate, and no sooner would the rest have convinced him than it
would transpire that his arguments had caused another to waver. Once, in
the evening, when they were all in harmony, and the house was as good as
bought, Szedvilas came in and upset them again. Szedvilas had no use for
property owning. He told them cruel stories of people who had been done
to death in this "buying a home" swindle. They would be almost sure to
get into a tight place and lose all their money; and there was no end
of expense that one could never foresee; and the house might be
good-for-nothing from top to bottom--how was a poor man to know? Then,
too, they would swindle you with the contract--and how was a poor man
to understand anything about a contract? It was all nothing but robbery,
and there was no safety but in keeping out of it. And pay rent? asked
Jurgis. Ah, yes, to be sure, the other answered, that too was robbery.
It was all robbery, for a poor man. After half an hour of such
depressing conversation, they had their minds quite made up that they
had been saved at the brink of a precipice; but then Szedvilas went
away, and Jonas, who was a sharp little man, reminded them that the
delicatessen business was a failure, according to its proprietor, and
that this might account for his pessimistic views. Which, of course,
reopened the subject!
The controlling factor was that they could not stay where they
were--they had to go somewhere. And when they gave up the house plan and
decided to rent, the prospect of paying out nine dollars a month forever
they found just as hard to face. All day and all night for nearly a
whole week they wrestled with the problem, and then in the end Jurgis
took the responsibility. Brother Jonas had gotten his job, and was
pushing a truck in Durham's; and the killing gang at Brown's continued
to work early and late, so that Jurgis grew more confident every hour,
more certain of his mastership. It was the kind of thing the man of the
family had to decide and carry through, he told himself. Others might
have failed at it, but he was not the failing kind--he would show them
how to do it. He would work all day, and all night, too, if need be; he
would never rest until the house was paid for and his people had a home.
So he told them, and so in the end the decision was made.
They had talked about looking at more houses before they made the
purchase; but then they did not know where any more were, and they did
not know any way of finding out. The one they had seen held the sway in
their thoughts; whenever they thought of themselves in a house, it was
this house that they thought of. And so they went and told the agent
that they were ready to make the agreement. They knew, as an abstract
proposition, that in matters of business all men are to be accounted
liars; but they could not but have been influenced by all they had heard
from the eloquent agent, and were quite persuaded that the house was
something they had run a risk of losing by their delay. They drew a deep
breath when he told them that they were still in time.
They were to come on the morrow, and he would have the papers all drawn
up. This matter of papers was one in which Jurgis understood to the full
the need of caution; yet he could not go himself--every one told him
that he could not get a holiday, and that he might lose his job by
asking. So there was nothing to be done but to trust it to the women,
with Szedvilas, who promised to go with them. Jurgis spent a whole
evening impressing upon them the seriousness of the occasion--and then
finally, out of innumerable hiding places about their persons and in
their baggage, came forth the precious wads of money, to be done up
tightly in a little bag and sewed fast in the lining of Teta Elzbieta's
dress.
Early in the morning they sallied forth. Jurgis had given them so many
instructions and warned them against so many perils, that the women were
quite pale with fright, and even the imperturbable delicatessen vender,
who prided himself upon being a businessman, was ill at ease. The agent
had the deed all ready, and invited them to sit down and read it; this
Szedvilas proceeded to do--a painful and laborious process, during which
the agent drummed upon the desk. Teta Elzbieta was so embarrassed that
the perspiration came out upon her forehead in beads; for was not this
reading as much as to say plainly to the gentleman's face that they
doubted his honesty? Yet Jokubas Szedvilas read on and on; and presently
there developed that he had good reason for doing so. For a horrible
suspicion had begun dawning in his mind; he knitted his brows more and
more as he read. This was not a deed of sale at all, so far as he could
see--it provided only for the renting of the property! It was hard
to tell, with all this strange legal jargon, words he had never heard
before; but was not this plain--"the party of the first part hereby
covenants and agrees to rent to the said party of the second part!" And
then again--"a monthly rental of twelve dollars, for a period of eight
years and four months!" Then Szedvilas took off his spectacles, and
looked at the agent, and stammered a question.
The agent was most polite, and explained that that was the usual
formula; that it was always arranged that the property should be merely
rented. He kept trying to show them something in the next paragraph; but
Szedvilas could not get by the word "rental"--and when he translated it
to Teta Elzbieta, she too was thrown into a fright. They would not own
the home at all, then, for nearly nine years! The agent, with infinite
patience, began to explain again; but no explanation would do now.
Elzbieta had firmly fixed in her mind the last solemn warning of Jurgis:
"If there is anything wrong, do not give him the money, but go out and
get a lawyer." It was an agonizing moment, but she sat in the chair, her
hands clenched like death, and made a fearful effort, summoning all her
powers, and gasped out her purpose.
Jokubas translated her words. She expected the agent to fly into a
passion, but he was, to her bewilderment, as ever imperturbable; he even
offered to go and get a lawyer for her, but she declined this. They went
a long way, on purpose to find a man who would not be a confederate.
Then let any one imagine their dismay, when, after half an hour, they
came in with a lawyer, and heard him greet the agent by his first name!
They felt that all was lost; they sat like prisoners summoned to hear
the reading of their death warrant. There was nothing more that they
could do--they were trapped! The lawyer read over the deed, and when
he had read it he informed Szedvilas that it was all perfectly regular,
that the deed was a blank deed such as was often used in these sales.
And was the price as agreed? the old man asked--three hundred dollars
down, and the balance at twelve dollars a month, till the total of
fifteen hundred dollars had been paid? Yes, that was correct. And it was
for the sale of such and such a house--the house and lot and everything?
Yes,--and the lawyer showed him where that was all written. And it was
all perfectly regular--there were no tricks about it of any sort? They
were poor people, and this was all they had in the world, and if there
was anything wrong they would be ruined. And so Szedvilas went on,
asking one trembling question after another, while the eyes of the women
folks were fixed upon him in mute agony. They could not understand what
he was saying, but they knew that upon it their fate depended. And when
at last he had questioned until there was no more questioning to be
done, and the time came for them to make up their minds, and either
close the bargain or reject it, it was all that poor Teta Elzbieta could
do to keep from bursting into tears. Jokubas had asked her if she wished
to sign; he had asked her twice--and what could she say? How did she
know if this lawyer were telling the truth--that he was not in the
conspiracy? And yet, how could she say so--what excuse could she give?
The eyes of every one in the room were upon her, awaiting her decision;
and at last, half blind with her tears, she began fumbling in her
jacket, where she had pinned the precious money. And she brought it out
and unwrapped it before the men. All of this Ona sat watching, from a
corner of the room, twisting her hands together, meantime, in a fever of
fright. Ona longed to cry out and tell her stepmother to stop, that it
was all a trap; but there seemed to be something clutching her by the
throat, and she could not make a sound. And so Teta Elzbieta laid the
money on the table, and the agent picked it up and counted it, and then
wrote them a receipt for it and passed them the deed. Then he gave a
sigh of satisfaction, and rose and shook hands with them all, still as
smooth and polite as at the beginning. Ona had a dim recollection of the
lawyer telling Szedvilas that his charge was a dollar, which occasioned
some debate, and more agony; and then, after they had paid that, too,
they went out into the street, her stepmother clutching the deed in her
hand. They were so weak from fright that they could not walk, but had to
sit down on the way.
So they went home, with a deadly terror gnawing at their souls; and that
evening Jurgis came home and heard their story, and that was the end.
Jurgis was sure that they had been swindled, and were ruined; and he
tore his hair and cursed like a madman, swearing that he would kill the
agent that very night. In the end he seized the paper and rushed out
of the house, and all the way across the yards to Halsted Street. He
dragged Szedvilas out from his supper, and together they rushed to
consult another lawyer. When they entered his office the lawyer
sprang up, for Jurgis looked like a crazy person, with flying hair and
bloodshot eyes. His companion explained the situation, and the lawyer
took the paper and began to read it, while Jurgis stood clutching the
desk with knotted hands, trembling in every nerve.
Once or twice the lawyer looked up and asked a question of Szedvilas;
the other did not know a word that he was saying, but his eyes were
fixed upon the lawyer's face, striving in an agony of dread to read his
mind. He saw the lawyer look up and laugh, and he gave a gasp; the man
said something to Szedvilas, and Jurgis turned upon his friend, his
heart almost stopping.
"Well?" he panted.
"He says it is all right," said Szedvilas.
"All right!"
"Yes, he says it is just as it should be." And Jurgis, in his relief,
sank down into a chair.
"Are you sure of it?" he gasped, and made Szedvilas translate question
after question. He could not hear it often enough; he could not ask
with enough variations. Yes, they had bought the house, they had really
bought it. It belonged to them, they had only to pay the money and it
would be all right. Then Jurgis covered his face with his hands, for
there were tears in his eyes, and he felt like a fool. But he had had
such a horrible fright; strong man as he was, it left him almost too
weak to stand up.
The lawyer explained that the rental was a form--the property was said
to be merely rented until the last payment had been made, the purpose
being to make it easier to turn the party out if he did not make the
payments. So long as they paid, however, they had nothing to fear, the
house was all theirs.
Jurgis was so grateful that he paid the half dollar the lawyer asked
without winking an eyelash, and then rushed home to tell the news to the
family. He found Ona in a faint and the babies screaming, and the whole
house in an uproar--for it had been believed by all that he had gone to
murder the agent. It was hours before the excitement could be calmed;
and all through that cruel night Jurgis would wake up now and then
and hear Ona and her stepmother in the next room, sobbing softly to
themselves. | Jurgis reports to work at seven in the morning and goes to the killing floor. His job consists of sweeping away the intestines of cattle as they are gutted. It is a hot July day, and each worker wades through thick puddles of blood on the floor as they do their work. Jurgis earns seventeen and a half cents an hour and goes home that day elated to have earned over a dollar and a half. They also celebrate in their flat because Jonas has procured a job through the policeman, and Marija Berczynskas has gotten a job as a can painter which pays almost two dollars a day. Jurgis decides that both Teta Elzbieta and Ona will not get jobs and will instead stay home to care for the house. Only Dede Antanas cannot find work because of his age, although he wanders through the stockyards attempting to find a job any way that he can. The others do not have the heart to tell him that employers do not hire old men. Upon seeing a flyer on his way to work one day, Jurgis has an idea. The flyer advertises a home for sale. Thinking that the family of twelve can pay just a bit more a month to own a home instead of rent, Jurgis makes the bold suggestion that they look into buying a home instead of renting a flat. Although the price is high for such a poor family, "they were in America, where people talked about such without fear. Ona gives them the details of the house, which has four rooms and a basement, and they only have to put three hundred dollars down and pay twelve dollars a month. Each member of the family has a small amount of money left over from their journey to America, and pooled together they have enough for the down payment. Ona and Teta Elzbieta make an inquiry on the house. They visit an agent who tells them that he works for a company selling these houses. The company is going out of business and is trying to sell the houses cheaply. He warns them that he has already sold so many houses that there might not be any left, but when the women become upset at this news, he makes a call and determines that there is one left. Ona figures how much each member of the family needs to contribute each month in order to cover the payment on the house. After all expenses are met, Ona determines that the family should have eighty-five dollars a month, "which ought surely to be sufficient for the support of a family of twelve. That Sunday, the entire family departs to see the house. They arrive and meet the agent, a "smooth and florid personage. The house, however, is not as impressive as the advertisement, but the family does not feel as though they should question the integrity of the agent. The agent assures them there are many advantages to owning the home, but they insist that they discuss the matter before making any deals. That night, the family gathers for an extended time of arguments for and against buying the home. Jokubas Szedvilas appears and warns them against buying, telling "cruel stories of people who had been done to death in this 'buying a home' swindle. When he leaves, however, Jonas convinces the rest that Szedvilas is a failed business owner and that this makes him bitter towards such deals. Finally, they decide to buy the house. The agent gives them a time to come a sign papers, but Jurgis cannot come because of his job. He is deeply skeptical of signing any papers and warns the women to be cautious in their dealings with the agent. Szedvilas accompanies them to translate the English. The agent gives them the deed to the house and Szedvilas carefully reads over the entire document. He is shocked to see that the deed stipulates the family pay a monthly rental fee of twelve dollars for eight and a half years. The family is upset and the agent offers to go get a lawyer. The lawyer arrives, though they feel no better when he greets the agent by his first name. The lawyer assures them that the contract is sound and, frightened, Teta Elzbieta gives the agent the three hundred dollars. They all feel, however, that they have been swindled. When Jurgis comes home, he is furious at the news. He threatens to go out and kill the agent that night. Instead, he and Svedvilas go and see another lawyer who agrees to read over their deed. The lawyer confirms that this is a standard contract and that the rent is paid only for the eight years after which the family owns the home. Jurgis is so relieved that he does not even object to the lawyer's half dollar fee. He rushes home with the good news, and everyone is relieved that he did not kill the agent. Stunned by the confusion and excitement, Ona and her stepmother cry through the entire night |
CHAPTER XXXVI
KENNICOTT was not so inhumanly patient that he could continue to forgive
Carol's heresies, to woo her as he had on the venture to California. She
tried to be inconspicuous, but she was betrayed by her failure to glow
over the boosting. Kennicott believed in it; demanded that she say
patriotic things about the White Way and the new factory. He snorted,
"By golly, I've done all I could, and now I expect you to play the game.
Here you been complaining for years about us being so poky, and now when
Blausser comes along and does stir up excitement and beautify the town
like you've always wanted somebody to, why, you say he's a roughneck,
and you won't jump on the band-wagon."
Once, when Kennicott announced at noon-dinner, "What do you know
about this! They say there's a chance we may get another
factory--cream-separator works!" he added, "You might try to look
interested, even if you ain't!" The baby was frightened by the Jovian
roar; ran wailing to hide his face in Carol's lap; and Kennicott had to
make himself humble and court both mother and child. The dim injustice
of not being understood even by his son left him irritable. He felt
injured.
An event which did not directly touch them brought down his wrath.
In the early autumn, news came from Wakamin that the sheriff had
forbidden an organizer for the National Nonpartisan League to speak
anywhere in the county. The organizer had defied the sheriff, and
announced that in a few days he would address a farmers' political
meeting. That night, the news ran, a mob of a hundred business men
led by the sheriff--the tame village street and the smug village faces
ruddled by the light of bobbing lanterns, the mob flowing between the
squatty rows of shops--had taken the organizer from his hotel, ridden
him on a fence-rail, put him on a freight train, and warned him not to
return.
The story was threshed out in Dave Dyer's drug store, with Sam Clark,
Kennicott, and Carol present.
"That's the way to treat those fellows--only they ought to have lynched
him!" declared Sam, and Kennicott and Dave Dyer joined in a proud "You
bet!"
Carol walked out hastily, Kennicott observing her.
Through supper-time she knew that he was bubbling and would soon boil
over. When the baby was abed, and they sat composedly in canvas chairs
on the porch, he experimented; "I had a hunch you thought Sam was kind
of hard on that fellow they kicked out of Wakamin."
"Wasn't Sam rather needlessly heroic?"
"All these organizers, yes, and a whole lot of the German and
Squarehead farmers themselves, they're seditious as the devil--disloyal,
non-patriotic, pro-German pacifists, that's what they are!"
"Did this organizer say anything pro-German?"
"Not on your life! They didn't give him a chance!" His laugh was stagey.
"So the whole thing was illegal--and led by the sheriff! Precisely how
do you expect these aliens to obey your law if the officer of the law
teaches them to break it? Is it a new kind of logic?"
"Maybe it wasn't exactly regular, but what's the odds? They knew this
fellow would try to stir up trouble. Whenever it comes right down to a
question of defending Americanism and our constitutional rights, it's
justifiable to set aside ordinary procedure."
"What editorial did he get that from?" she wondered, as she protested,
"See here, my beloved, why can't you Tories declare war honestly? You
don't oppose this organizer because you think he's seditious but
because you're afraid that the farmers he is organizing will deprive you
townsmen of the money you make out of mortgages and wheat and shops.
Of course, since we're at war with Germany, anything that any one of us
doesn't like is 'pro-German,' whether it's business competition or
bad music. If we were fighting England, you'd call the radicals
'pro-English.' When this war is over, I suppose you'll be calling them
'red anarchists.' What an eternal art it is--such a glittery delightful
art--finding hard names for our opponents! How we do sanctify our
efforts to keep them from getting the holy dollars we want for
ourselves! The churches have always done it, and the political
orators--and I suppose I do it when I call Mrs. Bogart a 'Puritan' and
Mr. Stowbody a 'capitalist.' But you business men are going to beat all
the rest of us at it, with your simple-hearted, energetic, pompous----"
She got so far only because Kennicott was slow in shaking off respect
for her. Now he bayed:
"That'll be about all from you! I've stood for your sneering at this
town, and saying how ugly and dull it is. I've stood for your refusing
to appreciate good fellows like Sam. I've even stood for your ridiculing
our Watch Gopher Prairie Grow campaign. But one thing I'm not going
to stand: I'm not going to stand my own wife being seditious. You can
camouflage all you want to, but you know darn well that these radicals,
as you call 'em, are opposed to the war, and let me tell you right here
and now, and you and all these long-haired men and short-haired women
can beef all you want to, but we're going to take these fellows, and if
they ain't patriotic, we're going to make them be patriotic. And--Lord
knows I never thought I'd have to say this to my own wife--but if you go
defending these fellows, then the same thing applies to you! Next thing,
I suppose you'll be yapping about free speech. Free speech! There's too
much free speech and free gas and free beer and free love and all the
rest of your damned mouthy freedom, and if I had my way I'd make you
folks live up to the established rules of decency even if I had to take
you----"
"Will!" She was not timorous now. "Am I pro-German if I fail to throb to
Honest Jim Blausser, too? Let's have my whole duty as a wife!"
He was grumbling, "The whole thing's right in line with the criticism
you've always been making. Might have known you'd oppose any decent
constructive work for the town or for----"
"You're right. All I've done has been in line. I don't belong to Gopher
Prairie. That isn't meant as a condemnation of Gopher Prairie, and it
may be a condemnation of me. All right! I don't care! I don't belong
here, and I'm going. I'm not asking permission any more. I'm simply
going."
He grunted. "Do you mind telling me, if it isn't too much trouble, how
long you're going for?"
"I don't know. Perhaps for a year. Perhaps for a lifetime."
"I see. Well, of course, I'll be tickled to death to sell out my
practise and go anywhere you say. Would you like to have me go with you
to Paris and study art, maybe, and wear velveteen pants and a woman's
bonnet, and live on spaghetti?"
"No, I think we can save you that trouble. You don't quite understand.
I am going--I really am--and alone! I've got to find out what my work
is----"
"Work? Work? Sure! That's the whole trouble with you! You haven't got
enough work to do. If you had five kids and no hired girl, and had to
help with the chores and separate the cream, like these farmers' wives,
then you wouldn't be so discontented."
"I know. That's what most men--and women--like you WOULD say. That's how
they would explain all I am and all I want. And I shouldn't argue with
them. These business men, from their crushing labors of sitting in an
office seven hours a day, would calmly recommend that I have a dozen
children. As it happens, I've done that sort of thing. There've been a
good many times when we hadn't a maid, and I did all the housework, and
cared for Hugh, and went to Red Cross, and did it all very efficiently.
I'm a good cook and a good sweeper, and you don't dare say I'm not!"
"N-no, you're----"
"But was I more happy when I was drudging? I was not. I was just
bedraggled and unhappy. It's work--but not my work. I could run
an office or a library, or nurse and teach children. But solitary
dish-washing isn't enough to satisfy me--or many other women. We're
going to chuck it. We're going to wash 'em by machinery, and come out
and play with you men in the offices and clubs and politics you've
cleverly kept for yourselves! Oh, we're hopeless, we dissatisfied women!
Then why do you want to have us about the place, to fret you? So it's
for your sake that I'm going!"
"Of course a little thing like Hugh makes no difference!"
"Yes, all the difference. That's why I'm going to take him with me."
"Suppose I refuse?"
"You won't!"
Forlornly, "Uh----Carrie, what the devil is it you want, anyway?"
"Oh, conversation! No, it's much more than that. I think it's a
greatness of life--a refusal to be content with even the healthiest
mud."
"Don't you know that nobody ever solved a problem by running away from
it?"
"Perhaps. Only I choose to make my own definition of 'running away' I
don't call----Do you realize how big a world there is beyond this Gopher
Prairie where you'd keep me all my life? It may be that some day I'll
come back, but not till I can bring something more than I have now. And
even if I am cowardly and run away--all right, call it cowardly, call me
anything you want to! I've been ruled too long by fear of being called
things. I'm going away to be quiet and think. I'm--I'm going! I have a
right to my own life."
"So have I to mine!"
"Well?"
"I have a right to my life--and you're it, you're my life! You've made
yourself so. I'm damned if I'll agree to all your freak notions, but I
will say I've got to depend on you. Never thought of that complication,
did you, in this 'off to Bohemia, and express yourself, and free love,
and live your own life' stuff!"
"You have a right to me if you can keep me. Can you?"
He moved uneasily.
II
For a month they discussed it. They hurt each other very much, and
sometimes they were close to weeping, and invariably he used banal
phrases about her duties and she used phrases quite as banal about
freedom, and through it all, her discovery that she really could get
away from Main Street was as sweet as the discovery of love. Kennicott
never consented definitely. At most he agreed to a public theory that
she was "going to take a short trip and see what the East was like in
wartime."
She set out for Washington in October--just before the war ended.
She had determined on Washington because it was less intimidating than
the obvious New York, because she hoped to find streets in which Hugh
could play, and because in the stress of war-work, with its demand for
thousands of temporary clerks, she could be initiated into the world of
offices.
Hugh was to go with her, despite the wails and rather extensive comments
of Aunt Bessie.
She wondered if she might not encounter Erik in the East but it was a
chance thought, soon forgotten.
III
The last thing she saw on the station platform was Kennicott, faithfully
waving his hand, his face so full of uncomprehending loneliness that he
could not smile but only twitch up his lips. She waved to him as long
as she could, and when he was lost she wanted to leap from the vestibule
and run back to him. She thought of a hundred tendernesses she had
neglected.
She had her freedom, and it was empty. The moment was not the highest
of her life, but the lowest and most desolate, which was altogether
excellent, for instead of slipping downward she began to climb.
She sighed, "I couldn't do this if it weren't for Will's kindness, his
giving me money." But a second after: "I wonder how many women would
always stay home if they had the money?"
Hugh complained, "Notice me, mummy!" He was beside her on the red plush
seat of the day-coach; a boy of three and a half. "I'm tired of playing
train. Let's play something else. Let's go see Auntie Bogart."
"Oh, NO! Do you really like Mrs. Bogart?"
"Yes. She gives me cookies and she tells me about the Dear Lord. You
never tell me about the Dear Lord. Why don't you tell me about the
Dear Lord? Auntie Bogart says I'm going to be a preacher. Can I be a
preacher? Can I preach about the Dear Lord?"
"Oh, please wait till my generation has stopped rebelling before yours
starts in!"
"What's a generation?"
"It's a ray in the illumination of the spirit."
"That's foolish." He was a serious and literal person, and rather
humorless. She kissed his frown, and marveled:
"I am running away from my husband, after liking a Swedish ne'er-do-well
and expressing immoral opinions, just as in a romantic story. And my own
son reproves me because I haven't given him religious instruction. But
the story doesn't go right. I'm neither groaning nor being dramatically
saved. I keep on running away, and I enjoy it. I'm mad with joy over it.
Gopher Prairie is lost back there in the dust and stubble, and I look
forward----"
She continued it to Hugh: "Darling, do you know what mother and you are
going to find beyond the blue horizon rim?"
"What?" flatly.
"We're going to find elephants with golden howdahs from which peep young
maharanees with necklaces of rubies, and a dawn sea colored like the
breast of a dove, and a white and green house filled with books and
silver tea-sets."
"And cookies?"
"Cookies? Oh, most decidedly cookies. We've had enough of bread and
porridge. We'd get sick on too many cookies, but ever so much sicker on
no cookies at all."
"That's foolish."
"It is, O male Kennicott!"
"Huh!" said Kennicott II, and went to sleep on her shoulder.
IV
The theory of the Dauntless regarding Carol's absence:
Mrs. Will Kennicott and son Hugh left on No. 24 on Saturday last for
a stay of some months in Minneapolis, Chicago, New York and Washington.
Mrs. Kennicott confided to _Ye Scribe_ that she will be connected with one
of the multifarious war activities now centering in the Nation's
Capital for a brief period before returning. Her countless friends who
appreciate her splendid labors with the local Red Cross realize how
valuable she will be to any war board with which she chooses to become
connected. Gopher Prairie thus adds another shining star to its service
flag and without wishing to knock any neighboring communities, we would
like to know any town of anywheres near our size in the state that has
such a sterling war record. Another reason why you'd better Watch Gopher
Prairie Grow.
* * *
Mr. and Mrs. David Dyer, Mrs. Dyer's sister, Mrs. Jennie Dayborn of
Jackrabbit, and Dr. Will Kennicott drove to Minniemashie on Tuesday for
a delightful picnic. | As Gopher Prairie gets more successful, it gets more and more intolerant of people who don't like it. Carol starts hearing stories about labor organizers being arrested. Will thinks it's all a great idea because he's drunk the pro-capitalist Kool-Aid. He and Carol continue to fight constantly, only now Will doesn't back down like he used to. He just calls Carol a crank whenever she expresses dissatisfaction. Carol finally decides to leave Gopher Prairie and to take Hugh with her. Will doesn't put up much of a fight. Carol leaves town, and the Gopher Prairie newspaper makes up a story about how she has gone to Washington to help in the war effort like a great patriot. |
"What a pity it is, Elinor," said Marianne, "that Edward should have no
taste for drawing."
"No taste for drawing!" replied Elinor, "why should you think so? He
does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the
performances of other people, and I assure you he is by no means
deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of
improving it. Had he ever been in the way of learning, I think he
would have drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such
matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any
picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which
in general direct him perfectly right."
Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but
the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the
drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight,
which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. Yet, though
smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that
blind partiality to Edward which produced it.
"I hope, Marianne," continued Elinor, "you do not consider him as
deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say that you cannot,
for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if THAT were your
opinion, I am sure you could never be civil to him."
Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound the feelings of
her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was
impossible. At length she replied:
"Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing
equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had so many
opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his
inclinations and tastes, as you have; but I have the highest opinion in
the world of his goodness and sense. I think him every thing that is
worthy and amiable."
"I am sure," replied Elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends
could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that. I do not
perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."
Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
"Of his sense and his goodness," continued Elinor, "no one can, I
think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in
unreserved conversation. The excellence of his understanding and his
principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps
him silent. You know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
But of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from
peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He and I
have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been
wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother. I
have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard
his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I
venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books
exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and
correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His abilities in every
respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
At first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person
can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which
are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is
perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think him really
handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you, Marianne?"
"I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do not now. When
you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall no more see imperfection
in his face, than I now do in his heart."
Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she
had been betrayed into, in speaking of him. She felt that Edward stood
very high in her opinion. She believed the regard to be mutual; but
she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne's conviction of
their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her
mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next--that with them,
to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain
the real state of the case to her sister.
"I do not attempt to deny," said she, "that I think very highly of
him--that I greatly esteem, that I like him."
Marianne here burst forth with indignation--
"Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than
cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those words again, and I
will leave the room this moment."
Elinor could not help laughing. "Excuse me," said she; "and be assured
that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my
own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared;
believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion--the
hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
But farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means assured
of his regard for me. There are moments when the extent of it seems
doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at
my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by
believing or calling it more than it is. In my heart I feel
little--scarcely any doubt of his preference. But there are other
points to be considered besides his inclination. He is very far from
being independent. What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from
Fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never
been disposed to think her amiable; and I am very much mistaken if
Edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in
his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great
fortune or high rank."
Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother
and herself had outstripped the truth.
"And you really are not engaged to him!" said she. "Yet it certainly
soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed from this delay. I
shall not lose you so soon, and Edward will have greater opportunity of
improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be
so indispensably necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should
be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how
delightful it would be!"
Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could not
consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a state as Marianne
had believed it. There was, at times, a want of spirits about him
which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as
unpromising. A doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not
give him more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that
dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more reasonable
cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the
indulgence of his affection. She knew that his mother neither behaved
to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him
any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly
attending to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a knowledge
as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy on the subject. She
was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which
her mother and sister still considered as certain. Nay, the longer
they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard;
and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more
than friendship.
But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived
by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was
still more common,) to make her uncivil. She took the first
opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to
her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of Mrs.
Ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the
danger attending any young woman who attempted to DRAW HIM IN; that
Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to
be calm. She gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and
instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the
inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved Elinor
should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the
post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed. It was the
offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of
her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire. The
letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit
of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in need of a
dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage,
he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might
think necessary, if the situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed
her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with
her daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence, from
whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage, for the houses
were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable
to her. He seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of
his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of
giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was
suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer
connections. She needed no time for deliberation or inquiry. Her
resolution was formed as she read. The situation of Barton, in a
county so far distant from Sussex as Devonshire, which, but a few hours
before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every
possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first
recommendation. To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an
evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of
the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for
ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or
visit it while such a woman was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir
John Middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance
of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her
daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her
answer were sent.
Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle
at some distance from Norland, than immediately amongst their present
acquaintance. On THAT head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose
her mother's intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as
described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so
uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either
point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm
to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of Norland
beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from
sending a letter of acquiescence. | Discussing Edward with Marianne, Elinor spoke more warmly of him than she thought prudent. Realizing that her mother and Marianne were apt to leap to conclusions, she tried to explain "the real state of the case." She admitted that she was by no means sure of Edward's regard for her and pointed out that he was "very far from independent." The fact was that Elinor really wasn't assured of Edward's feelings. At times he appeared quite distant and troubled, and led her to wonder whether his feelings towards her were not just friendly. But she attributed this coolness to pressures from his mother, which made life difficult for him at home and forbade a life outside of it which didn't coincide with her wishes. Fanny Dashwood, noticing an attachment forming between the two, took the first opportunity of talking to Mrs. Dashwood about Edward's "great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars' resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in." Deeply offended by these insinuations, Mrs. Dashwood determined to leave Norland Park as soon as possible to spare Elinor from any possible pain. While in this state of mind, she received a letter from a distant relative, Sir John Middleton, "a gentleman of consequence and property in Devonshire," who offered her a cottage on his estate. It was a warm and friendly offer, and she at once wrote an acceptance. Elinor considered the move a prudent one; the rent of the cottage was within their means, and although her true inclinations were not for a move, she felt it would be wise for them to live at some distance from Norland Park. So she agreed that her mother should send her "letter of acquiescence" immediately. |
Chapter V. So Be It! So Be It!
The elder's absence from his cell had lasted for about twenty-five
minutes. It was more than half-past twelve, but Dmitri, on whose account
they had all met there, had still not appeared. But he seemed almost to be
forgotten, and when the elder entered the cell again, he found his guests
engaged in eager conversation. Ivan and the two monks took the leading
share in it. Miuesov, too, was trying to take a part, and apparently very
eagerly, in the conversation. But he was unsuccessful in this also. He was
evidently in the background, and his remarks were treated with neglect,
which increased his irritability. He had had intellectual encounters with
Ivan before and he could not endure a certain carelessness Ivan showed
him.
"Hitherto at least I have stood in the front ranks of all that is
progressive in Europe, and here the new generation positively ignores us,"
he thought.
Fyodor Pavlovitch, who had given his word to sit still and be quiet, had
actually been quiet for some time, but he watched his neighbor Miuesov with
an ironical little smile, obviously enjoying his discomfiture. He had been
waiting for some time to pay off old scores, and now he could not let the
opportunity slip. Bending over his shoulder he began teasing him again in
a whisper.
"Why didn't you go away just now, after the 'courteously kissing'? Why did
you consent to remain in such unseemly company? It was because you felt
insulted and aggrieved, and you remained to vindicate yourself by showing
off your intelligence. Now you won't go till you've displayed your
intellect to them."
"You again?... On the contrary, I'm just going."
"You'll be the last, the last of all to go!" Fyodor Pavlovitch delivered
him another thrust, almost at the moment of Father Zossima's return.
The discussion died down for a moment, but the elder, seating himself in
his former place, looked at them all as though cordially inviting them to
go on. Alyosha, who knew every expression of his face, saw that he was
fearfully exhausted and making a great effort. Of late he had been liable
to fainting fits from exhaustion. His face had the pallor that was common
before such attacks, and his lips were white. But he evidently did not
want to break up the party. He seemed to have some special object of his
own in keeping them. What object? Alyosha watched him intently.
"We are discussing this gentleman's most interesting article," said Father
Iosif, the librarian, addressing the elder, and indicating Ivan. "He
brings forward much that is new, but I think the argument cuts both ways.
It is an article written in answer to a book by an ecclesiastical
authority on the question of the ecclesiastical court, and the scope of
its jurisdiction."
"I'm sorry I have not read your article, but I've heard of it," said the
elder, looking keenly and intently at Ivan.
"He takes up a most interesting position," continued the Father Librarian.
"As far as Church jurisdiction is concerned he is apparently quite opposed
to the separation of Church from State."
"That's interesting. But in what sense?" Father Zossima asked Ivan.
The latter, at last, answered him, not condescendingly, as Alyosha had
feared, but with modesty and reserve, with evident goodwill and apparently
without the slightest _arriere-pensee_.
"I start from the position that this confusion of elements, that is, of
the essential principles of Church and State, will, of course, go on for
ever, in spite of the fact that it is impossible for them to mingle, and
that the confusion of these elements cannot lead to any consistent or even
normal results, for there is falsity at the very foundation of it.
Compromise between the Church and State in such questions as, for
instance, jurisdiction, is, to my thinking, impossible in any real sense.
My clerical opponent maintains that the Church holds a precise and defined
position in the State. I maintain, on the contrary, that the Church ought
to include the whole State, and not simply to occupy a corner in it, and,
if this is, for some reason, impossible at present, then it ought, in
reality, to be set up as the direct and chief aim of the future
development of Christian society!"
"Perfectly true," Father Paissy, the silent and learned monk, assented
with fervor and decision.
"The purest Ultramontanism!" cried Miuesov impatiently, crossing and
recrossing his legs.
"Oh, well, we have no mountains," cried Father Iosif, and turning to the
elder he continued: "Observe the answer he makes to the following
'fundamental and essential' propositions of his opponent, who is, you must
note, an ecclesiastic. First, that 'no social organization can or ought to
arrogate to itself power to dispose of the civic and political rights of
its members.' Secondly, that 'criminal and civil jurisdiction ought not to
belong to the Church, and is inconsistent with its nature, both as a
divine institution and as an organization of men for religious objects,'
and, finally, in the third place, 'the Church is a kingdom not of this
world.' "
"A most unworthy play upon words for an ecclesiastic!" Father Paissy could
not refrain from breaking in again. "I have read the book which you have
answered," he added, addressing Ivan, "and was astounded at the words 'the
Church is a kingdom not of this world.' If it is not of this world, then
it cannot exist on earth at all. In the Gospel, the words 'not of this
world' are not used in that sense. To play with such words is
indefensible. Our Lord Jesus Christ came to set up the Church upon earth.
The Kingdom of Heaven, of course, is not of this world, but in Heaven; but
it is only entered through the Church which has been founded and
established upon earth. And so a frivolous play upon words in such a
connection is unpardonable and improper. The Church is, in truth, a
kingdom and ordained to rule, and in the end must undoubtedly become the
kingdom ruling over all the earth. For that we have the divine promise."
He ceased speaking suddenly, as though checking himself. After listening
attentively and respectfully Ivan went on, addressing the elder with
perfect composure and as before with ready cordiality:
"The whole point of my article lies in the fact that during the first
three centuries Christianity only existed on earth in the Church and was
nothing but the Church. When the pagan Roman Empire desired to become
Christian, it inevitably happened that, by becoming Christian, it included
the Church but remained a pagan State in very many of its departments. In
reality this was bound to happen. But Rome as a State retained too much of
the pagan civilization and culture, as, for example, in the very objects
and fundamental principles of the State. The Christian Church entering
into the State could, of course, surrender no part of its fundamental
principles--the rock on which it stands--and could pursue no other aims than
those which have been ordained and revealed by God Himself, and among them
that of drawing the whole world, and therefore the ancient pagan State
itself, into the Church. In that way (that is, with a view to the future)
it is not the Church that should seek a definite position in the State,
like 'every social organization,' or as 'an organization of men for
religious purposes' (as my opponent calls the Church), but, on the
contrary, every earthly State should be, in the end, completely
transformed into the Church and should become nothing else but a Church,
rejecting every purpose incongruous with the aims of the Church. All this
will not degrade it in any way or take from its honor and glory as a great
State, nor from the glory of its rulers, but only turns it from a false,
still pagan, and mistaken path to the true and rightful path, which alone
leads to the eternal goal. This is why the author of the book _On the
Foundations of Church Jurisdiction_ would have judged correctly if, in
seeking and laying down those foundations, he had looked upon them as a
temporary compromise inevitable in our sinful and imperfect days. But as
soon as the author ventures to declare that the foundations which he
predicates now, part of which Father Iosif just enumerated, are the
permanent, essential, and eternal foundations, he is going directly
against the Church and its sacred and eternal vocation. That is the gist
of my article."
"That is, in brief," Father Paissy began again, laying stress on each
word, "according to certain theories only too clearly formulated in the
nineteenth century, the Church ought to be transformed into the State, as
though this would be an advance from a lower to a higher form, so as to
disappear into it, making way for science, for the spirit of the age, and
civilization. And if the Church resists and is unwilling, some corner will
be set apart for her in the State, and even that under control--and this
will be so everywhere in all modern European countries. But Russian hopes
and conceptions demand not that the Church should pass as from a lower
into a higher type into the State, but, on the contrary, that the State
should end by being worthy to become only the Church and nothing else. So
be it! So be it!"
"Well, I confess you've reassured me somewhat," Miuesov said smiling, again
crossing his legs. "So far as I understand, then, the realization of such
an ideal is infinitely remote, at the second coming of Christ. That's as
you please. It's a beautiful Utopian dream of the abolition of war,
diplomacy, banks, and so on--something after the fashion of socialism,
indeed. But I imagined that it was all meant seriously, and that the
Church might be _now_ going to try criminals, and sentence them to
beating, prison, and even death."
"But if there were none but the ecclesiastical court, the Church would not
even now sentence a criminal to prison or to death. Crime and the way of
regarding it would inevitably change, not all at once of course, but
fairly soon," Ivan replied calmly, without flinching.
"Are you serious?" Miuesov glanced keenly at him.
"If everything became the Church, the Church would exclude all the
criminal and disobedient, and would not cut off their heads," Ivan went
on. "I ask you, what would become of the excluded? He would be cut off
then not only from men, as now, but from Christ. By his crime he would
have transgressed not only against men but against the Church of Christ.
This is so even now, of course, strictly speaking, but it is not clearly
enunciated, and very, very often the criminal of to-day compromises with
his conscience: 'I steal,' he says, 'but I don't go against the Church.
I'm not an enemy of Christ.' That's what the criminal of to-day is
continually saying to himself, but when the Church takes the place of the
State it will be difficult for him, in opposition to the Church all over
the world, to say: 'All men are mistaken, all in error, all mankind are
the false Church. I, a thief and murderer, am the only true Christian
Church.' It will be very difficult to say this to himself; it requires a
rare combination of unusual circumstances. Now, on the other side, take
the Church's own view of crime: is it not bound to renounce the present
almost pagan attitude, and to change from a mechanical cutting off of its
tainted member for the preservation of society, as at present, into
completely and honestly adopting the idea of the regeneration of the man,
of his reformation and salvation?"
"What do you mean? I fail to understand again," Miuesov interrupted. "Some
sort of dream again. Something shapeless and even incomprehensible. What
is excommunication? What sort of exclusion? I suspect you are simply
amusing yourself, Ivan Fyodorovitch."
"Yes, but you know, in reality it is so now," said the elder suddenly, and
all turned to him at once. "If it were not for the Church of Christ there
would be nothing to restrain the criminal from evil-doing, no real
chastisement for it afterwards; none, that is, but the mechanical
punishment spoken of just now, which in the majority of cases only
embitters the heart; and not the real punishment, the only effectual one,
the only deterrent and softening one, which lies in the recognition of sin
by conscience."
"How is that, may one inquire?" asked Miuesov, with lively curiosity.
"Why," began the elder, "all these sentences to exile with hard labor, and
formerly with flogging also, reform no one, and what's more, deter hardly
a single criminal, and the number of crimes does not diminish but is
continually on the increase. You must admit that. Consequently the
security of society is not preserved, for, although the obnoxious member
is mechanically cut off and sent far away out of sight, another criminal
always comes to take his place at once, and often two of them. If anything
does preserve society, even in our time, and does regenerate and transform
the criminal, it is only the law of Christ speaking in his conscience. It
is only by recognizing his wrong-doing as a son of a Christian
society--that is, of the Church--that he recognizes his sin against
society--that is, against the Church. So that it is only against the
Church, and not against the State, that the criminal of to-day can
recognize that he has sinned. If society, as a Church, had jurisdiction,
then it would know when to bring back from exclusion and to reunite to
itself. Now the Church having no real jurisdiction, but only the power of
moral condemnation, withdraws of her own accord from punishing the
criminal actively. She does not excommunicate him but simply persists in
motherly exhortation of him. What is more, the Church even tries to
preserve all Christian communion with the criminal. She admits him to
church services, to the holy sacrament, gives him alms, and treats him
more as a captive than as a convict. And what would become of the
criminal, O Lord, if even the Christian society--that is, the Church--were
to reject him even as the civil law rejects him and cuts him off? What
would become of him if the Church punished him with her excommunication as
the direct consequence of the secular law? There could be no more terrible
despair, at least for a Russian criminal, for Russian criminals still have
faith. Though, who knows, perhaps then a fearful thing would happen,
perhaps the despairing heart of the criminal would lose its faith and then
what would become of him? But the Church, like a tender, loving mother,
holds aloof from active punishment herself, as the sinner is too severely
punished already by the civil law, and there must be at least some one to
have pity on him. The Church holds aloof, above all, because its judgment
is the only one that contains the truth, and therefore cannot practically
and morally be united to any other judgment even as a temporary
compromise. She can enter into no compact about that. The foreign
criminal, they say, rarely repents, for the very doctrines of to-day
confirm him in the idea that his crime is not a crime, but only a reaction
against an unjustly oppressive force. Society cuts him off completely by a
force that triumphs over him mechanically and (so at least they say of
themselves in Europe) accompanies this exclusion with hatred,
forgetfulness, and the most profound indifference as to the ultimate fate
of the erring brother. In this way, it all takes place without the
compassionate intervention of the Church, for in many cases there are no
churches there at all, for though ecclesiastics and splendid church
buildings remain, the churches themselves have long ago striven to pass
from Church into State and to disappear in it completely. So it seems at
least in Lutheran countries. As for Rome, it was proclaimed a State
instead of a Church a thousand years ago. And so the criminal is no longer
conscious of being a member of the Church and sinks into despair. If he
returns to society, often it is with such hatred that society itself
instinctively cuts him off. You can judge for yourself how it must end. In
many cases it would seem to be the same with us, but the difference is
that besides the established law courts we have the Church too, which
always keeps up relations with the criminal as a dear and still precious
son. And besides that, there is still preserved, though only in thought,
the judgment of the Church, which though no longer existing in practice is
still living as a dream for the future, and is, no doubt, instinctively
recognized by the criminal in his soul. What was said here just now is
true too, that is, that if the jurisdiction of the Church were introduced
in practice in its full force, that is, if the whole of the society were
changed into the Church, not only the judgment of the Church would have
influence on the reformation of the criminal such as it never has now, but
possibly also the crimes themselves would be incredibly diminished. And
there can be no doubt that the Church would look upon the criminal and the
crime of the future in many cases quite differently and would succeed in
restoring the excluded, in restraining those who plan evil, and in
regenerating the fallen. It is true," said Father Zossima, with a smile,
"the Christian society now is not ready and is only resting on some seven
righteous men, but as they are never lacking, it will continue still
unshaken in expectation of its complete transformation from a society
almost heathen in character into a single universal and all-powerful
Church. So be it, so be it! Even though at the end of the ages, for it is
ordained to come to pass! And there is no need to be troubled about times
and seasons, for the secret of the times and seasons is in the wisdom of
God, in His foresight, and His love. And what in human reckoning seems
still afar off, may by the Divine ordinance be close at hand, on the eve
of its appearance. And so be it, so be it!"
"So be it, so be it!" Father Paissy repeated austerely and reverently.
"Strange, extremely strange!" Miuesov pronounced, not so much with heat as
with latent indignation.
"What strikes you as so strange?" Father Iosif inquired cautiously.
"Why, it's beyond anything!" cried Miuesov, suddenly breaking out; "the
State is eliminated and the Church is raised to the position of the State.
It's not simply Ultramontanism, it's arch-Ultramontanism! It's beyond the
dreams of Pope Gregory the Seventh!"
"You are completely misunderstanding it," said Father Paissy sternly.
"Understand, the Church is not to be transformed into the State. That is
Rome and its dream. That is the third temptation of the devil. On the
contrary, the State is transformed into the Church, will ascend and become
a Church over the whole world--which is the complete opposite of
Ultramontanism and Rome, and your interpretation, and is only the glorious
destiny ordained for the Orthodox Church. This star will arise in the
east!"
Miuesov was significantly silent. His whole figure expressed extraordinary
personal dignity. A supercilious and condescending smile played on his
lips. Alyosha watched it all with a throbbing heart. The whole
conversation stirred him profoundly. He glanced casually at Rakitin, who
was standing immovable in his place by the door listening and watching
intently though with downcast eyes. But from the color in his cheeks
Alyosha guessed that Rakitin was probably no less excited, and he knew
what caused his excitement.
"Allow me to tell you one little anecdote, gentlemen," Miuesov said
impressively, with a peculiarly majestic air. "Some years ago, soon after
the _coup d'etat_ of December, I happened to be calling in Paris on an
extremely influential personage in the Government, and I met a very
interesting man in his house. This individual was not precisely a
detective but was a sort of superintendent of a whole regiment of
political detectives--a rather powerful position in its own way. I was
prompted by curiosity to seize the opportunity of conversation with him.
And as he had not come as a visitor but as a subordinate official bringing
a special report, and as he saw the reception given me by his chief, he
deigned to speak with some openness, to a certain extent only, of course.
He was rather courteous than open, as Frenchmen know how to be courteous,
especially to a foreigner. But I thoroughly understood him. The subject
was the socialist revolutionaries who were at that time persecuted. I will
quote only one most curious remark dropped by this person. 'We are not
particularly afraid,' said he, 'of all these socialists, anarchists,
infidels, and revolutionists; we keep watch on them and know all their
goings on. But there are a few peculiar men among them who believe in God
and are Christians, but at the same time are socialists. These are the
people we are most afraid of. They are dreadful people! The socialist who
is a Christian is more to be dreaded than a socialist who is an atheist.'
The words struck me at the time, and now they have suddenly come back to
me here, gentlemen."
"You apply them to us, and look upon us as socialists?" Father Paissy
asked directly, without beating about the bush.
But before Pyotr Alexandrovitch could think what to answer, the door
opened, and the guest so long expected, Dmitri Fyodorovitch, came in. They
had, in fact, given up expecting him, and his sudden appearance caused
some surprise for a moment. | So Be It. So Be It. Alyosha follows Zosima back to his cell, where Ivan and the monks are debating Ivan's article about ecclesiastical courts. Miusov, who considers himself a political intellectual, continually tries to join the argument, but the other men, caught up in their own discussion, generally ignore him. Miusov, already aggravated by Fyodor Pavlovich's taunting, becomes almost unbearably irritated. Ivan explains that he does not believe in the separation of the church and state. He believes that the church should subsume the state, so that religious authorities administer laws, and ecclesiastical courts handle the judicial process. Miusov tries to interject that this situation would be "sheer Ultramontanism," meaning that Ivan's proposal would create a situation in which the pope would have absolute power. The word Ultramontanism refers to the fact that Rome, the seat of the papacy of the Catholic Church, is literally "beyond the mountains" from Russia and the Orthodox Church. The other men ignore Miusov. Ivan insists that if the only courts were ecclesiastical courts, the very notion of crime would slowly change. People would be much less likely to commit crimes in the first place, he argues, because they would know that in doing so, they would be acting not merely against a government or a state, but against God. Zosima, to the surprise of some of the others in the room, agrees with Ivan's analysis. He argues, however, that the only real power capable of punishing crime is conscience. He says that because the church knows that each individual's moral sense is the real authority, the church chooses not to become involved in the state's administration of justice. The men become so embroiled in their debate that they forget about Dmitri's lateness, and when he suddenly bursts in through the door, they are slightly surprised to see him |
Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, accosting his son on the morning after the
funeral, 'I've found it, Sammy. I thought it wos there.'
'Thought wot wos there?' inquired Sam.
'Your mother-in-law's vill, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. 'In wirtue o'
vich, them arrangements is to be made as I told you on, last night,
respectin' the funs.'
'Wot, didn't she tell you were it wos?' inquired Sam.
'Not a bit on it, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller. 'We wos a adjestin' our
little differences, and I wos a-cheerin' her spirits and bearin' her up,
so that I forgot to ask anythin' about it. I don't know as I should ha'
done it, indeed, if I had remembered it,' added Mr. Weller, 'for it's a
rum sort o' thing, Sammy, to go a-hankerin' arter anybody's property,
ven you're assistin' 'em in illness. It's like helping an outside
passenger up, ven he's been pitched off a coach, and puttin' your hand
in his pocket, vile you ask him, vith a sigh, how he finds his-self,
Sammy.'
With this figurative illustration of his meaning, Mr. Weller unclasped
his pocket-book, and drew forth a dirty sheet of letter-paper, on which
were inscribed various characters crowded together in remarkable
confusion.
'This here is the dockyment, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller. 'I found it in the
little black tea-pot, on the top shelf o' the bar closet. She used to
keep bank-notes there, 'fore she vos married, Samivel. I've seen her
take the lid off, to pay a bill, many and many a time. Poor creetur, she
might ha' filled all the tea-pots in the house vith vills, and not have
inconwenienced herself neither, for she took wery little of anythin' in
that vay lately, 'cept on the temperance nights, ven they just laid a
foundation o' tea to put the spirits atop on!'
'What does it say?' inquired Sam.
'Jist vot I told you, my boy,' rejoined his parent. 'Two hundred pound
vurth o' reduced counsels to my son-in-law, Samivel, and all the rest o'
my property, of ev'ry kind and description votsoever, to my husband, Mr.
Tony Veller, who I appint as my sole eggzekiter.'
'That's all, is it?' said Sam.
'That's all,' replied Mr. Weller. 'And I s'pose as it's all right and
satisfactory to you and me as is the only parties interested, ve may as
vell put this bit o' paper into the fire.'
'Wot are you a-doin' on, you lunatic?' said Sam, snatching the paper
away, as his parent, in all innocence, stirred the fire preparatory to
suiting the action to the word. 'You're a nice eggzekiter, you are.'
'Vy not?' inquired Mr. Weller, looking sternly round, with the poker in
his hand.
'Vy not?' exclaimed Sam. ''Cos it must be proved, and probated, and
swore to, and all manner o' formalities.'
'You don't mean that?' said Mr. Weller, laying down the poker.
Sam buttoned the will carefully in a side pocket; intimating by a look,
meanwhile, that he did mean it, and very seriously too.
'Then I'll tell you wot it is,' said Mr. Weller, after a short
meditation, 'this is a case for that 'ere confidential pal o' the
Chancellorship's. Pell must look into this, Sammy. He's the man for a
difficult question at law. Ve'll have this here brought afore the
Solvent Court, directly, Samivel.'
'I never did see such a addle-headed old creetur!' exclaimed Sam
irritably; 'Old Baileys, and Solvent Courts, and alleybis, and ev'ry
species o' gammon alvays a-runnin' through his brain. You'd better get
your out o' door clothes on, and come to town about this bisness, than
stand a-preachin' there about wot you don't understand nothin' on.'
'Wery good, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, 'I'm quite agreeable to anythin'
as vill hexpedite business, Sammy. But mind this here, my boy, nobody
but Pell--nobody but Pell as a legal adwiser.'
'I don't want anybody else,' replied Sam. 'Now, are you a-comin'?'
'Vait a minit, Sammy,' replied Mr. Weller, who, having tied his shawl
with the aid of a small glass that hung in the window, was now, by dint
of the most wonderful exertions, struggling into his upper garments.
'Vait a minit' Sammy; ven you grow as old as your father, you von't get
into your veskit quite as easy as you do now, my boy.'
'If I couldn't get into it easier than that, I'm blessed if I'd vear vun
at all,' rejoined his son.
'You think so now,' said Mr. Weller, with the gravity of age, 'but
you'll find that as you get vider, you'll get viser. Vidth and visdom,
Sammy, alvays grows together.'
As Mr. Weller delivered this infallible maxim--the result of many years'
personal experience and observation--he contrived, by a dexterous twist
of his body, to get the bottom button of his coat to perform its office.
Having paused a few seconds to recover breath, he brushed his hat with
his elbow, and declared himself ready.
'As four heads is better than two, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, as they
drove along the London Road in the chaise-cart, 'and as all this here
property is a wery great temptation to a legal gen'l'm'n, ve'll take a
couple o' friends o' mine vith us, as'll be wery soon down upon him if
he comes anythin' irreg'lar; two o' them as saw you to the Fleet that
day. They're the wery best judges,' added Mr. Weller, in a half-whisper-
-'the wery best judges of a horse, you ever know'd.'
'And of a lawyer too?' inquired Sam.
'The man as can form a ackerate judgment of a animal, can form a
ackerate judgment of anythin',' replied his father, so dogmatically,
that Sam did not attempt to controvert the position.
In pursuance of this notable resolution, the services of the mottled-
faced gentleman and of two other very fat coachmen--selected by Mr.
Weller, probably, with a view to their width and consequent wisdom--were
put into requisition; and this assistance having been secured, the party
proceeded to the public-house in Portugal Street, whence a messenger was
despatched to the Insolvent Court over the way, requiring Mr. Solomon
Pell's immediate attendance.
The messenger fortunately found Mr. Solomon Pell in court, regaling
himself, business being rather slack, with a cold collation of an
Abernethy biscuit and a saveloy. The message was no sooner whispered in
his ear than he thrust them in his pocket among various professional
documents, and hurried over the way with such alacrity that he reached
the parlour before the messenger had even emancipated himself from the
court.
'Gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, touching his hat, 'my service to you all. I
don't say it to flatter you, gentlemen, but there are not five other men
in the world, that I'd have come out of that court for, to-day.'
'So busy, eh?' said Sam.
'Busy!' replied Pell; 'I'm completely sewn up, as my friend the late
Lord Chancellor many a time used to say to me, gentlemen, when he came
out from hearing appeals in the House of Lords. Poor fellow; he was very
susceptible to fatigue; he used to feel those appeals uncommonly. I
actually thought more than once that he'd have sunk under 'em; I did,
indeed.'
Here Mr. Pell shook his head and paused; on which, the elder Mr. Weller,
nudging his neighbour, as begging him to mark the attorney's high
connections, asked whether the duties in question produced any permanent
ill effects on the constitution of his noble friend.
'I don't think he ever quite recovered them,' replied Pell; 'in fact I'm
sure he never did. "Pell," he used to say to me many a time, "how the
blazes you can stand the head-work you do, is a mystery to me."--"Well,"
I used to answer, "I hardly know how I do it, upon my life."--"Pell,"
he'd add, sighing, and looking at me with a little envy--friendly envy,
you know, gentlemen, mere friendly envy; I never minded it--"Pell,
you're a wonder; a wonder." Ah! you'd have liked him very much if you
had known him, gentlemen. Bring me three-penn'orth of rum, my dear.'
Addressing this latter remark to the waitress, in a tone of subdued
grief, Mr. Pell sighed, looked at his shoes and the ceiling; and, the
rum having by that time arrived, drank it up.
'However,' said Pell, drawing a chair to the table, 'a professional man
has no right to think of his private friendships when his legal
assistance is wanted. By the bye, gentlemen, since I saw you here
before, we have had to weep over a very melancholy occurrence.'
Mr. Pell drew out a pocket-handkerchief, when he came to the word weep,
but he made no further use of it than to wipe away a slight tinge of rum
which hung upon his upper lip.
'I saw it in the ADVERTISER, Mr. Weller,' continued Pell. 'Bless my
soul, not more than fifty-two! Dear me--only think.'
These indications of a musing spirit were addressed to the mottled-faced
man, whose eyes Mr. Pell had accidentally caught; on which, the mottled-
faced man, whose apprehension of matters in general was of a foggy
nature, moved uneasily in his seat, and opined that, indeed, so far as
that went, there was no saying how things was brought about; which
observation, involving one of those subtle propositions which it is
difficult to encounter in argument, was controverted by nobody.
'I have heard it remarked that she was a very fine woman, Mr. Weller,'
said Pell, in a sympathising manner.
'Yes, sir, she wos,' replied the elder Mr. Weller, not much relishing
this mode of discussing the subject, and yet thinking that the attorney,
from his long intimacy with the late Lord Chancellor, must know best on
all matters of polite breeding. 'She wos a wery fine 'ooman, sir, ven I
first know'd her. She wos a widder, sir, at that time.'
'Now, it's curious,' said Pell, looking round with a sorrowful smile;
'Mrs. Pell was a widow.'
'That's very extraordinary,' said the mottled-faced man.
'Well, it is a curious coincidence,' said Pell.
'Not at all,' gruffly remarked the elder Mr. Weller. 'More widders is
married than single wimin.'
'Very good, very good,' said Pell, 'you're quite right, Mr. Weller. Mrs.
Pell was a very elegant and accomplished woman; her manners were the
theme of universal admiration in our neighbourhood. I was proud to see
that woman dance; there was something so firm and dignified, and yet
natural, in her motion. Her cutting, gentlemen, was simplicity itself.
Ah! well, well! Excuse my asking the question, Mr. Samuel,' continued
the attorney in a lower voice, 'was your mother-in-law tall?'
'Not wery,' replied Sam.
'Mrs. Pell was a tall figure,' said Pell, 'a splendid woman, with a
noble shape, and a nose, gentlemen, formed to command and be majestic.
She was very much attached to me--very much--highly connected, too. Her
mother's brother, gentlemen, failed for eight hundred pounds, as a law
stationer.'
'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, who had grown rather restless during this
discussion, 'vith regard to bis'ness.'
The word was music to Pell's ears. He had been revolving in his mind
whether any business was to be transacted, or whether he had been merely
invited to partake of a glass of brandy-and-water, or a bowl of punch,
or any similar professional compliment, and now the doubt was set at
rest without his appearing at all eager for its solution. His eyes
glistened as he laid his hat on the table, and said--
'What is the business upon which--um? Either of these gentlemen wish to
go through the court? We require an arrest; a friendly arrest will do,
you know; we are all friends here, I suppose?'
'Give me the dockyment, Sammy,' said Mr. Weller, taking the will from
his son, who appeared to enjoy the interview amazingly. 'Wot we rekvire,
sir, is a probe o' this here.'
'Probate, my dear Sir, probate,' said Pell.
'Well, sir,' replied Mr. Weller sharply, 'probe and probe it, is wery
much the same; if you don't understand wot I mean, sir, I des-say I can
find them as does.'
'No offence, I hope, Mr. Weller,' said Pell meekly. 'You are the
executor, I see,' he added, casting his eyes over the paper.
'I am, sir,' replied Mr. Weller.
'These other gentlemen, I presume, are legatees, are they?' inquired
Pell, with a congratulatory smile.
'Sammy is a leg-at-ease,' replied Mr. Weller; 'these other gen'l'm'n is
friends o' mine, just come to see fair; a kind of umpires.'
'Oh!' said Pell, 'very good. I have no objections, I'm sure. I shall
want a matter of five pound of you before I begin, ha! ha! ha!'
It being decided by the committee that the five pound might be advanced,
Mr. Weller produced that sum; after which, a long consultation about
nothing particular took place, in the course whereof Mr. Pell
demonstrated to the perfect satisfaction of the gentlemen who saw fair,
that unless the management of the business had been intrusted to him, it
must all have gone wrong, for reasons not clearly made out, but no doubt
sufficient. This important point being despatched, Mr. Pell refreshed
himself with three chops, and liquids both malt and spirituous, at the
expense of the estate; and then they all went away to Doctors' Commons.
The next day there was another visit to Doctors' Commons, and a great
to-do with an attesting hostler, who, being inebriated, declined
swearing anything but profane oaths, to the great scandal of a proctor
and surrogate. Next week, there were more visits to Doctors' Commons,
and there was a visit to the Legacy Duty Office besides, and there were
treaties entered into, for the disposal of the lease and business, and
ratifications of the same, and inventories to be made out, and lunches
to be taken, and dinners to be eaten, and so many profitable things to
be done, and such a mass of papers accumulated that Mr. Solomon Pell,
and the boy, and the blue bag to boot, all got so stout that scarcely
anybody would have known them for the same man, boy, and bag, that had
loitered about Portugal Street, a few days before.
At length all these weighty matters being arranged, a day was fixed for
selling out and transferring the stock, and of waiting with that view
upon Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, stock-broker, of somewhere near the bank,
who had been recommended by Mr. Solomon Pell for the purpose.
It was a kind of festive occasion, and the parties were attired
accordingly. Mr. Weller's tops were newly cleaned, and his dress was
arranged with peculiar care; the mottled-faced gentleman wore at his
button-hole a full-sized dahlia with several leaves; and the coats of
his two friends were adorned with nosegays of laurel and other
evergreens. All three were habited in strict holiday costume; that is to
say, they were wrapped up to the chins, and wore as many clothes as
possible, which is, and has been, a stage-coachman's idea of full dress
ever since stage-coaches were invented.
Mr. Pell was waiting at the usual place of meeting at the appointed
time; even he wore a pair of gloves and a clean shirt, much frayed at
the collar and wristbands by frequent washings.
'A quarter to two,' said Pell, looking at the parlour clock. 'If we are
with Mr. Flasher at a quarter past, we shall just hit the best time.'
'What should you say to a drop o' beer, gen'l'm'n?' suggested the
mottled-faced man.
'And a little bit o' cold beef,' said the second coachman.
'Or a oyster,' added the third, who was a hoarse gentleman, supported by
very round legs.
'Hear, hear!' said Pell; 'to congratulate Mr. Weller, on his coming into
possession of his property, eh? Ha! ha!'
'I'm quite agreeable, gen'l'm'n,' answered Mr. Weller. 'Sammy, pull the
bell.'
Sammy complied; and the porter, cold beef, and oysters being promptly
produced, the lunch was done ample justice to. Where everybody took so
active a part, it is almost invidious to make a distinction; but if one
individual evinced greater powers than another, it was the coachman with
the hoarse voice, who took an imperial pint of vinegar with his oysters,
without betraying the least emotion.
'Mr. Pell, Sir,' said the elder Mr. Weller, stirring a glass of brandy-
and-water, of which one was placed before every gentleman when the
oyster shells were removed--'Mr. Pell, Sir, it wos my intention to have
proposed the funs on this occasion, but Samivel has vispered to me--'
Here Mr. Samuel Weller, who had silently eaten his oysters with tranquil
smiles, cried, 'Hear!' in a very loud voice.
'--Has vispered to me,' resumed his father, 'that it vould be better to
dewote the liquor to vishin' you success and prosperity, and thankin'
you for the manner in which you've brought this here business through.
Here's your health, sir.'
'Hold hard there,' interposed the mottled-faced gentleman, with sudden
energy; 'your eyes on me, gen'l'm'n!'
Saying this, the mottled-faced gentleman rose, as did the other
gentlemen. The mottled-faced gentleman reviewed the company, and slowly
lifted his hand, upon which every man (including him of the mottled
countenance) drew a long breath, and lifted his tumbler to his lips. In
one instant, the mottled-faced gentleman depressed his hand again, and
every glass was set down empty. It is impossible to describe the
thrilling effect produced by this striking ceremony. At once dignified,
solemn, and impressive, it combined every element of grandeur.
'Well, gentlemen,' said Mr. Pell, 'all I can say is, that such marks of
confidence must be very gratifying to a professional man. I don't wish
to say anything that might appear egotistical, gentlemen, but I'm very
glad, for your own sakes, that you came to me; that's all. If you had
gone to any low member of the profession, it's my firm conviction, and I
assure you of it as a fact, that you would have found yourselves in
Queer Street before this. I could have wished my noble friend had been
alive to have seen my management of this case. I don't say it out of
pride, but I think--However, gentlemen, I won't trouble you with that.
I'm generally to be found here, gentlemen, but if I'm not here, or over
the way, that's my address. You'll find my terms very cheap and
reasonable, and no man attends more to his clients than I do, and I hope
I know a little of my profession besides. If you have any opportunity of
recommending me to any of your friends, gentlemen, I shall be very much
obliged to you, and so will they too, when they come to know me. Your
healths, gentlemen.'
With this expression of his feelings, Mr. Solomon Pell laid three small
written cards before Mr. Weller's friends, and, looking at the clock
again, feared it was time to be walking. Upon this hint Mr. Weller
settled the bill, and, issuing forth, the executor, legatee, attorney,
and umpires, directed their steps towards the city.
The office of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, of the Stock Exchange, was in a
first floor up a court behind the Bank of England; the house of Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, was at Brixton, Surrey; the horse and stanhope of
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, were at an adjacent livery stable; the groom
of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was on his way to the West End to deliver
some game; the clerk of Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, had gone to his
dinner; and so Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, himself, cried, 'Come in,' when
Mr. Pell and his companions knocked at the counting-house door.
'Good-morning, Sir,' said Pell, bowing obsequiously. 'We want to make a
little transfer, if you please.'
'Oh, just come in, will you?' said Mr. Flasher. 'Sit down a minute; I'll
attend to you directly.'
'Thank you, Sir,' said Pell, 'there's no hurry. Take a chair, Mr.
Weller.'
Mr. Weller took a chair, and Sam took a box, and the umpires took what
they could get, and looked at the almanac and one or two papers which
were wafered against the wall, with as much open-eyed reverence as if
they had been the finest efforts of the old masters.
'Well, I'll bet you half a dozen of claret on it; come!' said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire, resuming the conversation to which Mr. Pell's entrance
had caused a momentary interruption.
This was addressed to a very smart young gentleman who wore his hat on
his right whisker, and was lounging over the desk, killing flies with a
ruler. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was balancing himself on two legs of an
office stool, spearing a wafer-box with a penknife, which he dropped
every now and then with great dexterity into the very centre of a small
red wafer that was stuck outside. Both gentlemen had very open
waistcoats and very rolling collars, and very small boots, and very big
rings, and very little watches, and very large guard-chains, and
symmetrical inexpressibles, and scented pocket-handkerchiefs.
'I never bet half a dozen!' said the other gentleman. 'I'll take a
dozen.'
'Done, Simmery, done!' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
'P. P., mind,' observed the other.
'Of course,' replied Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,
entered it in a little book, with a gold pencil-case, and the other
gentleman entered it also, in another little book with another gold
pencil-case.
'I see there's a notice up this morning about Boffer,' observed Mr.
Simmery. 'Poor devil, he's expelled the house!'
'I'll bet you ten guineas to five, he cuts his throat,' said Wilkins
Flasher, Esquire.
'Done,' replied Mr. Simmery.
'Stop! I bar,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, thoughtfully. 'Perhaps he
may hang himself.'
'Very good,' rejoined Mr. Simmery, pulling out the gold pencil-case
again. 'I've no objection to take you that way. Say, makes away with
himself.'
'Kills himself, in fact,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
'Just so,' replied Mr. Simmery, putting it down. '"Flasher--ten guineas
to five, Boffer kills himself." Within what time shall we say?'
'A fortnight?' suggested Wilkins Flasher, Esquire.
'Con-found it, no,' rejoined Mr. Simmery, stopping for an instant to
smash a fly with the ruler. 'Say a week.'
'Split the difference,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'Make it ten
days.'
'Well; ten days,' rejoined Mr. Simmery.
So it was entered down on the little books that Boffer was to kill
himself within ten days, or Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, was to hand over
to Frank Simmery, Esquire, the sum of ten guineas; and that if Boffer
did kill himself within that time, Frank Simmery, Esquire, would pay to
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, five guineas, instead.
'I'm very sorry he has failed,' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'Capital
dinners he gave.'
'Fine port he had too,' remarked Mr. Simmery. 'We are going to send our
butler to the sale to-morrow, to pick up some of that sixty-four.'
'The devil you are!' said Wilkins Flasher, Esquire. 'My man's going too.
Five guineas my man outbids your man.'
'Done.'
Another entry was made in the little books, with the gold pencil-cases;
and Mr. Simmery, having by this time killed all the flies and taken all
the bets, strolled away to the Stock Exchange to see what was going
forward.
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, now condescended to receive Mr. Solomon Pell's
instructions, and having filled up some printed forms, requested the
party to follow him to the bank, which they did: Mr. Weller and his
three friends staring at all they beheld in unbounded astonishment, and
Sam encountering everything with a coolness which nothing could disturb.
Crossing a courtyard which was all noise and bustle, and passing a
couple of porters who seemed dressed to match the red fire engine which
was wheeled away into a corner, they passed into an office where their
business was to be transacted, and where Pell and Mr. Flasher left them
standing for a few moments, while they went upstairs into the Will
Office.
'Wot place is this here?' whispered the mottled-faced gentleman to the
elder Mr. Weller.
'Counsel's Office,' replied the executor in a whisper.
'Wot are them gen'l'men a-settin' behind the counters?' asked the hoarse
coachman.
'Reduced counsels, I s'pose,' replied Mr. Weller. 'Ain't they the
reduced counsels, Samivel?'
'Wy, you don't suppose the reduced counsels is alive, do you?' inquired
Sam, with some disdain.
'How should I know?' retorted Mr. Weller; 'I thought they looked wery
like it. Wot are they, then?'
'Clerks,' replied Sam.
'Wot are they all a-eatin' ham sangwidges for?' inquired his father.
''Cos it's in their dooty, I suppose,' replied Sam, 'it's a part o' the
system; they're alvays a-doin' it here, all day long!'
Mr. Weller and his friends had scarcely had a moment to reflect upon
this singular regulation as connected with the monetary system of the
country, when they were rejoined by Pell and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire,
who led them to a part of the counter above which was a round blackboard
with a large 'W.' on it.
'Wot's that for, Sir?' inquired Mr. Weller, directing Pell's attention
to the target in question.
'The first letter of the name of the deceased,' replied Pell.
'I say,' said Mr. Weller, turning round to the umpires, there's
somethin' wrong here. We's our letter--this won't do.'
The referees at once gave it as their decided opinion that the business
could not be legally proceeded with, under the letter W., and in all
probability it would have stood over for one day at least, had it not
been for the prompt, though, at first sight, undutiful behaviour of Sam,
who, seizing his father by the skirt of the coat, dragged him to the
counter, and pinned him there, until he had affixed his signature to a
couple of instruments; which, from Mr. Weller's habit of printing, was a
work of so much labour and time, that the officiating clerk peeled and
ate three Ribstone pippins while it was performing.
As the elder Mr. Weller insisted on selling out his portion forthwith,
they proceeded from the bank to the gate of the Stock Exchange, to which
Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, after a short absence, returned with a cheque
on Smith, Payne, & Smith, for five hundred and thirty pounds; that being
the money to which Mr. Weller, at the market price of the day, was
entitled, in consideration of the balance of the second Mrs. Weller's
funded savings. Sam's two hundred pounds stood transferred to his name,
and Wilkins Flasher, Esquire, having been paid his commission, dropped
the money carelessly into his coat pocket, and lounged back to his
office.
Mr. Weller was at first obstinately determined on cashing the cheque in
nothing but sovereigns; but it being represented by the umpires that by
so doing he must incur the expense of a small sack to carry them home
in, he consented to receive the amount in five-pound notes.
'My son,' said Mr. Weller, as they came out of the banking-house--'my
son and me has a wery partickler engagement this arternoon, and I should
like to have this here bis'ness settled out of hand, so let's jest go
straight avay someveres, vere ve can hordit the accounts.'
A quiet room was soon found, and the accounts were produced and audited.
Mr. Pell's bill was taxed by Sam, and some charges were disallowed by
the umpires; but, notwithstanding Mr. Pell's declaration, accompanied
with many solemn asseverations that they were really too hard upon him,
it was by very many degrees the best professional job he had ever had,
and one on which he boarded, lodged, and washed, for six months
afterwards.
The umpires having partaken of a dram, shook hands and departed, as they
had to drive out of town that night. Mr. Solomon Pell, finding that
nothing more was going forward, either in the eating or drinking way,
took a friendly leave, and Sam and his father were left alone.
'There!' said Mr. Weller, thrusting his pocket-book in his side pocket.
'Vith the bills for the lease, and that, there's eleven hundred and
eighty pound here. Now, Samivel, my boy, turn the horses' heads to the
George and Wulter!'
Mr. Pickwick was sitting alone, musing over many things, and thinking
among other considerations how he could best provide for the young
couple whose present unsettled condition was matter of constant regret
and anxiety to him, when Mary stepped lightly into the room, and,
advancing to the table, said, rather hastily--
'Oh, if you please, Sir, Samuel is downstairs, and he says may his
father see you?'
'Surely,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'Thank you, Sir,' said Mary, tripping towards the door again.
'Sam has not been here long, has he?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Oh, no, Sir,' replied Mary eagerly. 'He has only just come home. He is
not going to ask you for any more leave, Sir, he says.'
Mary might have been conscious that she had communicated this last
intelligence with more warmth than seemed actually necessary, or she
might have observed the good-humoured smile with which Mr. Pickwick
regarded her, when she had finished speaking. She certainly held down
her head, and examined the corner of a very smart little apron, with
more closeness than there appeared any absolute occasion for.
'Tell them they can come up at once, by all means,' said Mr. Pickwick.
Mary, apparently much relieved, hurried away with her message.
Mr. Pickwick took two or three turns up and down the room; and, rubbing
his chin with his left hand as he did so, appeared lost in thought.
'Well, well,' said Mr. Pickwick, at length in a kind but somewhat
melancholy tone, 'it is the best way in which I could reward him for his
attachment and fidelity; let it be so, in Heaven's name. It is the fate
of a lonely old man, that those about him should form new and different
attachments and leave him. I have no right to expect that it should be
otherwise with me. No, no,' added Mr. Pickwick more cheerfully, 'it
would be selfish and ungrateful. I ought to be happy to have an
opportunity of providing for him so well. I am. Of course I am.'
Mr. Pickwick had been so absorbed in these reflections, that a knock at
the door was three or four times repeated before he heard it. Hastily
seating himself, and calling up his accustomed pleasant looks, he gave
the required permission, and Sam Weller entered, followed by his father.
'Glad to see you back again, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick. 'How do you do,
Mr. Weller?'
'Wery hearty, thank'ee, sir,' replied the widower; 'hope I see you well,
sir.'
'Quite, I thank you,' replied Mr. Pickwick.
'I wanted to have a little bit o' conwersation with you, sir,' said Mr.
Weller, 'if you could spare me five minits or so, sir.'
'Certainly,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Sam, give your father a chair.'
'Thank'ee, Samivel, I've got a cheer here,' said Mr. Weller, bringing
one forward as he spoke; 'uncommon fine day it's been, sir,' added the
old gentleman, laying his hat on the floor as he sat himself down.
'Remarkably so, indeed,' replied Mr. Pickwick. 'Very seasonable.'
'Seasonablest veather I ever see, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller. Here, the
old gentleman was seized with a violent fit of coughing, which, being
terminated, he nodded his head and winked and made several supplicatory
and threatening gestures to his son, all of which Sam Weller steadily
abstained from seeing.
Mr. Pickwick, perceiving that there was some embarrassment on the old
gentleman's part, affected to be engaged in cutting the leaves of a book
that lay beside him, and waited patiently until Mr. Weller should arrive
at the object of his visit.
'I never see sich a aggrawatin' boy as you are, Samivel,' said Mr.
Weller, looking indignantly at his son; 'never in all my born days.'
'What is he doing, Mr. Weller?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'He von't begin, sir,' rejoined Mr. Weller; 'he knows I ain't ekal to
ex-pressin' myself ven there's anythin' partickler to be done, and yet
he'll stand and see me a-settin' here taking up your walable time, and
makin' a reg'lar spectacle o' myself, rayther than help me out vith a
syllable. It ain't filial conduct, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, wiping his
forehead; 'wery far from it.'
'You said you'd speak,' replied Sam; 'how should I know you wos done up
at the wery beginnin'?'
'You might ha' seen I warn't able to start,' rejoined his father; 'I'm
on the wrong side of the road, and backin' into the palin's, and all
manner of unpleasantness, and yet you von't put out a hand to help me.
I'm ashamed on you, Samivel.'
'The fact is, Sir,' said Sam, with a slight bow, 'the gov'nor's been a-
drawin' his money.'
'Wery good, Samivel, wery good,' said Mr. Weller, nodding his head with
a satisfied air, 'I didn't mean to speak harsh to you, Sammy. Wery good.
That's the vay to begin. Come to the pint at once. Wery good indeed,
Samivel.'
Mr. Weller nodded his head an extraordinary number of times, in the
excess of his gratification, and waited in a listening attitude for Sam
to resume his statement.
'You may sit down, Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, apprehending that the
interview was likely to prove rather longer than he had expected.
Sam bowed again and sat down; his father looking round, he continued--
'The gov'nor, sir, has drawn out five hundred and thirty pound.'
'Reduced counsels,' interposed Mr. Weller, senior, in an undertone.
'It don't much matter vether it's reduced counsels, or wot not,' said
Sam; 'five hundred and thirty pounds is the sum, ain't it?'
'All right, Samivel,' replied Mr. Weller.
'To vich sum, he has added for the house and bisness--'
'Lease, good-vill, stock, and fixters,' interposed Mr. Weller.
'As much as makes it,' continued Sam, 'altogether, eleven hundred and
eighty pound.'
'Indeed!' said Mr. Pickwick. 'I am delighted to hear it. I congratulate
you, Mr. Weller, on having done so well.'
'Vait a minit, Sir,' said Mr. Weller, raising his hand in a deprecatory
manner. 'Get on, Samivel.'
'This here money,' said Sam, with a little hesitation, 'he's anxious to
put someveres, vere he knows it'll be safe, and I'm wery anxious too,
for if he keeps it, he'll go a-lendin' it to somebody, or inwestin'
property in horses, or droppin' his pocket-book down an airy, or makin'
a Egyptian mummy of his-self in some vay or another.'
'Wery good, Samivel,' observed Mr. Weller, in as complacent a manner as
if Sam had been passing the highest eulogiums on his prudence and
foresight. 'Wery good.'
'For vich reasons,' continued Sam, plucking nervously at the brim of his
hat--'for vich reasons, he's drawn it out to-day, and come here vith me
to say, leastvays to offer, or in other vords--'
'To say this here,' said the elder Mr. Weller impatiently, 'that it
ain't o' no use to me. I'm a-goin' to vork a coach reg'lar, and ha'n't
got noveres to keep it in, unless I vos to pay the guard for takin' care
on it, or to put it in vun o' the coach pockets, vich 'ud be a
temptation to the insides. If you'll take care on it for me, sir, I
shall be wery much obliged to you. P'raps,' said Mr. Weller, walking up
to Mr. Pickwick and whispering in his ear--'p'raps it'll go a little vay
towards the expenses o' that 'ere conwiction. All I say is, just you
keep it till I ask you for it again.' With these words, Mr. Weller
placed the pocket-book in Mr. Pickwick's hands, caught up his hat, and
ran out of the room with a celerity scarcely to be expected from so
corpulent a subject.
'Stop him, Sam!' exclaimed Mr. Pickwick earnestly. 'Overtake him; bring
him back instantly! Mr. Weller--here--come back!'
Sam saw that his master's injunctions were not to be disobeyed; and,
catching his father by the arm as he was descending the stairs, dragged
him back by main force.
'My good friend,' said Mr. Pickwick, taking the old man by the hand,
'your honest confidence overpowers me.'
'I don't see no occasion for nothin' o' the kind, Sir,' replied Mr.
Weller obstinately.
'I assure you, my good friend, I have more money than I can ever need;
far more than a man at my age can ever live to spend,' said Mr.
Pickwick.
'No man knows how much he can spend, till he tries,' observed Mr.
Weller.
'Perhaps not,' replied Mr. Pickwick; 'but as I have no intention of
trying any such experiments, I am not likely to come to want. I must beg
you to take this back, Mr. Weller.'
Wery well,' said Mr. Weller, with a discontented look. 'Mark my vords,
Sammy, I'll do somethin' desperate vith this here property; somethin'
desperate!'
'You'd better not,' replied Sam.
Mr. Weller reflected for a short time, and then, buttoning up his coat
with great determination, said--
'I'll keep a pike.'
'Wot!' exclaimed Sam.
'A pike!' rejoined Mr. Weller, through his set teeth; 'I'll keep a pike.
Say good-bye to your father, Samivel. I dewote the remainder of my days
to a pike.'
This threat was such an awful one, and Mr. Weller, besides appearing
fully resolved to carry it into execution, seemed so deeply mortified by
Mr. Pickwick's refusal, that that gentleman, after a short reflection,
said--
'Well, well, Mr. Weller, I will keep your money. I can do more good with
it, perhaps, than you can.'
'Just the wery thing, to be sure,' said Mr. Weller, brightening up; 'o'
course you can, sir.'
'Say no more about it,' said Mr. Pickwick, locking the pocket-book in
his desk; 'I am heartily obliged to you, my good friend. Now sit down
again. I want to ask your advice.'
The internal laughter occasioned by the triumphant success of his visit,
which had convulsed not only Mr. Weller's face, but his arms, legs, and
body also, during the locking up of the pocket-book, suddenly gave place
to the most dignified gravity as he heard these words.
'Wait outside a few minutes, Sam, will you?' said Mr. Pickwick.
Sam immediately withdrew.
Mr. Weller looked uncommonly wise and very much amazed, when Mr.
Pickwick opened the discourse by saying--
'You are not an advocate for matrimony, I think, Mr. Weller?'
Mr. Weller shook his head. He was wholly unable to speak; vague thoughts
of some wicked widow having been successful in her designs on Mr.
Pickwick, choked his utterance.
'Did you happen to see a young girl downstairs when you came in just now
with your son?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Yes. I see a young gal,' replied Mr. Weller shortly.
'What did you think of her, now? Candidly, Mr. Weller, what did you
think of her?'
'I thought she wos wery plump, and vell made,' said Mr. Weller, with a
critical air.
'So she is,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'so she is. What did you think of her
manners, from what you saw of her?'
'Wery pleasant,' rejoined Mr. Weller. 'Wery pleasant and comformable.'
The precise meaning which Mr. Weller attached to this last-mentioned
adjective, did not appear; but, as it was evident from the tone in which
he used it that it was a favourable expression, Mr. Pickwick was as well
satisfied as if he had been thoroughly enlightened on the subject.
'I take a great interest in her, Mr. Weller,' said Mr. Pickwick.
Mr. Weller coughed.
'I mean an interest in her doing well,' resumed Mr. Pickwick; 'a desire
that she may be comfortable and prosperous. You understand?'
'Wery clearly,' replied Mr. Weller, who understood nothing yet.
'That young person,' said Mr. Pickwick, 'is attached to your son.'
'To Samivel Veller!' exclaimed the parent.
'Yes,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'It's nat'ral,' said Mr. Weller, after some consideration, 'nat'ral, but
rayther alarmin'. Sammy must be careful.'
'How do you mean?' inquired Mr. Pickwick.
'Wery careful that he don't say nothin' to her,' responded Mr. Weller.
'Wery careful that he ain't led avay, in a innocent moment, to say
anythin' as may lead to a conwiction for breach. You're never safe vith
'em, Mr. Pickwick, ven they vunce has designs on you; there's no knowin'
vere to have 'em; and vile you're a-considering of it, they have you. I
wos married fust, that vay myself, Sir, and Sammy wos the consekens o'
the manoover.'
'You give me no great encouragement to conclude what I have to say,'
observed Mr. Pickwick, 'but I had better do so at once. This young
person is not only attached to your son, Mr. Weller, but your son is
attached to her.'
'Vell,' said Mr. Weller, 'this here's a pretty sort o' thing to come to
a father's ears, this is!'
'I have observed them on several occasions,' said Mr. Pickwick, making
no comment on Mr. Weller's last remark; 'and entertain no doubt at all
about it. Supposing I were desirous of establishing them comfortably as
man and wife in some little business or situation, where they might hope
to obtain a decent living, what should you think of it, Mr. Weller?'
At first, Mr. Weller received with wry faces a proposition involving the
marriage of anybody in whom he took an interest; but, as Mr. Pickwick
argued the point with him, and laid great stress on the fact that Mary
was not a widow, he gradually became more tractable. Mr. Pickwick had
great influence over him, and he had been much struck with Mary's
appearance; having, in fact, bestowed several very unfatherly winks upon
her, already. At length he said that it was not for him to oppose Mr.
Pickwick's inclination, and that he would be very happy to yield to his
advice; upon which, Mr. Pickwick joyfully took him at his word, and
called Sam back into the room.
'Sam,' said Mr. Pickwick, clearing his throat, 'your father and I have
been having some conversation about you.'
'About you, Samivel,' said Mr. Weller, in a patronising and impressive
voice.
'I am not so blind, Sam, as not to have seen, a long time since, that
you entertain something more than a friendly feeling towards Mrs.
Winkle's maid,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'You hear this, Samivel?' said Mr. Weller, in the same judicial form of
speech as before.
'I hope, Sir,' said Sam, addressing his master, 'I hope there's no harm
in a young man takin' notice of a young 'ooman as is undeniably good-
looking and well-conducted.'
'Certainly not,' said Mr. Pickwick.
'Not by no means,' acquiesced Mr. Weller, affably but magisterially.
'So far from thinking there is anything wrong in conduct so natural,'
resumed Mr. Pickwick, 'it is my wish to assist and promote your wishes
in this respect. With this view, I have had a little conversation with
your father; and finding that he is of my opinion--'
'The lady not bein' a widder,' interposed Mr. Weller in explanation.
'The lady not being a widow,' said Mr. Pickwick, smiling. 'I wish to
free you from the restraint which your present position imposes upon
you, and to mark my sense of your fidelity and many excellent qualities,
by enabling you to marry this girl at once, and to earn an independent
livelihood for yourself and family. I shall be proud, Sam,' said Mr.
Pickwick, whose voice had faltered a little hitherto, but now resumed
its customary tone, 'proud and happy to make your future prospects in
life my grateful and peculiar care.'
There was a profound silence for a short time, and then Sam said, in a
low, husky sort of voice, but firmly withal--
'I'm very much obliged to you for your goodness, Sir, as is only like
yourself; but it can't be done.'
'Can't be done!' ejaculated Mr. Pickwick in astonishment.
'Samivel!' said Mr. Weller, with dignity.
'I say it can't be done,' repeated Sam in a louder key. 'Wot's to become
of you, Sir?'
'My good fellow,' replied Mr. Pickwick, 'the recent changes among my
friends will alter my mode of life in future, entirely; besides, I am
growing older, and want repose and quiet. My rambles, Sam, are over.'
'How do I know that 'ere, sir?' argued Sam. 'You think so now! S'pose
you wos to change your mind, vich is not unlikely, for you've the spirit
o' five-and-twenty in you still, what 'ud become on you vithout me? It
can't be done, Sir, it can't be done.'
'Wery good, Samivel, there's a good deal in that,' said Mr. Weller
encouragingly.
'I speak after long deliberation, Sam, and with the certainty that I
shall keep my word,' said Mr. Pickwick, shaking his head. 'New scenes
have closed upon me; my rambles are at an end.'
'Wery good,' rejoined Sam. 'Then, that's the wery best reason wy you
should alvays have somebody by you as understands you, to keep you up
and make you comfortable. If you vant a more polished sort o' feller,
vell and good, have him; but vages or no vages, notice or no notice,
board or no board, lodgin' or no lodgin', Sam Veller, as you took from
the old inn in the Borough, sticks by you, come what may; and let
ev'rythin' and ev'rybody do their wery fiercest, nothin' shall ever
perwent it!'
At the close of this declaration, which Sam made with great emotion, the
elder Mr. Weller rose from his chair, and, forgetting all considerations
of time, place, or propriety, waved his hat above his head, and gave
three vehement cheers.
'My good fellow,' said Mr. Pickwick, when Mr. Weller had sat down again,
rather abashed at his own enthusiasm, 'you are bound to consider the
young woman also.'
'I do consider the young 'ooman, Sir,' said Sam. 'I have considered the
young 'ooman. I've spoke to her. I've told her how I'm sitivated; she's
ready to vait till I'm ready, and I believe she vill. If she don't,
she's not the young 'ooman I take her for, and I give her up vith
readiness. You've know'd me afore, Sir. My mind's made up, and nothin'
can ever alter it.'
Who could combat this resolution? Not Mr. Pickwick. He derived, at that
moment, more pride and luxury of feeling from the disinterested
attachment of his humble friends, than ten thousand protestations from
the greatest men living could have awakened in his heart.
While this conversation was passing in Mr. Pickwick's room, a little old
gentleman in a suit of snuff-coloured clothes, followed by a porter
carrying a small portmanteau, presented himself below; and, after
securing a bed for the night, inquired of the waiter whether one Mrs.
Winkle was staying there, to which question the waiter of course
responded in the affirmative.
'Is she alone?' inquired the old gentleman.
'I believe she is, Sir,' replied the waiter; 'I can call her own maid,
Sir, if you--'
'No, I don't want her,' said the old gentleman quickly. 'Show me to her
room without announcing me.'
'Eh, Sir?' said the waiter.
'Are you deaf?' inquired the little old gentleman.
'No, sir.'
'Then listen, if you please. Can you hear me now?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'That's well. Show me to Mrs. Winkle's room, without announcing me.'
As the little old gentleman uttered this command, he slipped five
shillings into the waiter's hand, and looked steadily at him.
'Really, sir,' said the waiter, 'I don't know, sir, whether--'
'Ah! you'll do it, I see,' said the little old gentleman. 'You had
better do it at once. It will save time.'
There was something so very cool and collected in the gentleman's
manner, that the waiter put the five shillings in his pocket, and led
him upstairs without another word.
'This is the room, is it?' said the gentleman. 'You may go.'
The waiter complied, wondering much who the gentleman could be, and what
he wanted; the little old gentleman, waiting till he was out of sight,
tapped at the door.
'Come in,' said Arabella.
'Um, a pretty voice, at any rate,' murmured the little old gentleman;
'but that's nothing.' As he said this, he opened the door and walked in.
Arabella, who was sitting at work, rose on beholding a stranger--a
little confused--but by no means ungracefully so.
'Pray don't rise, ma'am,' said the unknown, walking in, and closing the
door after him. 'Mrs. Winkle, I believe?'
Arabella inclined her head.
'Mrs. Nathaniel Winkle, who married the son of the old man at
Birmingham?' said the stranger, eyeing Arabella with visible curiosity.
Again Arabella inclined her head, and looked uneasily round, as if
uncertain whether to call for assistance.
'I surprise you, I see, ma'am,' said the old gentleman.
'Rather, I confess,' replied Arabella, wondering more and more.
'I'll take a chair, if you'll allow me, ma'am,' said the stranger.
He took one; and drawing a spectacle-case from his pocket, leisurely
pulled out a pair of spectacles, which he adjusted on his nose.
'You don't know me, ma'am?' he said, looking so intently at Arabella
that she began to feel alarmed.
'No, sir,' she replied timidly.
'No,' said the gentleman, nursing his left leg; 'I don't know how you
should. You know my name, though, ma'am.'
'Do I?' said Arabella, trembling, though she scarcely knew why. 'May I
ask what it is?'
'Presently, ma'am, presently,' said the stranger, not having yet removed
his eyes from her countenance. 'You have been recently married, ma'am?'
'I have,' replied Arabella, in a scarcely audible tone, laying aside her
work, and becoming greatly agitated as a thought, that had occurred to
her before, struck more forcibly upon her mind.
'Without having represented to your husband the propriety of first
consulting his father, on whom he is dependent, I think?' said the
stranger.
Arabella applied her handkerchief to her eyes.
'Without an endeavour, even, to ascertain, by some indirect appeal, what
were the old man's sentiments on a point in which he would naturally
feel much interested?' said the stranger.
'I cannot deny it, Sir,' said Arabella.
'And without having sufficient property of your own to afford your
husband any permanent assistance in exchange for the worldly advantages
which you knew he would have gained if he had married agreeably to his
father's wishes?' said the old gentleman. 'This is what boys and girls
call disinterested affection, till they have boys and girls of their
own, and then they see it in a rougher and very different light!'
Arabella's tears flowed fast, as she pleaded in extenuation that she was
young and inexperienced; that her attachment had alone induced her to
take the step to which she had resorted; and that she had been deprived
of the counsel and guidance of her parents almost from infancy.
'It was wrong,' said the old gentleman in a milder tone, 'very wrong. It
was romantic, unbusinesslike, foolish.'
'It was my fault; all my fault, Sir,' replied poor Arabella, weeping.
'Nonsense,' said the old gentleman; 'it was not your fault that he fell
in love with you, I suppose? Yes it was, though,' said the old
gentleman, looking rather slily at Arabella. 'It was your fault. He
couldn't help it.'
This little compliment, or the little gentleman's odd way of paying it,
or his altered manner--so much kinder than it was, at first--or all
three together, forced a smile from Arabella in the midst of her tears.
'Where's your husband?' inquired the old gentleman, abruptly; stopping a
smile which was just coming over his own face.
'I expect him every instant, sir,' said Arabella. 'I persuaded him to
take a walk this morning. He is very low and wretched at not having
heard from his father.'
'Low, is he?' said the old gentlemen. 'Serve him right!'
'He feels it on my account, I am afraid,' said Arabella; 'and indeed,
Sir, I feel it deeply on his. I have been the sole means of bringing him
to his present condition.'
'Don't mind it on his account, my dear,' said the old gentleman. 'It
serves him right. I am glad of it--actually glad of it, as far as he is
concerned.'
The words were scarcely out of the old gentleman's lips, when footsteps
were heard ascending the stairs, which he and Arabella seemed both to
recognise at the same moment. The little gentleman turned pale; and,
making a strong effort to appear composed, stood up, as Mr. Winkle
entered the room.
'Father!' cried Mr. Winkle, recoiling in amazement.
'Yes, sir,' replied the little old gentleman. 'Well, Sir, what have you
got to say to me?'
Mr. Winkle remained silent.
'You are ashamed of yourself, I hope, Sir?' said the old gentleman.
Still Mr. Winkle said nothing.
'Are you ashamed of yourself, Sir, or are you not?' inquired the old
gentleman.
'No, Sir,' replied Mr. Winkle, drawing Arabella's arm through his. 'I am
not ashamed of myself, or of my wife either.'
'Upon my word!' cried the old gentleman ironically.
'I am very sorry to have done anything which has lessened your affection
for me, Sir,' said Mr. Winkle; 'but I will say, at the same time, that I
have no reason to be ashamed of having this lady for my wife, nor you of
having her for a daughter.'
'Give me your hand, Nat,' said the old gentleman, in an altered voice.
'Kiss me, my love. You are a very charming little daughter-in-law after
all!'
In a few minutes' time Mr. Winkle went in search of Mr. Pickwick, and
returning with that gentleman, presented him to his father, whereupon
they shook hands for five minutes incessantly.
'Mr. Pickwick, I thank you most heartily for all your kindness to my
son,' said old Mr. Winkle, in a bluff, straightforward way. 'I am a
hasty fellow, and when I saw you last, I was vexed and taken by
surprise. I have judged for myself now, and am more than satisfied.
Shall I make any more apologies, Mr. Pickwick?'
'Not one,' replied that gentleman. 'You have done the only thing wanting
to complete my happiness.'
Hereupon there was another shaking of hands for five minutes longer,
accompanied by a great number of complimentary speeches, which, besides
being complimentary, had the additional and very novel recommendation of
being sincere.
Sam had dutifully seen his father to the Belle Sauvage, when, on
returning, he encountered the fat boy in the court, who had been charged
with the delivery of a note from Emily Wardle.
'I say,' said Joe, who was unusually loquacious, 'what a pretty girl
Mary is, isn't she? I am _so_ fond of her, I am!'
Mr. Weller made no verbal remark in reply; but eyeing the fat boy for a
moment, quite transfixed at his presumption, led him by the collar to
the corner, and dismissed him with a harmless but ceremonious kick.
After which, he walked home, whistling. | Tony Weller finds the will his wife made out, in which she gives 200 pounds to Sam and the rest to Tony. Sam tells his father that the will must be probated before they can come into their inheritance. So the two men go to see Solomon Pell, taking a group of coachmen along to umpire. The legal formalities take about a week, and the skinny Pell begins to put on weight from this new income. When the will has passed through probate, Pell takes the men over to a stockbroker to invest Sam's 200 pounds. The broker, a gaudy fellow named Wilkins Flasher, Esq., is fond of making bets on every topic of conversation. He receives Sam's portion of the legacy, and Solomon Pell takes a large fee, which leaves Tony Weller with over 1,100 pounds. Mr. Weller decides to see Mr. Pickwick with the money. After being ushered into Mr. Pickwick's room, Tony finds himself speechless. At length he manages to say that he intends Mr. Pickwick to have the money, places it in Mr. Pickwick's hands, and tries to escape, but Sam restrains him. Mr. Pickwick is reluctant to accept the money but decides he can use it to set Sam up in business, which would enable Sam to marry. However, Sam steadfastly refuses to leave Mr. Pickwick's service, saying that Mary will have to wait. Tony is very pleased by his son's loyalty to Mr. Pickwick. Meanwhile an old gentleman enters, looking for Arahella's room. He enters, intimates that he represents Winkle's father and charges Arabella with imprudence in marrying Nathaniel. She does not deny it, but tearfully defends herself, and the old man relents a bit. Then young Winkle enters, sees his father and defends both his wife and his decision. His father then shows himself to be very delighted with the match. Mr. Pickwick comes in and is gratified to see Mr. Winkle's change of heart. Sam, on learning of Joe the Fat Boy's crush on Mary, gives him a ceremonious kick. |
SCENE IV.
The Forest of Arden
Enter ROSALIND for GANYMEDE, CELIA for ALIENA, and CLOWN alias TOUCHSTONE
ROSALIND. O Jupiter, how weary are my spirits!
TOUCHSTONE. I Care not for my spirits, if my legs were not weary.
ROSALIND. I could find in my heart to disgrace my man's apparel,
and to cry like a woman; but I must comfort the weaker vessel, as
doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;
therefore, courage, good Aliena.
CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot go no further.
TOUCHSTONE. For my part, I had rather bear with you than bear you;
yet I should bear no cross if I did bear you; for I think you
have no money in your purse.
ROSALIND. Well,. this is the Forest of Arden.
TOUCHSTONE. Ay, now am I in Arden; the more fool I; when I was at
home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.
Enter CORIN and SILVIUS
ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a
young man and an old in solemn talk.
CORIN. That is the way to make her scorn you still.
SILVIUS. O Corin, that thou knew'st how I do love her!
CORIN. I partly guess; for I have lov'd ere now.
SILVIUS. No, Corin, being old, thou canst not guess,
Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
As ever sigh'd upon a midnight pillow.
But if thy love were ever like to mine,
As sure I think did never man love so,
How many actions most ridiculous
Hast thou been drawn to by thy fantasy?
CORIN. Into a thousand that I have forgotten.
SILVIUS. O, thou didst then never love so heartily!
If thou rememb'rest not the slightest folly
That ever love did make thee run into,
Thou hast not lov'd;
Or if thou hast not sat as I do now,
Wearing thy hearer in thy mistress' praise,
Thou hast not lov'd;
Or if thou hast not broke from company
Abruptly, as my passion now makes me,
Thou hast not lov'd.
O Phebe, Phebe, Phebe! Exit Silvius
ROSALIND. Alas, poor shepherd! searching of thy wound,
I have by hard adventure found mine own.
TOUCHSTONE. And I mine. I remember, when I was in love, I broke my
sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to
Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the
cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember
the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,
and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these
for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in love mortal
in folly.
ROSALIND. Thou speak'st wiser than thou art ware of.
TOUCHSTONE. Nay, I shall ne'er be ware of mine own wit till I break
my shins against it.
ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
Is much upon my fashion.
TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
If he for gold will give us any food;
I faint almost to death.
TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!
ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.
CORIN. Who calls?
TOUCHSTONE. Your betters, sir.
CORIN. Else are they very wretched.
ROSALIND. Peace, I say. Good even to you, friend.
CORIN. And to you, gentle sir, and to you all.
ROSALIND. I prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
Can in this desert place buy entertainment,
Bring us where we may rest ourselves and feed.
Here's a young maid with travel much oppress'd,
And faints for succour.
CORIN. Fair sir, I pity her,
And wish, for her sake more than for mine own,
My fortunes were more able to relieve her;
But I am shepherd to another man,
And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
My master is of churlish disposition,
And little recks to find the way to heaven
By doing deeds of hospitality.
Besides, his cote, his flocks, and bounds of feed,
Are now on sale; and at our sheepcote now,
By reason of his absence, there is nothing
That you will feed on; but what is, come see,
And in my voice most welcome shall you be.
ROSALIND. What is he that shall buy his flock and pasture?
CORIN. That young swain that you saw here but erewhile,
That little cares for buying any thing.
ROSALIND. I pray thee, if it stand with honesty,
Buy thou the cottage, pasture, and the flock,
And thou shalt have to pay for it of us.
CELIA. And we will mend thy wages. I like this place,
And willingly could waste my time in it.
CORIN. Assuredly the thing is to be sold.
Go with me; if you like upon report
The soil, the profit, and this kind of life,
I will your very faithful feeder be,
And buy it with your gold right suddenly. Exeunt | Rosalind and Celia, using the names Ganymede and Aliena, respectively, arrive at the Forest of Ardenne accompanied by Touchstone. Rosalind is dressed as a man and Celia as a shepherdess. They are all tired and complain that they cannot walk any further. Two shepherds, Corin and Silvius, arrive and discuss the fact that Silvius is in love with Phoebe. Rosalind, Celia and Touchstone remain unseen in the background. Corin, an old man, is trying to give Silvius advice but the younger man is claiming that Corin is too old to understand the way he feels. Silvius leaves and Rosalind remarks that she can identify with the way Silvius feels. Touchstone then tells them of some of the foolish things he did when he was previously in love. Rosalind orders Touchstone to approach Corin and ask if he will give them food for some gold. Touchstone calls him a clown, making Rosalind say, "Peace, fool, he's not thy kinsman". She then goes up to Corin and asks if there is any place where they can get food. Corin informs her that he works for another man and therefore is not allowed to provide hospitality. However, he mentions that the place is for sale and that Silvius was there to consider purchasing the land and flocks. Rosalind immediately offers to buy the land and hire Corin to take care of it with a raise in pay. Corin happily agrees to help them purchase the land |
Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his
successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule
to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the
door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she
entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in
warm terms on the happy prospect of their nearer connection. Mr. Collins
received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then
proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result
of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the
refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow
from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet;--she would have been
glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage
him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not to believe
it, and could not help saying so.
"But depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be
brought to reason. I will speak to her about it myself directly. She is
a very headstrong foolish girl, and does not know her own interest; but
I will _make_ her know it."
"Pardon me for interrupting you, Madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she
is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she
actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to
force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of
temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity."
"Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is
only headstrong in such matters as these. In every thing else she is as
good natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and
we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure."
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her
husband, called out as she entered the library,
"Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar.
You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will
not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and
not have _her_."
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them
on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by
her communication.
"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had
finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"
"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins,
and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."
"And what am I to do on the occasion?--It seems an hopeless business."
"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her
marrying him."
"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the
library.
"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for
you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made
you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was.
"Very well--and this offer of marriage you have refused?"
"I have, Sir."
"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your
accepting it. Is not it so, Mrs. Bennet?"
"Yes, or I will never see her again."
"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must
be a stranger to one of your parents.--Your mother will never see you
again if you do _not_ marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again
if you _do_."
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning;
but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the
affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, by talking in this way? You promised me
to _insist_ upon her marrying him."
"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request.
First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the
present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the
library to myself as soon as may be."
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did
Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again;
coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in
her interest, but Jane with all possible mildness declined
interfering;--and Elizabeth sometimes with real earnestness and
sometimes with playful gaiety replied to her attacks. Though her manner
varied however, her determination never did.
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed.
He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motive his cousin
could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other
way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her
deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend
the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to
her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such
fun here!--What do you think has happened this morning?--Mr. Collins has
made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him."
Charlotte had hardly time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty,
who came to tell the same news, and no sooner had they entered the
breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on
the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating
her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her
family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone,
"for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me, I am cruelly used,
nobody feels for my poor nerves."
Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned
as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided
she can have her own way.--But I tell you what, Miss Lizzy, if you take
it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way,
you will never get a husband at all--and I am sure I do not know who is
to maintain you when your father is dead.--_I_ shall not be able to keep
you--and so I warn you.--I have done with you from this very day.--I
told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you
again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in
talking to undutiful children.--Not that I have much pleasure indeed in
talking to any body. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints
can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I
suffer!--But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never
pitied."
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any
attempt to reason with or sooth her would only increase the irritation.
She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them till
they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered with an air more stately
than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls,
"Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and
let Mr. Collins and me have a little conversation together."
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but
Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte,
detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after
herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little
curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending
not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet thus began the projected
conversation.--"Oh! Mr. Collins!"--
"My dear Madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point.
Far be it from me," he presently continued in a voice that marked his
displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to
inevitable evils is the duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man
who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I
trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my
positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I
have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the
blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation.
You will not, I hope, consider me as shewing any disrespect to your
family, my dear Madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your
daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the
compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf.
My conduct may I fear be objectionable in having accepted my dismission
from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to
error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object
has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due
consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my _manner_
has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise." | Soon after Elizabeth leaves the room, Mrs. Bennet enters and congratulates Collins on the most happy prospect of his becoming her son-in-law. Mr. Collins accepts her good wishes and gives her the particulars of what has happened with Elizabeth. He explains his belief that Elizabeths refusal stems from her "bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character". Mrs. Bennet, who knows her outspoken daughter very well, does believe that her denial is meant as shy encouragement. She explains to Mr. Collins that Elizabeth is headstrong and foolish, but assures him that her daughter will be brought to reason. When Collins hears Mrs. Bennets assessment of Elizabeths personality, he doubts whether he has chosen the correct daughter and voices his concern. A flustered Mrs. Bennet, who sees a marriage opportunity slipping away, contradicts her prior statements about Elizabeth. She then hurries to tell her husband, asking him to advise Elizabeth to accept Mr. Collins proposal. Mr. Bennet tells Elizabeth that her mother will never see her face again if she does not marry Collins, but at the same time, he will not see her face again if she does marry Collins. Mr. Collins pride is finally hurt by Elizabeths refusal. He has truly wanted to find an amiable companion among the Bennet daughters and convinced himself that a marriage to one of them would be an advantage to all the Bennet family. He says he is sorry that he is misunderstood and apologizes if he has been rude in any way. |
TROY'S ROMANTICISM
When Troy's wife had left the house at the previous midnight his
first act was to cover the dead from sight. This done he ascended
the stairs, and throwing himself down upon the bed dressed as he was,
he waited miserably for the morning.
Fate had dealt grimly with him through the last four-and-twenty
hours. His day had been spent in a way which varied very materially
from his intentions regarding it. There is always an inertia to
be overcome in striking out a new line of conduct--not more in
ourselves, it seems, than in circumscribing events, which appear as
if leagued together to allow no novelties in the way of amelioration.
Twenty pounds having been secured from Bathsheba, he had managed to
add to the sum every farthing he could muster on his own account,
which had been seven pounds ten. With this money, twenty-seven
pounds ten in all, he had hastily driven from the gate that morning
to keep his appointment with Fanny Robin.
On reaching Casterbridge he left the horse and trap at an inn, and
at five minutes before ten came back to the bridge at the lower end
of the town, and sat himself upon the parapet. The clocks struck
the hour, and no Fanny appeared. In fact, at that moment she was
being robed in her grave-clothes by two attendants at the Union
poorhouse--the first and last tiring-women the gentle creature had
ever been honoured with. The quarter went, the half hour. A rush of
recollection came upon Troy as he waited: this was the second time
she had broken a serious engagement with him. In anger he vowed
it should be the last, and at eleven o'clock, when he had lingered
and watched the stone of the bridge till he knew every lichen upon
their face and heard the chink of the ripples underneath till they
oppressed him, he jumped from his seat, went to the inn for his
gig, and in a bitter mood of indifference concerning the past, and
recklessness about the future, drove on to Budmouth races.
He reached the race-course at two o'clock, and remained either there
or in the town till nine. But Fanny's image, as it had appeared to
him in the sombre shadows of that Saturday evening, returned to his
mind, backed up by Bathsheba's reproaches. He vowed he would not
bet, and he kept his vow, for on leaving the town at nine o'clock in
the evening he had diminished his cash only to the extent of a few
shillings.
He trotted slowly homeward, and it was now that he was struck for the
first time with a thought that Fanny had been really prevented by
illness from keeping her promise. This time she could have made no
mistake. He regretted that he had not remained in Casterbridge and
made inquiries. Reaching home he quietly unharnessed the horse and
came indoors, as we have seen, to the fearful shock that awaited him.
As soon as it grew light enough to distinguish objects, Troy arose
from the coverlet of the bed, and in a mood of absolute indifference
to Bathsheba's whereabouts, and almost oblivious of her existence, he
stalked downstairs and left the house by the back door. His walk was
towards the churchyard, entering which he searched around till he
found a newly dug unoccupied grave--the grave dug the day before for
Fanny. The position of this having been marked, he hastened on to
Casterbridge, only pausing and musing for a while at the hill whereon
he had last seen Fanny alive.
Reaching the town, Troy descended into a side street and entered a
pair of gates surmounted by a board bearing the words, "Lester, stone
and marble mason." Within were lying about stones of all sizes and
designs, inscribed as being sacred to the memory of unnamed persons
who had not yet died.
Troy was so unlike himself now in look, word, and deed, that the
want of likeness was perceptible even to his own consciousness. His
method of engaging himself in this business of purchasing a tomb was
that of an absolutely unpractised man. He could not bring himself
to consider, calculate, or economize. He waywardly wished for
something, and he set about obtaining it like a child in a nursery.
"I want a good tomb," he said to the man who stood in a little office
within the yard. "I want as good a one as you can give me for
twenty-seven pounds."
It was all the money he possessed.
"That sum to include everything?"
"Everything. Cutting the name, carriage to Weatherbury, and
erection. And I want it now, at once."
"We could not get anything special worked this week."
"I must have it now."
"If you would like one of these in stock it could be got ready
immediately."
"Very well," said Troy, impatiently. "Let's see what you have."
"The best I have in stock is this one," said the stone-cutter, going
into a shed. "Here's a marble headstone beautifully crocketed, with
medallions beneath of typical subjects; here's the footstone after
the same pattern, and here's the coping to enclose the grave. The
polishing alone of the set cost me eleven pounds--the slabs are the
best of their kind, and I can warrant them to resist rain and frost
for a hundred years without flying."
"And how much?"
"Well, I could add the name, and put it up at Weatherbury for the sum
you mention."
"Get it done to-day, and I'll pay the money now."
The man agreed, and wondered at such a mood in a visitor who wore not
a shred of mourning. Troy then wrote the words which were to form
the inscription, settled the account and went away. In the afternoon
he came back again, and found that the lettering was almost done. He
waited in the yard till the tomb was packed, and saw it placed in the
cart and starting on its way to Weatherbury, giving directions to the
two men who were to accompany it to inquire of the sexton for the
grave of the person named in the inscription.
It was quite dark when Troy came out of Casterbridge. He carried
rather a heavy basket upon his arm, with which he strode moodily
along the road, resting occasionally at bridges and gates, whereon
he deposited his burden for a time. Midway on his journey he met,
returning in the darkness, the men and the waggon which had conveyed
the tomb. He merely inquired if the work was done, and, on being
assured that it was, passed on again.
Troy entered Weatherbury churchyard about ten o'clock and went
immediately to the corner where he had marked the vacant grave early
in the morning. It was on the obscure side of the tower, screened to
a great extent from the view of passers along the road--a spot which
until lately had been abandoned to heaps of stones and bushes of
alder, but now it was cleared and made orderly for interments, by
reason of the rapid filling of the ground elsewhere.
Here now stood the tomb as the men had stated, snow-white and shapely
in the gloom, consisting of head and foot-stone, and enclosing border
of marble-work uniting them. In the midst was mould, suitable for
plants.
Troy deposited his basket beside the tomb, and vanished for a few
minutes. When he returned he carried a spade and a lantern, the
light of which he directed for a few moments upon the marble, whilst
he read the inscription. He hung his lantern on the lowest bough
of the yew-tree, and took from his basket flower-roots of several
varieties. There were bundles of snow-drop, hyacinth and crocus
bulbs, violets and double daisies, which were to bloom in early
spring, and of carnations, pinks, picotees, lilies of the valley,
forget-me-not, summer's farewell, meadow-saffron and others, for
the later seasons of the year.
Troy laid these out upon the grass, and with an impassive face set
to work to plant them. The snowdrops were arranged in a line on the
outside of the coping, the remainder within the enclosure of the
grave. The crocuses and hyacinths were to grow in rows; some of
the summer flowers he placed over her head and feet, the lilies and
forget-me-nots over her heart. The remainder were dispersed in the
spaces between these.
Troy, in his prostration at this time, had no perception that in the
futility of these romantic doings, dictated by a remorseful reaction
from previous indifference, there was any element of absurdity.
Deriving his idiosyncrasies from both sides of the Channel, he showed
at such junctures as the present the inelasticity of the Englishman,
together with that blindness to the line where sentiment verges on
mawkishness, characteristic of the French.
It was a cloudy, muggy, and very dark night, and the rays from Troy's
lantern spread into the two old yews with a strange illuminating
power, flickering, as it seemed, up to the black ceiling of cloud
above. He felt a large drop of rain upon the back of his hand, and
presently one came and entered one of the holes of the lantern,
whereupon the candle sputtered and went out. Troy was weary and
it being now not far from midnight, and the rain threatening to
increase, he resolved to leave the finishing touches of his labour
until the day should break. He groped along the wall and over the
graves in the dark till he found himself round at the north side.
Here he entered the porch, and, reclining upon the bench within,
fell asleep. | Now we get to find out what Troy did after parting ways with Bathsheba the night before. The first thing he did was cover up Fanny and their dead child. Next, he went up to his bed and lay awake until the next morning came. Rewind: after getting twenty pounds from Bathsheba, Troy travelled to Casterbridge with the intention of giving it to Fanny. But she never showed up for their meeting. Because he's a guy who doesn't like to be stood up, Troy left and went back to his home in Weatherbury. Little did he know what shock was waiting. Back to the present: Troy leaves his house, not caring where Bathsheba is, and goes to the open grave that's been dug for Fanny in the nearby cemetery. He takes all the money he'd been meaning to give to Fanny and spends it all on a fancy tombstone, which he gets shipped to Weatherbury from Casterbridge. After all that, he heads back to Fanny's grave with a basket full of seeds and bulbs, and starts planting all kinds of flowers around Fanny's grave. At this point, Troy feels a splash of rain on the back of one of his hands, so he stop working and goes to fall asleep in a cemetery building. |
My Lady Dedlock is restless, very restless. The astonished
fashionable intelligence hardly knows where to have her. To-day she
is at Chesney Wold; yesterday she was at her house in town; to-morrow
she may be abroad, for anything the fashionable intelligence can with
confidence predict. Even Sir Leicester's gallantry has some trouble
to keep pace with her. It would have more but that his other faithful
ally, for better and for worse--the gout--darts into the old oak
bed-chamber at Chesney Wold and grips him by both legs.
Sir Leicester receives the gout as a troublesome demon, but still a
demon of the patrician order. All the Dedlocks, in the direct male
line, through a course of time during and beyond which the memory of
man goeth not to the contrary, have had the gout. It can be proved,
sir. Other men's fathers may have died of the rheumatism or may have
taken base contagion from the tainted blood of the sick vulgar, but
the Dedlock family have communicated something exclusive even to the
levelling process of dying by dying of their own family gout. It has
come down through the illustrious line like the plate, or the
pictures, or the place in Lincolnshire. It is among their dignities.
Sir Leicester is perhaps not wholly without an impression, though he
has never resolved it into words, that the angel of death in the
discharge of his necessary duties may observe to the shades of the
aristocracy, "My lords and gentlemen, I have the honour to present to
you another Dedlock certified to have arrived per the family gout."
Hence Sir Leicester yields up his family legs to the family disorder
as if he held his name and fortune on that feudal tenure. He feels
that for a Dedlock to be laid upon his back and spasmodically
twitched and stabbed in his extremities is a liberty taken somewhere,
but he thinks, "We have all yielded to this; it belongs to us; it has
for some hundreds of years been understood that we are not to make
the vaults in the park interesting on more ignoble terms; and I
submit myself to the compromise."
And a goodly show he makes, lying in a flush of crimson and gold in
the midst of the great drawing-room before his favourite picture of
my Lady, with broad strips of sunlight shining in, down the long
perspective, through the long line of windows, and alternating with
soft reliefs of shadow. Outside, the stately oaks, rooted for ages in
the green ground which has never known ploughshare, but was still a
chase when kings rode to battle with sword and shield and rode
a-hunting with bow and arrow, bear witness to his greatness. Inside,
his forefathers, looking on him from the walls, say, "Each of us was
a passing reality here and left this coloured shadow of himself and
melted into remembrance as dreamy as the distant voices of the rooks
now lulling you to rest," and hear their testimony to his greatness
too. And he is very great this day. And woe to Boythorn or other
daring wight who shall presumptuously contest an inch with him!
My Lady is at present represented, near Sir Leicester, by her
portrait. She has flitted away to town, with no intention of
remaining there, and will soon flit hither again, to the confusion of
the fashionable intelligence. The house in town is not prepared for
her reception. It is muffled and dreary. Only one Mercury in powder
gapes disconsolate at the hall-window; and he mentioned last night to
another Mercury of his acquaintance, also accustomed to good society,
that if that sort of thing was to last--which it couldn't, for a man
of his spirits couldn't bear it, and a man of his figure couldn't be
expected to bear it--there would be no resource for him, upon his
honour, but to cut his throat!
What connexion can there be between the place in Lincolnshire, the
house in town, the Mercury in powder, and the whereabout of Jo the
outlaw with the broom, who had that distant ray of light upon him
when he swept the churchyard-step? What connexion can there have been
between many people in the innumerable histories of this world who
from opposite sides of great gulfs have, nevertheless, been very
curiously brought together!
Jo sweeps his crossing all day long, unconscious of the link, if any
link there be. He sums up his mental condition when asked a question
by replying that he "don't know nothink." He knows that it's hard to
keep the mud off the crossing in dirty weather, and harder still to
live by doing it. Nobody taught him even that much; he found it out.
Jo lives--that is to say, Jo has not yet died--in a ruinous place
known to the like of him by the name of Tom-all-Alone's. It is a
black, dilapidated street, avoided by all decent people, where the
crazy houses were seized upon, when their decay was far advanced, by
some bold vagrants who after establishing their own possession took
to letting them out in lodgings. Now, these tumbling tenements
contain, by night, a swarm of misery. As on the ruined human wretch
vermin parasites appear, so these ruined shelters have bred a crowd
of foul existence that crawls in and out of gaps in walls and boards;
and coils itself to sleep, in maggot numbers, where the rain drips
in; and comes and goes, fetching and carrying fever and sowing more
evil in its every footprint than Lord Coodle, and Sir Thomas Doodle,
and the Duke of Foodle, and all the fine gentlemen in office, down to
Zoodle, shall set right in five hundred years--though born expressly
to do it.
Twice lately there has been a crash and a cloud of dust, like the
springing of a mine, in Tom-all-Alone's; and each time a house has
fallen. These accidents have made a paragraph in the newspapers and
have filled a bed or two in the nearest hospital. The gaps remain,
and there are not unpopular lodgings among the rubbish. As several
more houses are nearly ready to go, the next crash in Tom-all-Alone's
may be expected to be a good one.
This desirable property is in Chancery, of course. It would be an
insult to the discernment of any man with half an eye to tell him so.
Whether "Tom" is the popular representative of the original plaintiff
or defendant in Jarndyce and Jarndyce, or whether Tom lived here when
the suit had laid the street waste, all alone, until other settlers
came to join him, or whether the traditional title is a comprehensive
name for a retreat cut off from honest company and put out of the
pale of hope, perhaps nobody knows. Certainly Jo don't know.
"For I don't," says Jo, "I don't know nothink."
It must be a strange state to be like Jo! To shuffle through the
streets, unfamiliar with the shapes, and in utter darkness as to the
meaning, of those mysterious symbols, so abundant over the shops, and
at the corners of streets, and on the doors, and in the windows! To
see people read, and to see people write, and to see the postmen
deliver letters, and not to have the least idea of all that
language--to be, to every scrap of it, stone blind and dumb! It must
be very puzzling to see the good company going to the churches on
Sundays, with their books in their hands, and to think (for perhaps
Jo DOES think at odd times) what does it all mean, and if it means
anything to anybody, how comes it that it means nothing to me? To be
hustled, and jostled, and moved on; and really to feel that it would
appear to be perfectly true that I have no business here, or there,
or anywhere; and yet to be perplexed by the consideration that I AM
here somehow, too, and everybody overlooked me until I became the
creature that I am! It must be a strange state, not merely to be told
that I am scarcely human (as in the case of my offering myself for a
witness), but to feel it of my own knowledge all my life! To see the
horses, dogs, and cattle go by me and to know that in ignorance I
belong to them and not to the superior beings in my shape, whose
delicacy I offend! Jo's ideas of a criminal trial, or a judge, or a
bishop, or a government, or that inestimable jewel to him (if he only
knew it) the Constitution, should be strange! His whole material and
immaterial life is wonderfully strange; his death, the strangest
thing of all.
Jo comes out of Tom-all-Alone's, meeting the tardy morning which is
always late in getting down there, and munches his dirty bit of bread
as he comes along. His way lying through many streets, and the houses
not yet being open, he sits down to breakfast on the door-step of the
Society for the Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts and gives
it a brush when he has finished as an acknowledgment of the
accommodation. He admires the size of the edifice and wonders what
it's all about. He has no idea, poor wretch, of the spiritual
destitution of a coral reef in the Pacific or what it costs to look
up the precious souls among the coco-nuts and bread-fruit.
He goes to his crossing and begins to lay it out for the day. The
town awakes; the great tee-totum is set up for its daily spin and
whirl; all that unaccountable reading and writing, which has been
suspended for a few hours, recommences. Jo and the other lower
animals get on in the unintelligible mess as they can. It is
market-day. The blinded oxen, over-goaded, over-driven, never guided,
run into wrong places and are beaten out, and plunge red-eyed and
foaming at stone walls, and often sorely hurt the innocent, and often
sorely hurt themselves. Very like Jo and his order; very, very like!
A band of music comes and plays. Jo listens to it. So does a dog--a
drover's dog, waiting for his master outside a butcher's shop, and
evidently thinking about those sheep he has had upon his mind for
some hours and is happily rid of. He seems perplexed respecting three
or four, can't remember where he left them, looks up and down the
street as half expecting to see them astray, suddenly pricks up his
ears and remembers all about it. A thoroughly vagabond dog,
accustomed to low company and public-houses; a terrific dog to sheep,
ready at a whistle to scamper over their backs and tear out mouthfuls
of their wool; but an educated, improved, developed dog who has been
taught his duties and knows how to discharge them. He and Jo listen
to the music, probably with much the same amount of animal
satisfaction; likewise as to awakened association, aspiration, or
regret, melancholy or joyful reference to things beyond the senses,
they are probably upon a par. But, otherwise, how far above the human
listener is the brute!
Turn that dog's descendants wild, like Jo, and in a very few years
they will so degenerate that they will lose even their bark--but not
their bite.
The day changes as it wears itself away and becomes dark and drizzly.
Jo fights it out at his crossing among the mud and wheels, the
horses, whips, and umbrellas, and gets but a scanty sum to pay for
the unsavoury shelter of Tom-all-Alone's. Twilight comes on; gas
begins to start up in the shops; the lamplighter, with his ladder,
runs along the margin of the pavement. A wretched evening is
beginning to close in.
In his chambers Mr. Tulkinghorn sits meditating an application to the
nearest magistrate to-morrow morning for a warrant. Gridley, a
disappointed suitor, has been here to-day and has been alarming. We
are not to be put in bodily fear, and that ill-conditioned fellow
shall be held to bail again. From the ceiling, foreshortened
Allegory, in the person of one impossible Roman upside down, points
with the arm of Samson (out of joint, and an odd one) obtrusively
toward the window. Why should Mr. Tulkinghorn, for such no reason,
look out of window? Is the hand not always pointing there? So he does
not look out of window.
And if he did, what would it be to see a woman going by? There are
women enough in the world, Mr. Tulkinghorn thinks--too many; they are
at the bottom of all that goes wrong in it, though, for the matter of
that, they create business for lawyers. What would it be to see a
woman going by, even though she were going secretly? They are all
secret. Mr. Tulkinghorn knows that very well.
But they are not all like the woman who now leaves him and his house
behind, between whose plain dress and her refined manner there is
something exceedingly inconsistent. She should be an upper servant by
her attire, yet in her air and step, though both are hurried and
assumed--as far as she can assume in the muddy streets, which she
treads with an unaccustomed foot--she is a lady. Her face is veiled,
and still she sufficiently betrays herself to make more than one of
those who pass her look round sharply.
She never turns her head. Lady or servant, she has a purpose in her
and can follow it. She never turns her head until she comes to the
crossing where Jo plies with his broom. He crosses with her and begs.
Still, she does not turn her head until she has landed on the other
side. Then she slightly beckons to him and says, "Come here!"
Jo follows her a pace or two into a quiet court.
"Are you the boy I've read of in the papers?" she asked behind her
veil.
"I don't know," says Jo, staring moodily at the veil, "nothink about
no papers. I don't know nothink about nothink at all."
"Were you examined at an inquest?"
"I don't know nothink about no--where I was took by the beadle, do
you mean?" says Jo. "Was the boy's name at the inkwhich Jo?"
"Yes."
"That's me!" says Jo.
"Come farther up."
"You mean about the man?" says Jo, following. "Him as wos dead?"
"Hush! Speak in a whisper! Yes. Did he look, when he was living, so
very ill and poor?"
"Oh, jist!" says Jo.
"Did he look like--not like YOU?" says the woman with abhorrence.
"Oh, not so bad as me," says Jo. "I'm a reg'lar one I am! You didn't
know him, did you?"
"How dare you ask me if I knew him?"
"No offence, my lady," says Jo with much humility, for even he has
got at the suspicion of her being a lady.
"I am not a lady. I am a servant."
"You are a jolly servant!" says Jo without the least idea of saying
anything offensive, merely as a tribute of admiration.
"Listen and be silent. Don't talk to me, and stand farther from me!
Can you show me all those places that were spoken of in the account I
read? The place he wrote for, the place he died at, the place where
you were taken to, and the place where he was buried? Do you know the
place where he was buried?"
Jo answers with a nod, having also nodded as each other place was
mentioned.
"Go before me and show me all those dreadful places. Stop opposite to
each, and don't speak to me unless I speak to you. Don't look back.
Do what I want, and I will pay you well."
Jo attends closely while the words are being spoken; tells them off
on his broom-handle, finding them rather hard; pauses to consider
their meaning; considers it satisfactory; and nods his ragged head.
"I'm fly," says Jo. "But fen larks, you know. Stow hooking it!"
"What does the horrible creature mean?" exclaims the servant,
recoiling from him.
"Stow cutting away, you know!" says Jo.
"I don't understand you. Go on before! I will give you more money
than you ever had in your life."
Jo screws up his mouth into a whistle, gives his ragged head a rub,
takes his broom under his arm, and leads the way, passing deftly with
his bare feet over the hard stones and through the mud and mire.
Cook's Court. Jo stops. A pause.
"Who lives here?"
"Him wot give him his writing and give me half a bull," says Jo in a
whisper without looking over his shoulder.
"Go on to the next."
Krook's house. Jo stops again. A longer pause.
"Who lives here?"
"HE lived here," Jo answers as before.
After a silence he is asked, "In which room?"
"In the back room up there. You can see the winder from this corner.
Up there! That's where I see him stritched out. This is the
public-ouse where I was took to."
"Go on to the next!"
It is a longer walk to the next, but Jo, relieved of his first
suspicions, sticks to the forms imposed upon him and does not look
round. By many devious ways, reeking with offence of many kinds, they
come to the little tunnel of a court, and to the gas-lamp (lighted
now), and to the iron gate.
"He was put there," says Jo, holding to the bars and looking in.
"Where? Oh, what a scene of horror!"
"There!" says Jo, pointing. "Over yinder. Among them piles of bones,
and close to that there kitchin winder! They put him wery nigh the
top. They was obliged to stamp upon it to git it in. I could unkiver
it for you with my broom if the gate was open. That's why they locks
it, I s'pose," giving it a shake. "It's always locked. Look at the
rat!" cries Jo, excited. "Hi! Look! There he goes! Ho! Into the
ground!"
The servant shrinks into a corner, into a corner of that hideous
archway, with its deadly stains contaminating her dress; and putting
out her two hands and passionately telling him to keep away from her,
for he is loathsome to her, so remains for some moments. Jo stands
staring and is still staring when she recovers herself.
"Is this place of abomination consecrated ground?"
"I don't know nothink of consequential ground," says Jo, still
staring.
"Is it blessed?"
"Which?" says Jo, in the last degree amazed.
"Is it blessed?"
"I'm blest if I know," says Jo, staring more than ever; "but I
shouldn't think it warn't. Blest?" repeats Jo, something troubled in
his mind. "It an't done it much good if it is. Blest? I should think
it was t'othered myself. But I don't know nothink!"
The servant takes as little heed of what he says as she seems to take
of what she has said herself. She draws off her glove to get some
money from her purse. Jo silently notices how white and small her
hand is and what a jolly servant she must be to wear such sparkling
rings.
She drops a piece of money in his hand without touching it, and
shuddering as their hands approach. "Now," she adds, "show me the
spot again!"
Jo thrusts the handle of his broom between the bars of the gate, and
with his utmost power of elaboration, points it out. At length,
looking aside to see if he has made himself intelligible, he finds
that he is alone.
His first proceeding is to hold the piece of money to the gas-light
and to be overpowered at finding that it is yellow--gold. His next is
to give it a one-sided bite at the edge as a test of its quality.
His next, to put it in his mouth for safety and to sweep the
step and passage with great care. His job done, he sets off for
Tom-all-Alone's, stopping in the light of innumerable gas-lamps to
produce the piece of gold and give it another one-sided bite as a
reassurance of its being genuine.
The Mercury in powder is in no want of society to-night, for my Lady
goes to a grand dinner and three or four balls. Sir Leicester is
fidgety down at Chesney Wold, with no better company than the gout;
he complains to Mrs. Rouncewell that the rain makes such a monotonous
pattering on the terrace that he can't read the paper even by the
fireside in his own snug dressing-room.
"Sir Leicester would have done better to try the other side of the
house, my dear," says Mrs. Rouncewell to Rosa. "His dressing-room is
on my Lady's side. And in all these years I never heard the step upon
the Ghost's Walk more distinct than it is to-night!" | "Tom-all-Alone's" The narrator tells us that Sir Leicester has the gout in his legs, a malady all the men in his family have suffered from. The narrator ponders what connection there could be between Lady Dedlock and Sir Leicester, their homes, the young Jo, and many other people. Jo lives in a place called Tom-all-Alone's, where houses collapse. Tom Jarndyce may have once lived here, but Jo doesn't know for sure. The narrator tries to imagine what it's like to be Jo, not really belonging anywhere and not knowing anything. Jo moves through the town, observing people and animals trying to get enough money to go back to Tom-all-Alone's. Mr. Tulkinghorn sits in his office doing work. On the street below, a woman walks by. The narrator implies she is on some secret errand. Determinedly, she seeks out Jo, who asks her for money. She ignores him and crosses the street, then beckons him over. She asks if she has read about the dead lodger in the newspaper because of the court case regarding him. She tries to get Jo to acknowledge that the dead man looks like him. Jo asks if she knew the dead man, and she grows defensive. The woman asks Jo to show her all the places he knows of relating to the death, including where the man was buried. He is to walk far ahead of her and not speak to her. Jo leads the woman to Cook's Court, Krook's shop, and the burial ground. She gives him some a gold coin and hurries away. The narrator tells us that Lady Dedlock goes to a dinner and several parties, while Sir Leicester stays home. Mrs. Rouncewell, the housekeeper, observes that the footsteps on the Ghost's Walk are louder than they have ever been |
WHILE she adjusted the broad leaves that set off the pale fragrant
butter as the primrose is set off by its nest of green I am afraid Hetty
was thinking a great deal more of the looks Captain Donnithorne had cast
at her than of Adam and his troubles. Bright, admiring glances from
a handsome young gentleman with white hands, a gold chain, occasional
regimentals, and wealth and grandeur immeasurable--those were the
warm rays that set poor Hetty's heart vibrating and playing its little
foolish tunes over and over again. We do not hear that Memnon's statue
gave forth its melody at all under the rushing of the mightiest wind,
or in response to any other influence divine or human than certain
short-lived sunbeams of morning; and we must learn to accommodate
ourselves to the discovery that some of those cunningly fashioned
instruments called human souls have only a very limited range of music,
and will not vibrate in the least under a touch that fills others with
tremulous rapture or quivering agony.
Hetty was quite used to the thought that people liked to look at her.
She was not blind to the fact that young Luke Britton of Broxton came to
Hayslope Church on a Sunday afternoon on purpose that he might see her;
and that he would have made much more decided advances if her uncle
Poyser, thinking but lightly of a young man whose father's land was so
foul as old Luke Britton's, had not forbidden her aunt to encourage him
by any civilities. She was aware, too, that Mr. Craig, the gardener at
the Chase, was over head and ears in love with her, and had lately made
unmistakable avowals in luscious strawberries and hyperbolical peas.
She knew still better, that Adam Bede--tall, upright, clever, brave Adam
Bede--who carried such authority with all the people round about, and
whom her uncle was always delighted to see of an evening, saying that
"Adam knew a fine sight more o' the natur o' things than those as
thought themselves his betters"--she knew that this Adam, who was often
rather stern to other people and not much given to run after the lasses,
could be made to turn pale or red any day by a word or a look from
her. Hetty's sphere of comparison was not large, but she couldn't help
perceiving that Adam was "something like" a man; always knew what to say
about things, could tell her uncle how to prop the hovel, and had mended
the churn in no time; knew, with only looking at it, the value of the
chestnut-tree that was blown down, and why the damp came in the walls,
and what they must do to stop the rats; and wrote a beautiful hand
that you could read off, and could do figures in his head--a degree
of accomplishment totally unknown among the richest farmers of that
countryside. Not at all like that slouching Luke Britton, who, when
she once walked with him all the way from Broxton to Hayslope, had only
broken silence to remark that the grey goose had begun to lay. And as
for Mr. Craig, the gardener, he was a sensible man enough, to be sure,
but he was knock-kneed, and had a queer sort of sing-song in his talk;
moreover, on the most charitable supposition, he must be far on the way
to forty.
Hetty was quite certain her uncle wanted her to encourage Adam, and
would be pleased for her to marry him. For those were times when there
was no rigid demarcation of rank between the farmer and the respectable
artisan, and on the home hearth, as well as in the public house, they
might be seen taking their jug of ale together; the farmer having
a latent sense of capital, and of weight in parish affairs, which
sustained him under his conspicuous inferiority in conversation. Martin
Poyser was not a frequenter of public houses, but he liked a friendly
chat over his own home-brewed; and though it was pleasant to lay down
the law to a stupid neighbour who had no notion how to make the best
of his farm, it was also an agreeable variety to learn something from
a clever fellow like Adam Bede. Accordingly, for the last three
years--ever since he had superintended the building of the new
barn--Adam had always been made welcome at the Hall Farm, especially of
a winter evening, when the whole family, in patriarchal fashion, master
and mistress, children and servants, were assembled in that glorious
kitchen, at well-graduated distances from the blazing fire. And for the
last two years, at least, Hetty had been in the habit of hearing her
uncle say, "Adam Bede may be working for wage now, but he'll be a
master-man some day, as sure as I sit in this chair. Mester Burge is
in the right on't to want him to go partners and marry his daughter, if
it's true what they say; the woman as marries him 'ull have a good take,
be't Lady day or Michaelmas," a remark which Mrs. Poyser always followed
up with her cordial assent. "Ah," she would say, "it's all very fine
having a ready-made rich man, but mayhappen he'll be a ready-made fool;
and it's no use filling your pocket full o' money if you've got a hole
in the corner. It'll do you no good to sit in a spring-cart o' your own,
if you've got a soft to drive you: he'll soon turn you over into the
ditch. I allays said I'd never marry a man as had got no brains; for
where's the use of a woman having brains of her own if she's tackled
to a geck as everybody's a-laughing at? She might as well dress herself
fine to sit back'ards on a donkey."
These expressions, though figurative, sufficiently indicated the bent of
Mrs. Poyser's mind with regard to Adam; and though she and her husband
might have viewed the subject differently if Hetty had been a daughter
of their own, it was clear that they would have welcomed the match with
Adam for a penniless niece. For what could Hetty have been but a servant
elsewhere, if her uncle had not taken her in and brought her up as a
domestic help to her aunt, whose health since the birth of Totty had not
been equal to more positive labour than the superintendence of servants
and children? But Hetty had never given Adam any steady encouragement.
Even in the moments when she was most thoroughly conscious of his
superiority to her other admirers, she had never brought herself to
think of accepting him. She liked to feel that this strong, skilful,
keen-eyed man was in her power, and would have been indignant if he had
shown the least sign of slipping from under the yoke of her coquettish
tyranny and attaching himself to the gentle Mary Burge, who would have
been grateful enough for the most trifling notice from him. "Mary Burge,
indeed! Such a sallow-faced girl: if she put on a bit of pink ribbon,
she looked as yellow as a crow-flower and her hair was as straight as a
hank of cotton." And always when Adam stayed away for several weeks from
the Hall Farm, and otherwise made some show of resistance to his passion
as a foolish one, Hetty took care to entice him back into the net by
little airs of meekness and timidity, as if she were in trouble at his
neglect. But as to marrying Adam, that was a very different affair!
There was nothing in the world to tempt her to do that. Her cheeks never
grew a shade deeper when his name was mentioned; she felt no thrill
when she saw him passing along the causeway by the window, or advancing
towards her unexpectedly in the footpath across the meadow; she felt
nothing, when his eyes rested on her, but the cold triumph of knowing
that he loved her and would not care to look at Mary Burge. He could no
more stir in her the emotions that make the sweet intoxication of young
love than the mere picture of a sun can stir the spring sap in the
subtle fibres of the plant. She saw him as he was--a poor man with old
parents to keep, who would not be able, for a long while to come, to
give her even such luxuries as she shared in her uncle's house. And
Hetty's dreams were all of luxuries: to sit in a carpeted parlour, and
always wear white stockings; to have some large beautiful ear-rings,
such as were all the fashion; to have Nottingham lace round the top of
her gown, and something to make her handkerchief smell nice, like
Miss Lydia Donnithorne's when she drew it out at church; and not to be
obliged to get up early or be scolded by anybody. She thought, if Adam
had been rich and could have given her these things, she loved him well
enough to marry him.
But for the last few weeks a new influence had come over Hetty--vague,
atmospheric, shaping itself into no self-confessed hopes or prospects,
but producing a pleasant narcotic effect, making her tread the ground
and go about her work in a sort of dream, unconscious of weight or
effort, and showing her all things through a soft, liquid veil, as if
she were living not in this solid world of brick and stone, but in a
beatified world, such as the sun lights up for us in the waters. Hetty
had become aware that Mr. Arthur Donnithorne would take a good deal of
trouble for the chance of seeing her; that he always placed himself at
church so as to have the fullest view of her both sitting and standing;
that he was constantly finding reason for calling at the Hall Farm, and
always would contrive to say something for the sake of making her speak
to him and look at him. The poor child no more conceived at present the
idea that the young squire could ever be her lover than a baker's pretty
daughter in the crowd, whom a young emperor distinguishes by an imperial
but admiring smile, conceives that she shall be made empress. But the
baker's daughter goes home and dreams of the handsome young emperor, and
perhaps weighs the flour amiss while she is thinking what a heavenly lot
it must be to have him for a husband. And so, poor Hetty had got a face
and a presence haunting her waking and sleeping dreams; bright, soft
glances had penetrated her, and suffused her life with a strange, happy
languor. The eyes that shed those glances were really not half so
fine as Adam's, which sometimes looked at her with a sad, beseeching
tenderness, but they had found a ready medium in Hetty's little
silly imagination, whereas Adam's could get no entrance through that
atmosphere. For three weeks, at least, her inward life had consisted of
little else than living through in memory the looks and words Arthur had
directed towards her--of little else than recalling the sensations with
which she heard his voice outside the house, and saw him enter, and
became conscious that his eyes were fixed on her, and then became
conscious that a tall figure, looking down on her with eyes that seemed
to touch her, was coming nearer in clothes of beautiful texture with an
odour like that of a flower-garden borne on the evening breeze. Foolish
thoughts! But all this happened, you must remember, nearly sixty years
ago, and Hetty was quite uneducated--a simple farmer's girl, to whom
a gentleman with a white hand was dazzling as an Olympian god. Until
to-day, she had never looked farther into the future than to the next
time Captain Donnithorne would come to the Farm, or the next Sunday when
she should see him at church; but now she thought, perhaps he would try
to meet her when she went to the Chase to-morrow--and if he should
speak to her, and walk a little way, when nobody was by! That had never
happened yet; and now her imagination, instead of retracing the past,
was busy fashioning what would happen to-morrow--whereabout in the
Chase she should see him coming towards her, how she should put her new
rose-coloured ribbon on, which he had never seen, and what he would say
to her to make her return his glance--a glance which she would be living
through in her memory, over and over again, all the rest of the day.
In this state of mind, how could Hetty give any feeling to Adam's
troubles, or think much about poor old Thias being drowned? Young souls,
in such pleasant delirium as hers are as unsympathetic as butterflies
sipping nectar; they are isolated from all appeals by a barrier of
dreams--by invisible looks and impalpable arms.
While Hetty's hands were busy packing up the butter, and her head filled
with these pictures of the morrow, Arthur Donnithorne, riding by Mr.
Irwine's side towards the valley of the Willow Brook, had also certain
indistinct anticipations, running as an undercurrent in his mind while
he was listening to Mr. Irwine's account of Dinah--indistinct, yet
strong enough to make him feel rather conscious when Mr. Irwine suddenly
said, "What fascinated you so in Mrs. Poyser's dairy, Arthur? Have you
become an amateur of damp quarries and skimming dishes?"
Arthur knew the rector too well to suppose that a clever invention would
be of any use, so he said, with his accustomed frankness, "No, I went to
look at the pretty butter-maker Hetty Sorrel. She's a perfect Hebe; and
if I were an artist, I would paint her. It's amazing what pretty girls
one sees among the farmers' daughters, when the men are such clowns.
That common, round, red face one sees sometimes in the men--all cheek
and no features, like Martin Poyser's--comes out in the women of the
family as the most charming phiz imaginable."
"Well, I have no objection to your contemplating Hetty in an artistic
light, but I must not have you feeding her vanity and filling her little
noddle with the notion that she's a great beauty, attractive to fine
gentlemen, or you will spoil her for a poor man's wife--honest Craig's,
for example, whom I have seen bestowing soft glances on her. The little
puss seems already to have airs enough to make a husband as miserable
as it's a law of nature for a quiet man to be when he marries a beauty.
Apropos of marrying, I hope our friend Adam will get settled, now the
poor old man's gone. He will only have his mother to keep in future, and
I've a notion that there's a kindness between him and that nice modest
girl, Mary Burge, from something that fell from old Jonathan one day
when I was talking to him. But when I mentioned the subject to Adam he
looked uneasy and turned the conversation. I suppose the love-making
doesn't run smooth, or perhaps Adam hangs back till he's in a better
position. He has independence of spirit enough for two men--rather an
excess of pride, if anything."
"That would be a capital match for Adam. He would slip into old Burge's
shoes and make a fine thing of that building business, I'll answer for
him. I should like to see him well settled in this parish; he would be
ready then to act as my grand-vizier when I wanted one. We could plan
no end of repairs and improvements together. I've never seen the girl,
though, I think--at least I've never looked at her."
"Look at her next Sunday at church--she sits with her father on the
left of the reading-desk. You needn't look quite so much at Hetty Sorrel
then. When I've made up my mind that I can't afford to buy a tempting
dog, I take no notice of him, because if he took a strong fancy to
me and looked lovingly at me, the struggle between arithmetic and
inclination might become unpleasantly severe. I pique myself on my
wisdom there, Arthur, and as an old fellow to whom wisdom had become
cheap, I bestow it upon you."
"Thank you. It may stand me in good stead some day though I don't
know that I have any present use for it. Bless me! How the brook has
overflowed. Suppose we have a canter, now we're at the bottom of the
hill."
That is the great advantage of dialogue on horseback; it can be merged
any minute into a trot or a canter, and one might have escaped from
Socrates himself in the saddle. The two friends were free from the
necessity of further conversation till they pulled up in the lane behind
Adam's cottage. | Hetty's World The narrator decides to go beyond Hetty's pretty exterior to see what kind of a person she is inside. This chapter tracks her thoughts about what is going on around her, but unfortunately, the narrator concludes that Hetty does not have a very large range to her soul. She is mostly concerned with her own material desires. She knows very well that she has suitors. Luke Britton of Broxton comes to church at Hayslope so he can see her. Mr. Craig the gardener at the Chase is wooing her with strawberries, and Adam Bede, who has been invited to Hall Farm for the last three years, is the one favored by her family as having brains. Hetty seems unaware of what she owes her aunt and uncle. She is an orphan, and would have been a servant someplace without their support. Her uncle hopes she will make a good marriage with Adam, who, he knows, will rise by his merits. Hetty only sees Adam as another conquest and enjoys having him in her power. With Arthur's attentions, however, she is already dreaming of greater things. She thinks only of what a man could give her, and she begins to live in a pleasant daydream of how Arthur has looked at her. An uneducated girl, she only thinks of the young squire as a god in her world. She has no sympathy beyond her own situation. On the way to the Bede cottage, Arthur confesses to Irwine how pretty he finds Hetty. Irwine warns him not to flatter her or it will make her unfit for a husband of her own class. Arthur changes the subject. |
The pleasant firelight! I must still keep harping on it. The kitchen
hearth had an old-fashioned breadth, depth, and spaciousness, far
within which lay what seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with
the moisture bubbling merrily out at both ends. It was now half an
hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful of substantial sticks,
rendered more combustible by brushwood and pine, flickered powerfully
on the smoke-blackened walls, and so cheered our spirits that we cared
not what inclemency might rage and roar on the other side of our
illuminated windows. A yet sultrier warmth was bestowed by a goodly
quantity of peat, which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning
brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful fragrance.
The exuberance of this household fire would alone have sufficed to
bespeak us no true farmers; for the New England yeoman, if he have the
misfortune to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market, is as
niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar of California gold.
But it was fortunate for us, on that wintry eve of our untried life, to
enjoy the warm and radiant luxury of a somewhat too abundant fire. If
it served no other purpose, it made the men look so full of youth, warm
blood, and hope, and the women--such of them, at least, as were anywise
convertible by its magic--so very beautiful, that I would cheerfully
have spent my last dollar to prolong the blaze. As for Zenobia, there
was a glow in her cheeks that made me think of Pandora, fresh from
Vulcan's workshop, and full of the celestial warmth by dint of which he
had tempered and moulded her.
"Take your places, my dear friends all," cried she; "seat yourselves
without ceremony, and you shall be made happy with such tea as not many
of the world's working-people, except yourselves, will find in their
cups to-night. After this one supper, you may drink buttermilk, if you
please. To-night we will quaff this nectar, which, I assure you, could
not be bought with gold."
We all sat down,--grizzly Silas Foster, his rotund helpmate, and the
two bouncing handmaidens, included,--and looked at one another in a
friendly but rather awkward way. It was the first practical trial of
our theories of equal brotherhood and sisterhood; and we people of
superior cultivation and refinement (for as such, I presume, we
unhesitatingly reckoned ourselves) felt as if something were already
accomplished towards the millennium of love. The truth is, however,
that the laboring oar was with our unpolished companions; it being far
easier to condescend than to accept of condescension. Neither did I
refrain from questioning, in secret, whether some of us--and Zenobia
among the rest--would so quietly have taken our places among these good
people, save for the cherished consciousness that it was not by
necessity but choice. Though we saw fit to drink our tea out of
earthen cups to-night, and in earthen company, it was at our own option
to use pictured porcelain and handle silver forks again to-morrow.
This same salvo, as to the power of regaining our former position,
contributed much, I fear, to the equanimity with which we subsequently
bore many of the hardships and humiliations of a life of toil. If ever
I have deserved (which has not often been the case, and, I think,
never), but if ever I did deserve to be soundly cuffed by a fellow
mortal, for secretly putting weight upon some imaginary social
advantage, it must have been while I was striving to prove myself
ostentatiously his equal and no more. It was while I sat beside him on
his cobbler's bench, or clinked my hoe against his own in the
cornfield, or broke the same crust of bread, my earth-grimed hand to
his, at our noontide lunch. The poor, proud man should look at both
sides of sympathy like this.
The silence which followed upon our sitting down to table grew rather
oppressive; indeed, it was hardly broken by a word, during the first
round of Zenobia's fragrant tea.
"I hope," said I, at last, "that our blazing windows will be visible a
great way off. There is nothing so pleasant and encouraging to a
solitary traveller, on a stormy night, as a flood of firelight seen
amid the gloom. These ruddy window panes cannot fail to cheer the
hearts of all that look at them. Are they not warm with the
beacon-fire which we have kindled for humanity?"
"The blaze of that brushwood will only last a minute or two longer,"
observed Silas Foster; but whether he meant to insinuate that our moral
illumination would have as brief a term, I cannot say.
"Meantime," said Zenobia, "it may serve to guide some wayfarer to a
shelter."
And, just as she said this, there came a knock at the house door.
"There is one of the world's wayfarers," said I. "Ay, ay, just so!"
quoth Silas Foster. "Our firelight will draw stragglers, just as a
candle draws dorbugs on a summer night."
Whether to enjoy a dramatic suspense, or that we were selfishly
contrasting our own comfort with the chill and dreary situation of the
unknown person at the threshold, or that some of us city folk felt a
little startled at the knock which came so unseasonably, through night
and storm, to the door of the lonely farmhouse,--so it happened that
nobody, for an instant or two, arose to answer the summons. Pretty
soon there came another knock. The first had been moderately loud; the
second was smitten so forcibly that the knuckles of the applicant must
have left their mark in the door panel.
"He knocks as if he had a right to come in," said Zenobia, laughing.
"And what are we thinking of?--It must be Mr. Hollingsworth!"
Hereupon I went to the door, unbolted, and flung it wide open. There,
sure enough, stood Hollingsworth, his shaggy greatcoat all covered with
snow, so that he looked quite as much like a polar bear as a modern
philanthropist.
"Sluggish hospitality this!" said he, in those deep tones of his, which
seemed to come out of a chest as capacious as a barrel. "It would have
served you right if I had lain down and spent the night on the
doorstep, just for the sake of putting you to shame. But here is a
guest who will need a warmer and softer bed."
And, stepping back to the wagon in which he had journeyed hither,
Hollingsworth received into his arms and deposited on the doorstep a
figure enveloped in a cloak. It was evidently a woman; or,
rather,--judging from the ease with which he lifted her, and the little
space which she seemed to fill in his arms, a slim and unsubstantial
girl. As she showed some hesitation about entering the door,
Hollingsworth, with his usual directness and lack of ceremony, urged
her forward not merely within the entry, but into the warm and strongly
lighted kitchen.
"Who is this?" whispered I, remaining behind with him, while he was
taking off his greatcoat.
"Who? Really, I don't know," answered Hollingsworth, looking at me
with some surprise. "It is a young person who belongs here, however;
and no doubt she had been expected. Zenobia, or some of the women
folks, can tell you all about it."
"I think not," said I, glancing towards the new-comer and the other
occupants of the kitchen. "Nobody seems to welcome her. I should
hardly judge that she was an expected guest."
"Well, well," said Hollingsworth quietly, "We'll make it right."
The stranger, or whatever she were, remained standing precisely on that
spot of the kitchen floor to which Hollingsworth's kindly hand had
impelled her. The cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very
young woman dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high in the neck,
and without any regard to fashion or smartness. Her brown hair fell
down from beneath a hood, not in curls but with only a slight wave; her
face was of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening habitual seclusion
from the sun and free atmosphere, like a flower-shrub that had done its
best to blossom in too scanty light. To complete the pitiableness of
her aspect, she shivered either with cold, or fear, or nervous
excitement, so that you might have beheld her shadow vibrating on the
fire-lighted wall. In short, there has seldom been seen so depressed
and sad a figure as this young girl's; and it was hardly possible to
help being angry with her, from mere despair of doing anything for her
comfort. The fantasy occurred to me that she was some desolate kind of
a creature, doomed to wander about in snowstorms; and that, though the
ruddiness of our window panes had tempted her into a human dwelling,
she would not remain long enough to melt the icicles out of her hair.
Another conjecture likewise came into my mind. Recollecting
Hollingsworth's sphere of philanthropic action, I deemed it possible
that he might have brought one of his guilty patients, to be wrought
upon and restored to spiritual health by the pure influences which our
mode of life would create.
As yet the girl had not stirred. She stood near the door, fixing a
pair of large, brown, melancholy eyes upon Zenobia--only upon
Zenobia!--she evidently saw nothing else in the room save that bright,
fair, rosy, beautiful woman. It was the strangest look I ever
witnessed; long a mystery to me, and forever a memory. Once she seemed
about to move forward and greet her,--I know not with what warmth or
with what words,--but, finally, instead of doing so, she dropped down
upon her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed piteously into Zenobia's
face. Meeting no kindly reception, her head fell on her bosom.
I never thoroughly forgave Zenobia for her conduct on this occasion.
But women are always more cautious in their casual hospitalities than
men.
"What does the girl mean?" cried she in rather a sharp tone. "Is she
crazy? Has she no tongue?"
And here Hollingsworth stepped forward.
"No wonder if the poor child's tongue is frozen in her mouth," said he;
and I think he positively frowned at Zenobia. "The very heart will be
frozen in her bosom, unless you women can warm it, among you, with the
warmth that ought to be in your own!"
Hollingsworth's appearance was very striking at this moment. He was
then about thirty years old, but looked several years older, with his
great shaggy head, his heavy brow, his dark complexion, his abundant
beard, and the rude strength with which his features seemed to have
been hammered out of iron, rather than chiselled or moulded from any
finer or softer material. His figure was not tall, but massive and
brawny, and well befitting his original occupation; which as the reader
probably knows--was that of a blacksmith. As for external polish, or
mere courtesy of manner, he never possessed more than a tolerably
educated bear; although, in his gentler moods, there was a tenderness
in his voice, eyes, mouth, in his gesture, and in every indescribable
manifestation, which few men could resist and no woman. But he now
looked stern and reproachful; and it was with that inauspicious meaning
in his glance that Hollingsworth first met Zenobia's eyes, and began
his influence upon her life.
To my surprise, Zenobia--of whose haughty spirit I had been told so
many examples--absolutely changed color, and seemed mortified and
confused.
"You do not quite do me justice, Mr. Hollingsworth," said she almost
humbly. "I am willing to be kind to the poor girl. Is she a protegee
of yours? What can I do for her?"
"Have you anything to ask of this lady?" said Hollingsworth kindly to
the girl. "I remember you mentioned her name before we left town."
"Only that she will shelter me," replied the girl tremulously. "Only
that she will let me be always near her."
"Well, indeed," exclaimed Zenobia, recovering herself and laughing,
"this is an adventure, and well-worthy to be the first incident in our
life of love and free-heartedness! But I accept it, for the present,
without further question, only," added she, "it would be a convenience
if we knew your name."
"Priscilla," said the girl; and it appeared to me that she hesitated
whether to add anything more, and decided in the negative. "Pray do
not ask me my other name,--at least not yet,--if you will be so kind to
a forlorn creature."
Priscilla!--Priscilla! I repeated the name to myself three or four
times; and in that little space, this quaint and prim cognomen had so
amalgamated itself with my idea of the girl, that it seemed as if no
other name could have adhered to her for a moment. Heretofore the poor
thing had not shed any tears; but now that she found herself received,
and at least temporarily established, the big drops began to ooze out
from beneath her eyelids as if she were full of them. Perhaps it showed
the iron substance of my heart, that I could not help smiling at this
odd scene of unknown and unaccountable calamity, into which our
cheerful party had been entrapped without the liberty of choosing
whether to sympathize or no. Hollingsworth's behavior was certainly a
great deal more creditable than mine.
"Let us not pry further into her secrets," he said to Zenobia and the
rest of us, apart; and his dark, shaggy face looked really beautiful
with its expression of thoughtful benevolence. "Let us conclude that
Providence has sent her to us, as the first-fruits of the world, which
we have undertaken to make happier than we find it. Let us warm her
poor, shivering body with this good fire, and her poor, shivering heart
with our best kindness. Let us feed her, and make her one of us. As
we do by this friendless girl, so shall we prosper. And, in good time,
whatever is desirable for us to know will be melted out of her, as
inevitably as those tears which we see now."
"At least," remarked I, "you may tell us how and where you met with
her."
"An old man brought her to my lodgings," answered Hollingsworth, "and
begged me to convey her to Blithedale, where--so I understood him--she
had friends; and this is positively all I know about the matter."
Grim Silas Foster, all this while, had been busy at the supper-table,
pouring out his own tea and gulping it down with no more sense of its
exquisiteness than if it were a decoction of catnip; helping himself to
pieces of dipt toast on the flat of his knife blade, and dropping half
of it on the table-cloth; using the same serviceable implement to cut
slice after slice of ham; perpetrating terrible enormities with the
butter-plate; and in all other respects behaving less like a civilized
Christian than the worst kind of an ogre. Being by this time fully
gorged, he crowned his amiable exploits with a draught from the water
pitcher, and then favored us with his opinion about the business in
hand. And, certainly, though they proceeded out of an unwiped mouth,
his expressions did him honor.
"Give the girl a hot cup of tea and a thick slice of this first-rate
bacon," said Silas, like a sensible man as he was. "That's what she
wants. Let her stay with us as long as she likes, and help in the
kitchen, and take the cow-breath at milking time; and, in a week or
two, she'll begin to look like a creature of this world."
So we sat down again to supper, and Priscilla along with us. | Coverdale continues to wax poetic about the fire. It makes the men look hale and hearty and the women beautiful. All sit and look at each awkwardly in their first attempt at enacting brotherhood and sisterhood. Coverdale wonders if they would really enjoy each other if they had not chosen to be here, and how when he was "secretly putting weight on some imaginary social advantage, it must have been while I was striving to prove myself ostentatiously his equal, and no more". A knock sounds on the door and no one moves. It comes again and Hollingsworth enters. He brings with him a slight young woman, saying he does not know who she is but assumes she was expected. The girl is sickly and wan, depressed and sad in appearance. She fixes her eyes on Zenobia, though, and brightens immensely. Coverdale finds this one of the strangest looks he has ever seen. He does not know why Zenobia is hostile towards her in return. Hollingsworth, for his part, is large, dark, with an abundant beard and a muscular frame. He is a blacksmith by trade, but is tender and kind and appealing to men and women. To Coverdale's surprise, when Hollingsworth chides Zenobia, she quails under his words and gaze. The girl, named Priscilla, declares she must always be near Zenobia. Zenobia laughs and says she is fine with that. Hollingsworth says not to pry into her secrets, just to make her one of them. Silas is eating all the while, and although coarse, sensibly says to give her tea and let her eat with them |