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Scene V.
Capulet's orchard.
Enter Romeo and Juliet aloft, at the Window.
Jul. Wilt thou be gone? It is not yet near day.
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc'd the fearful hollow of thine ear.
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree.
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
Rom. It was the lark, the herald of the morn;
No nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder East.
Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Jul. Yond light is not daylight; I know it, I.
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torchbearer
And light thee on the way to Mantua.
Therefore stay yet; thou need'st not to be gone.
Rom. Let me be ta'en, let me be put to death.
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I'll say yon grey is not the morning's eye,
'Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia's brow;
Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads.
I have more care to stay than will to go.
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.
How is't, my soul? Let's talk; it is not day.
Jul. It is, it is! Hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us.
Some say the lark and loathed toad chang'd eyes;
O, now I would they had chang'd voices too,
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt's-up to the day!
O, now be gone! More light and light it grows.
Rom. More light and light- more dark and dark our woes!
Enter Nurse.
Nurse. Madam!
Jul. Nurse?
Nurse. Your lady mother is coming to your chamber.
The day is broke; be wary, look about.
Jul. Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
[Exit.]
Rom. Farewell, farewell! One kiss, and I'll descend.
He goeth down.
Jul. Art thou gone so, my lord, my love, my friend?
I must hear from thee every day in the hour,
For in a minute there are many days.
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
Rom. Farewell!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
Jul. O, think'st thou we shall ever meet again?
Rom. I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
Jul. O God, I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb.
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look'st pale.
Rom. And trust me, love, in my eye so do you.
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
Exit.
Jul. O Fortune, Fortune! all men call thee fickle.
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown'd for faith? Be fickle, Fortune,
For then I hope thou wilt not keep him long
But send him back.
Lady. [within] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Jul. Who is't that calls? It is my lady mother.
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom'd cause procures her hither?
Enter Mother.
Lady. Why, how now, Juliet?
Jul. Madam, I am not well.
Lady. Evermore weeping for your cousin's death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live.
Therefore have done. Some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Jul. Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
Lady. So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Jul. Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
Lady. Well, girl, thou weep'st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughter'd him.
Jul. What villain, madam?
Lady. That same villain Romeo.
Jul. [aside] Villain and he be many miles asunder.-
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
Lady. That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Jul. Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin's death!
Lady. We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not.
Then weep no more. I'll send to one in Mantua,
Where that same banish'd runagate doth live,
Shall give him such an unaccustom'd dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company;
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.
Jul. Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo till I behold him- dead-
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex'd.
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it;
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam'd and cannot come to him,
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter'd him!
Lady. Find thou the means, and I'll find such a man.
But now I'll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
Jul. And joy comes well in such a needy time.
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?
Lady. Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expects not nor I look'd not for.
Jul. Madam, in happy time! What day is that?
Lady. Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at Saint Peter's Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Jul. Now by Saint Peter's Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride!
I wonder at this haste, that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris. These are news indeed!
Lady. Here comes your father. Tell him so yourself,
And see how be will take it at your hands.
Enter Capulet and Nurse.
Cap. When the sun sets the air doth drizzle dew,
But for the sunset of my brother's son
It rains downright.
How now? a conduit, girl? What, still in tears?
Evermore show'ring? In one little body
Thou counterfeit'st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs,
Who, raging with thy tears and they with them,
Without a sudden calm will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body. How now, wife?
Have you delivered to her our decree?
Lady. Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
Cap. Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How? Will she none? Doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? Doth she not count her blest,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Jul. Not proud you have, but thankful that you have.
Proud can I never be of what I hate,
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
Cap. How, how, how, how, choplogic? What is this?
'Proud'- and 'I thank you'- and 'I thank you not'-
And yet 'not proud'? Mistress minion you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints 'gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter's Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion I out, you baggage!
You tallow-face!
Lady. Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Jul. Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Cap. Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what- get thee to church a Thursday
Or never after look me in the face.
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me!
My fingers itch. Wife, we scarce thought us blest
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her.
Out on her, hilding!
Nurse. God in heaven bless her!
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
Cap. And why, my Lady Wisdom? Hold your tongue,
Good Prudence. Smatter with your gossips, go!
Nurse. I speak no treason.
Cap. O, God-i-god-en!
Nurse. May not one speak?
Cap. Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o'er a gossip's bowl,
For here we need it not.
Lady. You are too hot.
Cap. God's bread I it makes me mad. Day, night, late, early,
At home, abroad, alone, in company,
Waking or sleeping, still my care hath been
To have her match'd; and having now provided
A gentleman of princely parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train'd,
Stuff'd, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion'd as one's thought would wish a man-
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune's tender,
To answer 'I'll not wed, I cannot love;
I am too young, I pray you pardon me'!
But, an you will not wed, I'll pardon you.
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me.
Look to't, think on't; I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I'll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die in the streets,
For, by my soul, I'll ne'er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good.
Trust to't. Bethink you. I'll not be forsworn. Exit.
Jul. Is there no pity sitting in the clouds
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Lady. Talk not to me, for I'll not speak a word.
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee. Exit.
Jul. O God!- O nurse, how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven.
How shall that faith return again to earth
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth? Comfort me, counsel me.
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!
What say'st thou? Hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Nurse. Faith, here it is.
Romeo is banish'd; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne'er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the County.
O, he's a lovely gentleman!
Romeo's a dishclout to him. An eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first; or if it did not,
Your first is dead- or 'twere as good he were
As living here and you no use of him.
Jul. Speak'st thou this from thy heart?
Nurse. And from my soul too; else beshrew them both.
Jul. Amen!
Nurse. What?
Jul. Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas'd my father, to Laurence' cell,
To make confession and to be absolv'd.
Nurse. Marry, I will; and this is wisely done. Exit.
Jul. Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais'd him with above compare
So many thousand times? Go, counsellor!
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.
I'll to the friar to know his remedy.
If all else fail, myself have power to die. Exit. | At dawn on Tuesday morning, Romeo and Juliet make their final exchanges of love before Romeo leaves for Mantua. The lovers try to resist the coming day that heralds their separation by pretending that it is still night and that the bird they hear is the nightingale and not the lark, a morning bird. However, the ominous threat of the Prince's sentence of death finally forces the lovers to part. Juliet's mother arrives and, believing that Juliet weeps for Tybalt rather than the departure of Romeo, tries to comfort Juliet with her plan to have Romeo poisoned. Lady Capulet then tells Juliet the happy news that she is to marry Paris on Thursday. Juliet is stunned and tells her mother that she cannot be married in such haste. Her father enters expecting to find Juliet excited about the wedding he arranged on her behalf. When she expresses opposition, he becomes enraged and demands that Juliet obey his "decree" and prepare to be wed. The Nurse tries to defend Juliet, but to no avail. Capulet threatens to disown his daughter if she continues to oppose him. The scene concludes with the Nurse advising Juliet to obey her father, and Juliet resolves to seek the advice of Friar Laurence. |
Fanny seemed nearer being right than Edmund had supposed. The business
of finding a play that would suit everybody proved to be no trifle; and
the carpenter had received his orders and taken his measurements, had
suggested and removed at least two sets of difficulties, and having made
the necessity of an enlargement of plan and expense fully evident, was
already at work, while a play was still to seek. Other preparations
were also in hand. An enormous roll of green baize had arrived from
Northampton, and been cut out by Mrs. Norris (with a saving by her good
management of full three-quarters of a yard), and was actually forming
into a curtain by the housemaids, and still the play was wanting; and
as two or three days passed away in this manner, Edmund began almost to
hope that none might ever be found.
There were, in fact, so many things to be attended to, so many people
to be pleased, so many best characters required, and, above all, such a
need that the play should be at once both tragedy and comedy, that there
did seem as little chance of a decision as anything pursued by youth and
zeal could hold out.
On the tragic side were the Miss Bertrams, Henry Crawford, and Mr.
Yates; on the comic, Tom Bertram, not _quite_ alone, because it was
evident that Mary Crawford's wishes, though politely kept back, inclined
the same way: but his determinateness and his power seemed to make
allies unnecessary; and, independent of this great irreconcilable
difference, they wanted a piece containing very few characters in the
whole, but every character first-rate, and three principal women. All
the best plays were run over in vain. Neither Hamlet, nor Macbeth, nor
Othello, nor Douglas, nor The Gamester, presented anything that could
satisfy even the tragedians; and The Rivals, The School for Scandal,
Wheel of Fortune, Heir at Law, and a long et cetera, were successively
dismissed with yet warmer objections. No piece could be proposed that
did not supply somebody with a difficulty, and on one side or the other
it was a continual repetition of, "Oh no, _that_ will never do! Let us
have no ranting tragedies. Too many characters. Not a tolerable
woman's part in the play. Anything but _that_, my dear Tom. It would be
impossible to fill it up. One could not expect anybody to take such a
part. Nothing but buffoonery from beginning to end. _That_ might do,
perhaps, but for the low parts. If I _must_ give my opinion, I have
always thought it the most insipid play in the English language. _I_ do
not wish to make objections; I shall be happy to be of any use, but I
think we could not chuse worse."
Fanny looked on and listened, not unamused to observe the selfishness
which, more or less disguised, seemed to govern them all, and wondering
how it would end. For her own gratification she could have wished that
something might be acted, for she had never seen even half a play, but
everything of higher consequence was against it.
"This will never do," said Tom Bertram at last. "We are wasting time
most abominably. Something must be fixed on. No matter what, so that
something is chosen. We must not be so nice. A few characters too many
must not frighten us. We must _double_ them. We must descend a little.
If a part is insignificant, the greater our credit in making anything of
it. From this moment I make no difficulties. I take any part you chuse
to give me, so as it be comic. Let it but be comic, I condition for
nothing more."
For about the fifth time he then proposed the Heir at Law, doubting only
whether to prefer Lord Duberley or Dr. Pangloss for himself; and very
earnestly, but very unsuccessfully, trying to persuade the others that
there were some fine tragic parts in the rest of the dramatis personae.
The pause which followed this fruitless effort was ended by the same
speaker, who, taking up one of the many volumes of plays that lay on the
table, and turning it over, suddenly exclaimed--"Lovers' Vows! And why
should not Lovers' Vows do for _us_ as well as for the Ravenshaws? How
came it never to be thought of before? It strikes me as if it would do
exactly. What say you all? Here are two capital tragic parts for Yates
and Crawford, and here is the rhyming Butler for me, if nobody else
wants it; a trifling part, but the sort of thing I should not dislike,
and, as I said before, I am determined to take anything and do my best.
And as for the rest, they may be filled up by anybody. It is only Count
Cassel and Anhalt."
The suggestion was generally welcome. Everybody was growing weary of
indecision, and the first idea with everybody was, that nothing had been
proposed before so likely to suit them all. Mr. Yates was particularly
pleased: he had been sighing and longing to do the Baron at Ecclesford,
had grudged every rant of Lord Ravenshaw's, and been forced to re-rant
it all in his own room. The storm through Baron Wildenheim was the
height of his theatrical ambition; and with the advantage of knowing
half the scenes by heart already, he did now, with the greatest
alacrity, offer his services for the part. To do him justice, however,
he did not resolve to appropriate it; for remembering that there was
some very good ranting-ground in Frederick, he professed an equal
willingness for that. Henry Crawford was ready to take either. Whichever
Mr. Yates did not chuse would perfectly satisfy him, and a short parley
of compliment ensued. Miss Bertram, feeling all the interest of an
Agatha in the question, took on her to decide it, by observing to Mr.
Yates that this was a point in which height and figure ought to
be considered, and that _his_ being the tallest, seemed to fit him
peculiarly for the Baron. She was acknowledged to be quite right, and
the two parts being accepted accordingly, she was certain of the proper
Frederick. Three of the characters were now cast, besides Mr. Rushworth,
who was always answered for by Maria as willing to do anything; when
Julia, meaning, like her sister, to be Agatha, began to be scrupulous on
Miss Crawford's account.
"This is not behaving well by the absent," said she. "Here are not women
enough. Amelia and Agatha may do for Maria and me, but here is nothing
for your sister, Mr. Crawford."
Mr. Crawford desired _that_ might not be thought of: he was very sure
his sister had no wish of acting but as she might be useful, and that
she would not allow herself to be considered in the present case. But
this was immediately opposed by Tom Bertram, who asserted the part of
Amelia to be in every respect the property of Miss Crawford, if she
would accept it. "It falls as naturally, as necessarily to her,"
said he, "as Agatha does to one or other of my sisters. It can be no
sacrifice on their side, for it is highly comic."
A short silence followed. Each sister looked anxious; for each felt the
best claim to Agatha, and was hoping to have it pressed on her by the
rest. Henry Crawford, who meanwhile had taken up the play, and with
seeming carelessness was turning over the first act, soon settled the
business.
"I must entreat Miss _Julia_ Bertram," said he, "not to engage in the
part of Agatha, or it will be the ruin of all my solemnity. You must
not, indeed you must not" (turning to her). "I could not stand your
countenance dressed up in woe and paleness. The many laughs we have had
together would infallibly come across me, and Frederick and his knapsack
would be obliged to run away."
Pleasantly, courteously, it was spoken; but the manner was lost in the
matter to Julia's feelings. She saw a glance at Maria which confirmed
the injury to herself: it was a scheme, a trick; she was slighted, Maria
was preferred; the smile of triumph which Maria was trying to suppress
shewed how well it was understood; and before Julia could command
herself enough to speak, her brother gave his weight against her too,
by saying, "Oh yes! Maria must be Agatha. Maria will be the best Agatha.
Though Julia fancies she prefers tragedy, I would not trust her in it.
There is nothing of tragedy about her. She has not the look of it. Her
features are not tragic features, and she walks too quick, and speaks
too quick, and would not keep her countenance. She had better do the old
countrywoman: the Cottager's wife; you had, indeed, Julia. Cottager's
wife is a very pretty part, I assure you. The old lady relieves the
high-flown benevolence of her husband with a good deal of spirit. You
shall be Cottager's wife."
"Cottager's wife!" cried Mr. Yates. "What are you talking of? The most
trivial, paltry, insignificant part; the merest commonplace; not a
tolerable speech in the whole. Your sister do that! It is an insult
to propose it. At Ecclesford the governess was to have done it. We
all agreed that it could not be offered to anybody else. A little more
justice, Mr. Manager, if you please. You do not deserve the office, if
you cannot appreciate the talents of your company a little better."
"Why, as to _that_, my good friend, till I and my company have really
acted there must be some guesswork; but I mean no disparagement to
Julia. We cannot have two Agathas, and we must have one Cottager's
wife; and I am sure I set her the example of moderation myself in being
satisfied with the old Butler. If the part is trifling she will have
more credit in making something of it; and if she is so desperately bent
against everything humorous, let her take Cottager's speeches instead of
Cottager's wife's, and so change the parts all through; _he_ is solemn
and pathetic enough, I am sure. It could make no difference in the play,
and as for Cottager himself, when he has got his wife's speeches, _I_
would undertake him with all my heart."
"With all your partiality for Cottager's wife," said Henry Crawford, "it
will be impossible to make anything of it fit for your sister, and we
must not suffer her good-nature to be imposed on. We must not _allow_
her to accept the part. She must not be left to her own complaisance.
Her talents will be wanted in Amelia. Amelia is a character more
difficult to be well represented than even Agatha. I consider Amelia
is the most difficult character in the whole piece. It requires great
powers, great nicety, to give her playfulness and simplicity without
extravagance. I have seen good actresses fail in the part. Simplicity,
indeed, is beyond the reach of almost every actress by profession.
It requires a delicacy of feeling which they have not. It requires a
gentlewoman--a Julia Bertram. You _will_ undertake it, I hope?" turning
to her with a look of anxious entreaty, which softened her a little; but
while she hesitated what to say, her brother again interposed with Miss
Crawford's better claim.
"No, no, Julia must not be Amelia. It is not at all the part for her.
She would not like it. She would not do well. She is too tall and
robust. Amelia should be a small, light, girlish, skipping figure. It is
fit for Miss Crawford, and Miss Crawford only. She looks the part, and I
am persuaded will do it admirably."
Without attending to this, Henry Crawford continued his supplication.
"You must oblige us," said he, "indeed you must. When you have studied
the character, I am sure you will feel it suit you. Tragedy may be your
choice, but it will certainly appear that comedy chuses _you_. You
will be to visit me in prison with a basket of provisions; you will
not refuse to visit me in prison? I think I see you coming in with your
basket."
The influence of his voice was felt. Julia wavered; but was he only
trying to soothe and pacify her, and make her overlook the previous
affront? She distrusted him. The slight had been most determined. He
was, perhaps, but at treacherous play with her. She looked suspiciously
at her sister; Maria's countenance was to decide it: if she were vexed
and alarmed--but Maria looked all serenity and satisfaction, and Julia
well knew that on this ground Maria could not be happy but at her
expense. With hasty indignation, therefore, and a tremulous voice, she
said to him, "You do not seem afraid of not keeping your countenance
when I come in with a basket of provisions--though one might have
supposed--but it is only as Agatha that I was to be so overpowering!"
She stopped--Henry Crawford looked rather foolish, and as if he did not
know what to say. Tom Bertram began again--
"Miss Crawford must be Amelia. She will be an excellent Amelia."
"Do not be afraid of _my_ wanting the character," cried Julia, with
angry quickness: "I am _not_ to be Agatha, and I am sure I will do
nothing else; and as to Amelia, it is of all parts in the world the
most disgusting to me. I quite detest her. An odious, little, pert,
unnatural, impudent girl. I have always protested against comedy, and
this is comedy in its worst form." And so saying, she walked hastily
out of the room, leaving awkward feelings to more than one, but exciting
small compassion in any except Fanny, who had been a quiet auditor of
the whole, and who could not think of her as under the agitations of
_jealousy_ without great pity.
A short silence succeeded her leaving them; but her brother soon
returned to business and Lovers' Vows, and was eagerly looking over
the play, with Mr. Yates's help, to ascertain what scenery would be
necessary--while Maria and Henry Crawford conversed together in an
under-voice, and the declaration with which she began of, "I am sure I
would give up the part to Julia most willingly, but that though I shall
probably do it very ill, I feel persuaded _she_ would do it worse," was
doubtless receiving all the compliments it called for.
When this had lasted some time, the division of the party was completed
by Tom Bertram and Mr. Yates walking off together to consult farther in
the room now beginning to be called _the_ _Theatre_, and Miss Bertram's
resolving to go down to the Parsonage herself with the offer of Amelia
to Miss Crawford; and Fanny remained alone.
The first use she made of her solitude was to take up the volume which
had been left on the table, and begin to acquaint herself with the play
of which she had heard so much. Her curiosity was all awake, and she ran
through it with an eagerness which was suspended only by intervals of
astonishment, that it could be chosen in the present instance, that it
could be proposed and accepted in a private theatre! Agatha and Amelia
appeared to her in their different ways so totally improper for home
representation--the situation of one, and the language of the other,
so unfit to be expressed by any woman of modesty, that she could hardly
suppose her cousins could be aware of what they were engaging in; and
longed to have them roused as soon as possible by the remonstrance which
Edmund would certainly make. | Fanny's prediction about the group having a hard time picking a play was correct. Some want a tragedy, others a comedy, and no one can agree. Fanny sits back and watches everyone argue. Finally they have a "duh" moment and decide to perform Lovers' Vows since Mr. Yates is familiar with it already and can direct everyone. Now everyone argues over who gets what part. The guys decide easily enough but both Julia and Maria fight over the lead role that will be the love interest of Henry's character. Henry says that Maria should do the part since Julia is better suited for comedy. Julia is hugely insulted and Maria is triumphant. Tom agrees with Henry but then insists that Mary play the other female lead. Henry tries to argue for Julia to play that part and so does Mr. Yates. But Tom insists Mary do the other part and Julia finally gets so mad that she refuses to do anything and storms out. The rest quickly recover and start planning eagerly. After everyone else wanders off, Fanny sits down to read Lovers' Vows and is appalled since the play deals with adultery and kids being born out of wedlock and other scandalous topics. Fanny hopes that Edmund will give them all a big lecture soon. |
CHAPTER V.
THE AUTHOR, BY AN EXTRAORDINARY STRATAGEM, PREVENTS AN INVASION. A
HIGH TITLE OF HONOR IS CONFERRED UPON HIM. AMBASSADORS ARRIVE FROM
THE EMPEROR OF BLEFUSCU, AND SUE FOR PEACE. THE EMPRESS'S APARTMENT
ON FIRE, BY ACCIDENT; THE AUTHOR INSTRUMENTAL IN SAVING THE REST OF
THE PALACE.
The empire of Blefuscu is an island, situate to the north northeast of
Lilliput, from whence it is parted only by a channel of eight hundred
yards wide. I had not yet seen it; and upon this notice of an intended
invasion, I avoided appearing on that side of the coast, for fear of
being discovered by some of the enemy's ships, who had received no
intelligence of me, all intercourse between the two empires having been
strictly forbidden during the war, upon the pain of death, and an
embargo[25] laid by our emperor upon all vessels whatsoever.
I communicated to his majesty a project I had formed, of seizing the
enemy's whole fleet; which, as our scouts assured us, lay at anchor in
the harbor, ready to sail with the first fair wind. I consulted the most
experienced seamen upon the depth of the channel, which they had often
plumbed; who told me, that in the middle, at high water, it was seventy
_glumgluffs_ deep, which is about six feet of European measure; and the
rest of it fifty _glumgluffs_ at most. I walked towards the northeast
coast, over against Blefuscu; where, lying down behind a hillock, I took
out my small perspective glass, and viewed the enemy's fleet at anchor,
consisting of about fifty men-of-war, and a great number of transports;
I then came back to my house, and gave orders (for which I had a
warrant) for a great quantity of the strongest cable and bars of iron.
The cable was about as thick as packthread, and the bars of the length
and size of a knitting needle. I trebled the cable, to make it stronger;
and, for the same reason, I twisted three of the iron bars together,
bending the extremities into a hook.
Having thus fixed fifty hooks to as many cables, I went back to the
northeast coast, and putting off my coat, shoes, and stockings, walked
into the sea in my leathern jerkin, about half an hour before
high-water. I waded with what haste I could, and swam in the middle
about thirty yards, till I felt ground; I arrived at the fleet in less
than half an hour. The enemy were so frightened, when they saw me, that
they leaped out of their ships, and swam to shore, where there could not
be fewer than thirty thousand souls: I then took my tackling, and
fastening a hook to the hole at the prow of each, I tied all the cords
together at the end.
While I was thus employed, the enemy discharged several thousand arrows,
many of which stuck in my hands and face; and, besides the excessive
smart, gave me much disturbance in my work. My greatest apprehension was
for mine eyes, which I should have infallibly lost, if I had not
suddenly thought of an expedient. I kept, among other little
necessaries, a pair of spectacles, in a private pocket, which, as I
observed before, had escaped the emperor's searchers. These I took out,
and fastened as strongly as I could upon my nose, and thus armed, went
on boldly with my work, in spite of the enemy's arrows, many of which
struck against the glasses of my spectacles, but without any other
effect, farther than a little to discompose them.[26] I had now fastened
all the hooks, and, taking the knot in my hand, began to pull: but not a
ship would stir, for they were all too fast held by their anchors; so
that the boldest part of my enterprise remained. I therefore let go the
cord, and, leaving the hooks fixed to the ships, I resolutely cut with
my knife the cables that fastened the anchors, receiving above two
hundred shots in my face and hands; then I took up the knotted end of
the cables, to which my hooks were tied, and, with great ease, drew
fifty of the enemy's largest men-of-war after me.
The Blefuscudians, who had not the least imagination of what I intended,
were at first confounded with astonishment. They had seen me cut the
cables, and thought my design was only to let the ships run adrift, or
fall foul on each other: but when they perceived the whole fleet moving
in order, and saw me pulling at the end, they set up such a scream of
grief and despair as it is almost impossible to describe or conceive.
When I had got out of danger, I stopped awhile to pick out the arrows
that stuck in my hands and face: and rubbed on some of the same ointment
that was given me at my first arrival, as I have formerly mentioned. I
then took off my spectacles, and waiting about an hour, till the tide
was a little fallen, I waded through the middle with my cargo, and
arrived safe at the royal port of Lilliput.
The emperor and his whole court stood on the shore, expecting the issue
of this great adventure. They saw the ships move forward in a large
half-moon, but could not discern me, who was up to my breast in water.
When I advanced to the middle of the channel, they were yet more in
pain, because I was under water to my neck. The emperor concluded me to
be drowned, and that the enemy's fleet was approaching in an hostile
manner: but he was soon eased of his fears; for the channel growing
shallower every step I made, I came in a short time within hearing; and
holding up the end of the cable, by which the fleet was fastened, I
cried in a loud voice, Long live the most puissant[27] emperor of
Lilliput! This great prince received me at my landing, with all possible
encomiums, and created me a _nardac_ upon the spot, which is the highest
title of honor among them.
His majesty desired I would take some other opportunity of bringing all
the rest of his enemy's ships into his ports. And so immeasurable is the
ambition of princes, that he seemed to think of nothing less than
reducing the whole empire of Blefuscu into a province, and governing it
by viceroy; of destroying the Big-endian exiles, and compelling that
people to break the smaller end of their eggs, by which he would remain
the sole monarch of the whole world. But I endeavored to divert him from
this design, by many arguments, drawn from the topics of policy, as well
as justice. And I plainly protested, that I would never be an instrument
of bringing a free and brave people into slavery. And when the matter
was debated in council, the wisest part of the ministry were of my
opinion.
[Illustration: "AND CREATED ME A _NARDAC_ UPON THE SPOT." P. 58.]
This open, bold declaration of mine was so opposite to the schemes and
politics of his imperial majesty, that he could never forgive me; he
mentioned it, in a very artful manner, at council, where, I was told,
that some of the wisest appeared, at least by their silence, to be of my
opinion; but others, who were my secret enemies, could not forbear some
expressions, which by a side-wind reflected on me. And, from this time
began an intrigue between his majesty and a junto[28] of ministers
maliciously bent against me, which broke out in less than two months,
and had like to have ended in my utter destruction. Of so little weight
are the greatest services to princes, when put into the balance with a
refusal to gratify their passions.
About three weeks after this exploit, there arrived a solemn embassy
from Blefuscu, with humble offers of peace; which was soon concluded,
upon conditions very advantageous to our emperor, wherewith I shall not
trouble the reader. There were six ambassadors, with a train of about
five hundred persons; and their entry was very magnificent, suitable to
the grandeur of their master, and the importance of their business. When
their treaty was finished, wherein I did them several good offices, by
the credit I now had, or at least appeared to have at court, their
excellencies, who were privately told how much I had been their friend,
made me a visit in form. They began with many compliments upon my valor
and generosity, invited me to that kingdom, in the emperor their
master's name, and desired me to show some proofs of my prodigious
strength, of which they had heard so many wonders; wherein I readily
obliged them, but shall not trouble the reader with the particulars.
[Illustration]
When I had for some time entertained their Excellencies, to their
infinite satisfaction and surprise, I desired they would do me the honor
to present my most humble respects to the emperor their master, the
renown of whose virtues had so justly filled the whole world with
admiration, and whose royal person I resolved to attend, before I
returned to my own country. Accordingly, the next time I had the honor
to see our emperor, I desired his general license to wait on the
Blefuscudian monarch, which he was pleased to grant me, as I could
plainly perceive, in a very cold manner; but could not guess the reason,
till I had a whisper from a certain person, that Flimnap and Bolgolam
had represented my intercourse with those ambassadors as a mark of
disaffection, from which, I am sure, my heart was wholly free. And this
was the first time I began to conceive some imperfect idea of courts and
ministers.
It is to be observed, that these ambassadors spoke to me by an
interpreter, the languages of both empires differing as much from each
other as any two in Europe, and each nation priding itself upon the
antiquity, beauty, and energy of its own tongue, with an avowed contempt
for that of its neighbor; yet our emperor, standing upon the advantage
he had got by the seizure of their fleet, obliged them to deliver their
credentials, and make their speech in the Lilliputian tongue.
And it must be confessed, that, from the great intercourse of trade and
commerce between both realms; from the continual reception of exiles,
which is mutual among them; and from the custom in each empire, to send
their young nobility, and richer gentry, to the other, in order to
polish themselves, by seeing the world, and understanding men and
manners; there are few persons of distinction, or merchants, or, seamen,
who dwell in the maritime parts, but what can hold conversation in both
tongues, as I found some weeks after, when I went to pay my respects to
the Emperor of Blefuscu, which, in the midst of great misfortunes,
through the malice of my enemies, proved a very happy adventure to me,
as I shall relate in its proper place.
The reader may remember, that when I signed those articles, upon which I
recovered my liberty, there were some which I disliked, upon account of
their being too servile; neither could anything but an extreme necessity
have forced me to submit. But, being now a _nardac_ of the highest rank
in that empire, such offices were looked upon as below my dignity, and
the emperor, to do him justice, never once mentioned them to me.
However, it was not long before I had an opportunity of doing his
majesty, at least as I then thought, a most signal service. I was
alarmed at midnight with the cries of many hundred people at my door, by
which, being suddenly awaked, I was in some kind of terror. I heard the
word _burglum_ repeated incessantly.
Several of the emperor's court, making their way through the crowd,
entreated me to come immediately to the palace, where her imperial
majesty's apartment was on fire, by the carelessness of a maid of honor,
who fell asleep while she was reading a romance. I got up in an instant;
and orders being given to clear the way before me, and it being likewise
a moonshine night, I made a shift to get to the palace, without
trampling on any of the people. I found they had already applied ladders
to the walls of the apartment, and were well provided with buckets, but
the water was at some distance. These buckets were about the size of a
large thimble, and the poor people supplied me with them as fast as they
could; but the flame was so violent that they did little good. I might
easily have stifled it with my coat, which I unfortunately left behind
me for haste, and came away only in my leathern jerkin. The case seemed
wholly desperate and deplorable, and this magnificent palace would have
infallibly been burnt down to the ground, if, by a presence of mind
unusual to me, I had not suddenly thought of an expedient by which in
three minutes the fire was wholly extinguished, and the rest of that
noble pile, which had cost so many ages in erecting, preserved from
destruction.
[Illustration]
It was now daylight, and I returned to my house, without waiting to
congratulate with the emperor; because, although I had done a very
eminent piece of service, yet I could not tell how his majesty might
resent the manner by which I had performed it: for, by the fundamental
laws of the realm, it is capital in any man, of what quality soever, to
even touch the empress or the royal princesses without invitation. But I
was a little comforted by a message from his majesty, that he would give
orders to the grand justiciary for passing my pardon in form, which,
however, I could not obtain. And I was privately assured that the
empress, conceiving the greatest abhorrence of me, and, in the presence
of her chief confidants, could not forbear vowing revenge. | Blefuscu is divided from Lilliput by a small channel about 800 yards wide - not even half a mile. Gulliver plans to capture the whole Blefuscu fleet of ships, of which there are about 50. He asks the Emperor for bars of iron and thick ropes. He twists the bars of iron into 50 separate hooks, which he attaches to lengths of the rope. He wades and then swims across to the Blefuscudian fleet, where it is anchored in the shallows near the island of Blefuscu. The Blefuscudians shoot arrows at Gulliver's face and neck, but he puts on a pair of glasses to protect his eyes and keeps going about his business. Gulliver attaches each of his hooks to one of Blefuscu's ships, cuts the cables anchoring the ships in Blefuscu's harbor, and uses his hooks and bits of rope to tow the entire fleet across the channel. As Gulliver approaches Lilliput, he's so deep in the water that the Emperor and his court can't see him. All they can see is the Blefuscudian fleet approaching Lilliput's shores. Once Gulliver surfaces, they're all relieved to see that the fleet isn't attacking. At first, the Emperor wants to use his military advantage to conquer Blefuscu and to destroy all Big-Endians forever. Gulliver refuses to be a part of any plan that will make free people slaves. The Emperor eventually gives in on this point, but he never forgives Gulliver for refusing to help him enslave Blefuscu. The Emperor starts to plot with some of his ministers to kill Gulliver. About three weeks after Gulliver captures the Blefuscu fleet, a group of representatives of Blefuscu's Emperor come asking for a peace treaty with Lilliput. They also invite Gulliver to come and visit Blefuscu. Gulliver asks the Emperor of Lilliput for permission to go to Blefuscu. The Emperor agrees, but he's unhappy about it - Skyresh Bolgolam and Flimnap both use Gulliver's desire to visit Blefuscu as evidence against his loyalty to Lilliput. Even though the original terms of Gulliver's freedom include things like carrying messages and so on, his adventure with the fleet of Blefuscu leads him to become a nardac, a highly honored member of the kingdom. Thanks to his new rank, everyone thinks that the rules of Gulliver's freedom are kind of beneath him now, and the Emperor never mentions Gulliver's supposed duties. Even so, one night Gulliver does the Emperor a favor. He hears hundreds of people calling Burglum - fire! - and runs out to see what's wrong. The Empress's rooms at the palace are on fire. Luckily, Gulliver had had a lot of wine the night before and had not yet peed any of it, so he has plenty to use to put out the fire at the palace. Thanks to his quick thinking and huge bladder, Gulliver saves the palace from destruction. Unfortunately, the Empress is not too pleased with Gulliver's method of putting out the fire - i.e., by peeing on it - so she's horribly offended and refuses to see that part of the palace repaired. |
SCENE II.
Rome. TITUS' house
A banquet.
Enter TITUS, MARCUS, LAVINIA, and the boy YOUNG LUCIUS
TITUS. So so, now sit; and look you eat no more
Than will preserve just so much strength in us
As will revenge these bitter woes of ours.
Marcus, unknit that sorrow-wreathen knot;
Thy niece and I, poor creatures, want our hands,
And cannot passionate our tenfold grief
With folded arms. This poor right hand of mine
Is left to tyrannize upon my breast;
And, when my heart, all mad with misery,
Beats in this hollow prison of my flesh,
Then thus I thump it down.
[To LAVINIA] Thou map of woe, that thus dost talk in signs!
When thy poor heart beats with outrageous beating,
Thou canst not strike it thus to make it still.
Wound it with sighing, girl, kill it with groans;
Or get some little knife between thy teeth
And just against thy heart make thou a hole,
That all the tears that thy poor eyes let fall
May run into that sink and, soaking in,
Drown the lamenting fool in sea-salt tears.
MARCUS. Fie, brother, fie! Teach her not thus to lay
Such violent hands upon her tender life.
TITUS. How now! Has sorrow made thee dote already?
Why, Marcus, no man should be mad but I.
What violent hands can she lay on her life?
Ah, wherefore dost thou urge the name of hands?
To bid Aeneas tell the tale twice o'er
How Troy was burnt and he made miserable?
O, handle not the theme, to talk of hands,
Lest we remember still that we have none.
Fie, fie, how franticly I square my talk,
As if we should forget we had no hands,
If Marcus did not name the word of hands!
Come, let's fall to; and, gentle girl, eat this:
Here is no drink. Hark, Marcus, what she says-
I can interpret all her martyr'd signs;
She says she drinks no other drink but tears,
Brew'd with her sorrow, mesh'd upon her cheeks.
Speechless complainer, I will learn thy thought;
In thy dumb action will I be as perfect
As begging hermits in their holy prayers.
Thou shalt not sigh, nor hold thy stumps to heaven,
Nor wink, nor nod, nor kneel, nor make a sign,
But I of these will wrest an alphabet,
And by still practice learn to know thy meaning.
BOY. Good grandsire, leave these bitter deep laments;
Make my aunt merry with some pleasing tale.
MARCUS. Alas, the tender boy, in passion mov'd,
Doth weep to see his grandsire's heaviness.
TITUS. Peace, tender sapling; thou art made of tears,
And tears will quickly melt thy life away.
[MARCUS strikes the dish with a knife]
What dost thou strike at, Marcus, with thy knife?
MARCUS. At that that I have kill'd, my lord- a fly.
TITUS. Out on thee, murderer, thou kill'st my heart!
Mine eyes are cloy'd with view of tyranny;
A deed of death done on the innocent
Becomes not Titus' brother. Get thee gone;
I see thou art not for my company.
MARCUS. Alas, my lord, I have but kill'd a fly.
TITUS. 'But!' How if that fly had a father and mother?
How would he hang his slender gilded wings
And buzz lamenting doings in the air!
Poor harmless fly,
That with his pretty buzzing melody
Came here to make us merry! And thou hast kill'd him.
MARCUS. Pardon me, sir; it was a black ill-favour'd fly,
Like to the Empress' Moor; therefore I kill'd him.
TITUS. O, O, O!
Then pardon me for reprehending thee,
For thou hast done a charitable deed.
Give me thy knife, I will insult on him,
Flattering myself as if it were the Moor
Come hither purposely to poison me.
There's for thyself, and that's for Tamora.
Ah, sirrah!
Yet, I think, we are not brought so low
But that between us we can kill a fly
That comes in likeness of a coal-black Moor.
MARCUS. Alas, poor man! grief has so wrought on him,
He takes false shadows for true substances.
TITUS. Come, take away. Lavinia, go with me;
I'll to thy closet, and go read with thee
Sad stories chanced in the times of old.
Come, boy, and go with me; thy sight is young,
And thou shalt read when mine begin to dazzle. Exeunt | Titus is overwrought with grief and cannot stop lamenting over his grief. Marcus and young Lucius fear he is upsetting Lavinia and try to persuade him to talk of cheerful things, but in vain. As they are eating, Marcus kills a fly and Titus accuses him of cruelty. Marcus explains that it was black fly. Titus reminded of Aaron by the mention of "black" congratulates him and takes a knife and attacks it thinking it is Aaron and Tamora. Titus, Lavinia and young Lucius retire to read old stories. |
Showing That Tom Had Opened the Oyster
"And now we've settled this Newcastle business, Tom," said Mr. Deane,
that same afternoon, as they were seated in the private room at the
Bank together, "there's another matter I want to talk to you about.
Since you're likely to have rather a smoky, unpleasant time of it at
Newcastle for the next few weeks, you'll want a good prospect of some
sort to keep up your spirits."
Tom waited less nervously than he had done on a former occasion in
this apartment, while his uncle took out his snuff-box and gratified
each nostril with deliberate impartiality.
"You see, Tom," said Mr. Deane at last, throwing himself backward,
"the world goes on at a smarter pace now than it did when I was a
young fellow. Why, sir, forty years ago, when I was much such a
strapping youngster as you, a man expected to pull between the shafts
the best part of his life, before he got the whip in his hand. The
looms went slowish, and fashions didn't alter quite so fast; I'd a
best suit that lasted me six years. Everything was on a lower scale,
sir,--in point of expenditure, I mean. It's this steam, you see, that
has made the difference; it drives on every wheel double pace, and the
wheel of fortune along with 'em, as our Mr. Stephen Guest said at the
anniversary dinner (he hits these things off wonderfully, considering
he's seen nothing of business). I don't find fault with the change, as
some people do. Trade, sir, opens a man's eyes; and if the population
is to get thicker upon the ground, as it's doing, the world must use
its wits at inventions of one sort or other. I know I've done my share
as an ordinary man of business. Somebody has said it's a fine thing to
make two ears of corn grow where only one grew before; but, sir, it's
a fine thing, too, to further the exchange of commodities, and bring
the grains of corn to the mouths that are hungry. And that's our line
of business; and I consider it as honorable a position as a man can
hold, to be connected with it."
Tom knew that the affair his uncle had to speak of was not urgent; Mr.
Deane was too shrewd and practical a man to allow either his
reminiscences or his snuff to impede the progress of trade. Indeed,
for the last month or two, there had been hints thrown out to Tom
which enabled him to guess that he was going to hear some proposition
for his own benefit. With the beginning of the last speech he had
stretched out his legs, thrust his hands in his pockets, and prepared
himself for some introductory diffuseness, tending to show that Mr.
Deane had succeeded by his own merit, and that what he had to say to
young men in general was, that if they didn't succeed too it was
because of their own demerit. He was rather surprised, then, when his
uncle put a direct question to him.
"Let me see,--it's going on for seven years now since you applied to
me for a situation, eh, Tom?"
"Yes, sir; I'm three-and-twenty now," said Tom.
"Ah, it's as well not to say that, though; for you'd pass for a good
deal older, and age tells well in business. I remember your coming
very well; I remember I saw there was some pluck in you, and that was
what made me give you encouragement. And I'm happy to say I was right;
I'm not often deceived. I was naturally a little shy at pushing my
nephew, but I'm happy to say you've done me credit, sir; and if I'd
had a son o' my own, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."
Mr. Deane tapped his box and opened it again, repeating in a tone of
some feeling, "No, I shouldn't have been sorry to see him like you."
"I'm very glad I've given you satisfaction, sir; I've done my best,"
said Tom, in his proud, independent way.
"Yes, Tom, you've given me satisfaction. I don't speak of your conduct
as a son; though that weighs with me in my opinion of you. But what I
have to do with, as a partner in our firm, is the qualities you've
shown as a man o' business. Ours is a fine business,--a splendid
concern, sir,--and there's no reason why it shouldn't go on growing;
there's a growing capital, and growing outlets for it; but there's
another thing that's wanted for the prosperity of every concern, large
or small, and that's men to conduct it,--men of the right habits; none
o' your flashy fellows, but such as are to be depended on. Now this is
what Mr. Guest and I see clear enough. Three years ago we took Gell
into the concern; we gave him a share in the oil-mill. And why? Why,
because Gell was a fellow whose services were worth a premium. So it
will always be, sir. So it was with me. And though Gell is pretty near
ten years older than you, there are other points in your favor."
Tom was getting a little nervous as Mr. Deane went on speaking; he was
conscious of something he had in his mind to say, which might not be
agreeable to his uncle, simply because it was a new suggestion rather
than an acceptance of the proposition he foresaw.
"It stands to reason," Mr. Deane went on, when he had finished his new
pinch, "that your being my nephew weighs in your favor; but I don't
deny that if you'd been no relation of mine at all, your conduct in
that affair of Pelley's bank would have led Mr. Guest and myself to
make some acknowledgment of the service you've been to us; and, backed
by your general conduct and business ability, it has made us determine
on giving you a share in the business,--a share which we shall be glad
to increase as the years go on. We think that'll be better, on all
grounds, than raising your salary. It'll give you more importance, and
prepare you better for taking some of the anxiety off my shoulders by
and by. I'm equal to a good deal o' work at present, thank God; but
I'm getting older,--there's no denying that. I told Mr. Guest I would
open the subject to you; and when you come back from this northern
business, we can go into particulars. This is a great stride for a
young fellow of three-and-twenty, but I'm bound to say you've deserved
it."
"I'm very grateful to Mr. Guest and you, sir; of course I feel the
most indebted to _you_, who first took me into the business, and have
taken a good deal of pains with me since."
Tom spoke with a slight tremor, and paused after he had said this.
"Yes, yes," said Mr. Deane. "I don't spare pains when I see they'll be
of any use. I gave myself some trouble with Gell, else he wouldn't
have been what he is."
"But there's one thing I should like to mention to you uncle. I've
never spoken to you of it before. If you remember, at the time my
father's property was sold, there was some thought of your firm buying
the Mill; I know you thought it would be a very good investment,
especially if steam were applied."
"To be sure, to be sure. But Wakem outbid us; he'd made up his mind to
that. He's rather fond of carrying everything over other people's
heads."
"Perhaps it's of no use my mentioning it at present," Tom went on,
"but I wish you to know what I have in my mind about the Mill. I've a
strong feeling about it. It was my father's dying wish that I should
try and get it back again whenever I could; it was in his family for
five generations. I promised my father; and besides that, I'm attached
to the place. I shall never like any other so well. And if it should
ever suit your views to buy it for the firm, I should have a better
chance of fulfilling my father's wish. I shouldn't have liked to
mention the thing to you, only you've been kind enough to say my
services have been of some value. And I'd give up a much greater
chance in life for the sake of having the Mill again,--I mean having
it in my own hands, and gradually working off the price."
Mr. Deane had listened attentively, and now looked thoughtful.
"I see, I see," he said, after a while; "the thing would be possible
if there were any chance of Wakem's parting with the property. But
that I _don't_ see. He's put that young Jetsome in the place; and he
had his reasons when he bought it, I'll be bound."
"He's a loose fish, that young Jetsome," said Tom. "He's taking to
drinking, and they say he's letting the business go down. Luke told me
about it,--our old miller. He says he sha'n't stay unless there's an
alteration. I was thinking, if things went on that way, Wakem might be
more willing to part with the Mill. Luke says he's getting very sour
about the way things are going on."
"Well, I'll turn it over, Tom. I must inquire into the matter, and go
into it with Mr. Guest. But, you see, it's rather striking out a new
branch, and putting you to that, instead of keeping you where you are,
which was what we'd wanted."
"I should be able to manage more than the Mill when things were once
set properly going, sir. I want to have plenty of work. There's
nothing else I care about much."
There was something rather sad in that speech from a young man of
three-and-twenty, even in uncle Deane's business-loving ears.
"Pooh, pooh! you'll be having a wife to care about one of these days,
if you get on at this pace in the world. But as to this Mill, we
mustn't reckon on our chickens too early. However, I promise you to
bear it in mind, and when you come back we'll talk of it again. I am
going to dinner now. Come and breakfast with us to-morrow morning, and
say good-bye to your mother and sister before you start." | Tom is at the bank talking to Mr. Deane. Tom has been going on business trips and is doing really well. Mr. Deane gives another one of his patented 'back in my day, sonny, I walked 50 miles in the snow everywhere' type of speeches. This time he talks about how the world is changing. We learn that Tom has been working for Mr. Deane for seven years and that he is now twenty-three. Mr. Deane gives a very rambling run-down of the business and how Tom has been excelling. After a while, he finally gets to the point: Mr. Guest and Mr. Deane want to promote Tom and give him a share in the business. So Tom will basically have stock in the company now. Tom is happy about this. But Tom has something to ask Mr. Deane: he wants his help to buy back the mill. He explains it was his father's dying wish and that there's an opportunity to get it now since Wakem's current manager is no good and Wakem might just want to get rid of the place now. Mr. Deane is intrigued and says he'll think about it, but notes that he'd rather keep Tom in his current position rather than make him a Mill manager right now. Tom says he could do both since he loves work. Mr. Deane finds this a bit depressing and tells Tom that he'll get married one day and have other things to worry about. |
Phileas Fogg found himself twenty hours behind time. Passepartout, the
involuntary cause of this delay, was desperate. He had ruined his
master!
At this moment the detective approached Mr. Fogg, and, looking him
intently in the face, said:
"Seriously, sir, are you in great haste?"
"Quite seriously."
"I have a purpose in asking," resumed Fix. "Is it absolutely necessary
that you should be in New York on the 11th, before nine o'clock in the
evening, the time that the steamer leaves for Liverpool?"
"It is absolutely necessary."
"And, if your journey had not been interrupted by these Indians, you
would have reached New York on the morning of the 11th?"
"Yes; with eleven hours to spare before the steamer left."
"Good! you are therefore twenty hours behind. Twelve from twenty
leaves eight. You must regain eight hours. Do you wish to try to do
so?"
"On foot?" asked Mr. Fogg.
"No; on a sledge," replied Fix. "On a sledge with sails. A man has
proposed such a method to me."
It was the man who had spoken to Fix during the night, and whose offer
he had refused.
Phileas Fogg did not reply at once; but Fix, having pointed out the
man, who was walking up and down in front of the station, Mr. Fogg went
up to him. An instant after, Mr. Fogg and the American, whose name was
Mudge, entered a hut built just below the fort.
There Mr. Fogg examined a curious vehicle, a kind of frame on two long
beams, a little raised in front like the runners of a sledge, and upon
which there was room for five or six persons. A high mast was fixed on
the frame, held firmly by metallic lashings, to which was attached a
large brigantine sail. This mast held an iron stay upon which to hoist
a jib-sail. Behind, a sort of rudder served to guide the vehicle. It
was, in short, a sledge rigged like a sloop. During the winter, when
the trains are blocked up by the snow, these sledges make extremely
rapid journeys across the frozen plains from one station to another.
Provided with more sails than a cutter, and with the wind behind them,
they slip over the surface of the prairies with a speed equal if not
superior to that of the express trains.
Mr. Fogg readily made a bargain with the owner of this land-craft. The
wind was favourable, being fresh, and blowing from the west. The snow
had hardened, and Mudge was very confident of being able to transport
Mr. Fogg in a few hours to Omaha. Thence the trains eastward run
frequently to Chicago and New York. It was not impossible that the
lost time might yet be recovered; and such an opportunity was not to be
rejected.
Not wishing to expose Aouda to the discomforts of travelling in the
open air, Mr. Fogg proposed to leave her with Passepartout at Fort
Kearney, the servant taking upon himself to escort her to Europe by a
better route and under more favourable conditions. But Aouda refused
to separate from Mr. Fogg, and Passepartout was delighted with her
decision; for nothing could induce him to leave his master while Fix
was with him.
It would be difficult to guess the detective's thoughts. Was this
conviction shaken by Phileas Fogg's return, or did he still regard him
as an exceedingly shrewd rascal, who, his journey round the world
completed, would think himself absolutely safe in England? Perhaps
Fix's opinion of Phileas Fogg was somewhat modified; but he was
nevertheless resolved to do his duty, and to hasten the return of the
whole party to England as much as possible.
At eight o'clock the sledge was ready to start. The passengers took
their places on it, and wrapped themselves up closely in their
travelling-cloaks. The two great sails were hoisted, and under the
pressure of the wind the sledge slid over the hardened snow with a
velocity of forty miles an hour.
The distance between Fort Kearney and Omaha, as the birds fly, is at
most two hundred miles. If the wind held good, the distance might be
traversed in five hours; if no accident happened the sledge might reach
Omaha by one o'clock.
What a journey! The travellers, huddled close together, could not
speak for the cold, intensified by the rapidity at which they were
going. The sledge sped on as lightly as a boat over the waves. When
the breeze came skimming the earth the sledge seemed to be lifted off
the ground by its sails. Mudge, who was at the rudder, kept in a
straight line, and by a turn of his hand checked the lurches which the
vehicle had a tendency to make. All the sails were up, and the jib was
so arranged as not to screen the brigantine. A top-mast was hoisted,
and another jib, held out to the wind, added its force to the other
sails. Although the speed could not be exactly estimated, the sledge
could not be going at less than forty miles an hour.
"If nothing breaks," said Mudge, "we shall get there!"
Mr. Fogg had made it for Mudge's interest to reach Omaha within the
time agreed on, by the offer of a handsome reward.
The prairie, across which the sledge was moving in a straight line, was
as flat as a sea. It seemed like a vast frozen lake. The railroad
which ran through this section ascended from the south-west to the
north-west by Great Island, Columbus, an important Nebraska town,
Schuyler, and Fremont, to Omaha. It followed throughout the right bank
of the Platte River. The sledge, shortening this route, took a chord
of the arc described by the railway. Mudge was not afraid of being
stopped by the Platte River, because it was frozen. The road, then,
was quite clear of obstacles, and Phileas Fogg had but two things to
fear--an accident to the sledge, and a change or calm in the wind.
But the breeze, far from lessening its force, blew as if to bend the
mast, which, however, the metallic lashings held firmly. These
lashings, like the chords of a stringed instrument, resounded as if
vibrated by a violin bow. The sledge slid along in the midst of a
plaintively intense melody.
"Those chords give the fifth and the octave," said Mr. Fogg.
These were the only words he uttered during the journey. Aouda, cosily
packed in furs and cloaks, was sheltered as much as possible from the
attacks of the freezing wind. As for Passepartout, his face was as red
as the sun's disc when it sets in the mist, and he laboriously inhaled
the biting air. With his natural buoyancy of spirits, he began to hope
again. They would reach New York on the evening, if not on the
morning, of the 11th, and there was still some chances that it would be
before the steamer sailed for Liverpool.
Passepartout even felt a strong desire to grasp his ally, Fix, by the
hand. He remembered that it was the detective who procured the sledge,
the only means of reaching Omaha in time; but, checked by some
presentiment, he kept his usual reserve. One thing, however,
Passepartout would never forget, and that was the sacrifice which Mr.
Fogg had made, without hesitation, to rescue him from the Sioux. Mr.
Fogg had risked his fortune and his life. No! His servant would never
forget that!
While each of the party was absorbed in reflections so different, the
sledge flew past over the vast carpet of snow. The creeks it passed
over were not perceived. Fields and streams disappeared under the
uniform whiteness. The plain was absolutely deserted. Between the
Union Pacific road and the branch which unites Kearney with Saint
Joseph it formed a great uninhabited island. Neither village, station,
nor fort appeared. From time to time they sped by some phantom-like
tree, whose white skeleton twisted and rattled in the wind. Sometimes
flocks of wild birds rose, or bands of gaunt, famished, ferocious
prairie-wolves ran howling after the sledge. Passepartout, revolver in
hand, held himself ready to fire on those which came too near. Had an
accident then happened to the sledge, the travellers, attacked by these
beasts, would have been in the most terrible danger; but it held on its
even course, soon gained on the wolves, and ere long left the howling
band at a safe distance behind.
About noon Mudge perceived by certain landmarks that he was crossing
the Platte River. He said nothing, but he felt certain that he was now
within twenty miles of Omaha. In less than an hour he left the rudder
and furled his sails, whilst the sledge, carried forward by the great
impetus the wind had given it, went on half a mile further with its
sails unspread.
It stopped at last, and Mudge, pointing to a mass of roofs white with
snow, said: "We have got there!"
Arrived! Arrived at the station which is in daily communication, by
numerous trains, with the Atlantic seaboard!
Passepartout and Fix jumped off, stretched their stiffened limbs, and
aided Mr. Fogg and the young woman to descend from the sledge. Phileas
Fogg generously rewarded Mudge, whose hand Passepartout warmly grasped,
and the party directed their steps to the Omaha railway station.
The Pacific Railroad proper finds its terminus at this important
Nebraska town. Omaha is connected with Chicago by the Chicago and Rock
Island Railroad, which runs directly east, and passes fifty stations.
A train was ready to start when Mr. Fogg and his party reached the
station, and they only had time to get into the cars. They had seen
nothing of Omaha; but Passepartout confessed to himself that this was
not to be regretted, as they were not travelling to see the sights.
The train passed rapidly across the State of Iowa, by Council Bluffs,
Des Moines, and Iowa City. During the night it crossed the Mississippi
at Davenport, and by Rock Island entered Illinois. The next day, which
was the 10th, at four o'clock in the evening, it reached Chicago,
already risen from its ruins, and more proudly seated than ever on the
borders of its beautiful Lake Michigan.
Nine hundred miles separated Chicago from New York; but trains are not
wanting at Chicago. Mr. Fogg passed at once from one to the other, and
the locomotive of the Pittsburgh, Fort Wayne, and Chicago Railway left
at full speed, as if it fully comprehended that that gentleman had no
time to lose. It traversed Indiana, Ohio, Pennsylvania, and New Jersey
like a flash, rushing through towns with antique names, some of which
had streets and car-tracks, but as yet no houses. At last the Hudson
came into view; and, at a quarter-past eleven in the evening of the
11th, the train stopped in the station on the right bank of the river,
before the very pier of the Cunard line.
The China, for Liverpool, had started three-quarters of an hour before! | "In which Fix the detective considerably furthers the interests of Phileas Fogg" Fogg is twenty hours behind, and Passepartout is desolate for ruining his master. Fix however, determines that Fogg is only 8 hours behind since he was counting the 11 hours they had to wait for the steamer. Fix comes up with the idea of traveling on a sledge with sails over the prairie. This came from a man who had offered to take Fix to Omaha on such a device. The man's name is Mudge and he is at the station. The sledges are used to go from fort to fort in the winter. Mudge says he can get Fogg to Omaha in a few hours. The whole company of Fogg, Aouda, Passepartout, Fix, and Mudge embark on the sledge, wrapped against the cold wind. The distance is 200 miles. The sledge goes 40 miles an hour over the flat and frozen prairie. The sledge can go more directly than the railroad. There is still a chance. Passepartout wants to shake Fix's hand. There is danger, however, because of the wolves that follow them. They make Omaha in time to jump on a train heading east. On the 10th of December they arrive at Chicago, with still 900 miles to New York. They have no trouble getting trains the rest of the way, and get to New York on the 11th of December, alas, 45 minutes after the steamer leaves for Liverpool! |
The promise of a smooth career, which my first calm introduction to
Thornfield Hall seemed to pledge, was not belied on a longer acquaintance
with the place and its inmates. Mrs. Fairfax turned out to be what she
appeared, a placid-tempered, kind-natured woman, of competent education
and average intelligence. My pupil was a lively child, who had been
spoilt and indulged, and therefore was sometimes wayward; but as she was
committed entirely to my care, and no injudicious interference from any
quarter ever thwarted my plans for her improvement, she soon forgot her
little freaks, and became obedient and teachable. She had no great
talents, no marked traits of character, no peculiar development of
feeling or taste which raised her one inch above the ordinary level of
childhood; but neither had she any deficiency or vice which sunk her
below it. She made reasonable progress, entertained for me a vivacious,
though perhaps not very profound, affection; and by her simplicity, gay
prattle, and efforts to please, inspired me, in return, with a degree of
attachment sufficient to make us both content in each other's society.
This, _par parenthese_, will be thought cool language by persons who
entertain solemn doctrines about the angelic nature of children, and the
duty of those charged with their education to conceive for them an
idolatrous devotion: but I am not writing to flatter parental egotism, to
echo cant, or prop up humbug; I am merely telling the truth. I felt a
conscientious solicitude for Adele's welfare and progress, and a quiet
liking for her little self: just as I cherished towards Mrs. Fairfax a
thankfulness for her kindness, and a pleasure in her society
proportionate to the tranquil regard she had for me, and the moderation
of her mind and character.
Anybody may blame me who likes, when I add further, that, now and then,
when I took a walk by myself in the grounds; when I went down to the
gates and looked through them along the road; or when, while Adele played
with her nurse, and Mrs. Fairfax made jellies in the storeroom, I climbed
the three staircases, raised the trap-door of the attic, and having
reached the leads, looked out afar over sequestered field and hill, and
along dim sky-line--that then I longed for a power of vision which might
overpass that limit; which might reach the busy world, towns, regions
full of life I had heard of but never seen--that then I desired more of
practical experience than I possessed; more of intercourse with my kind,
of acquaintance with variety of character, than was here within my reach.
I valued what was good in Mrs. Fairfax, and what was good in Adele; but I
believed in the existence of other and more vivid kinds of goodness, and
what I believed in I wished to behold.
Who blames me? Many, no doubt; and I shall be called discontented. I
could not help it: the restlessness was in my nature; it agitated me to
pain sometimes. Then my sole relief was to walk along the corridor of
the third storey, backwards and forwards, safe in the silence and
solitude of the spot, and allow my mind's eye to dwell on whatever bright
visions rose before it--and, certainly, they were many and glowing; to
let my heart be heaved by the exultant movement, which, while it swelled
it in trouble, expanded it with life; and, best of all, to open my inward
ear to a tale that was never ended--a tale my imagination created, and
narrated continuously; quickened with all of incident, life, fire,
feeling, that I desired and had not in my actual existence.
It is in vain to say human beings ought to be satisfied with
tranquillity: they must have action; and they will make it if they cannot
find it. Millions are condemned to a stiller doom than mine, and
millions are in silent revolt against their lot. Nobody knows how many
rebellions besides political rebellions ferment in the masses of life
which people earth. Women are supposed to be very calm generally: but
women feel just as men feel; they need exercise for their faculties, and
a field for their efforts, as much as their brothers do; they suffer from
too rigid a restraint, too absolute a stagnation, precisely as men would
suffer; and it is narrow-minded in their more privileged fellow-creatures
to say that they ought to confine themselves to making puddings and
knitting stockings, to playing on the piano and embroidering bags. It is
thoughtless to condemn them, or laugh at them, if they seek to do more or
learn more than custom has pronounced necessary for their sex.
When thus alone, I not unfrequently heard Grace Poole's laugh: the same
peal, the same low, slow ha! ha! which, when first heard, had thrilled
me: I heard, too, her eccentric murmurs; stranger than her laugh. There
were days when she was quite silent; but there were others when I could
not account for the sounds she made. Sometimes I saw her: she would come
out of her room with a basin, or a plate, or a tray in her hand, go down
to the kitchen and shortly return, generally (oh, romantic reader,
forgive me for telling the plain truth!) bearing a pot of porter. Her
appearance always acted as a damper to the curiosity raised by her oral
oddities: hard-featured and staid, she had no point to which interest
could attach. I made some attempts to draw her into conversation, but
she seemed a person of few words: a monosyllabic reply usually cut short
every effort of that sort.
The other members of the household, viz., John and his wife, Leah the
housemaid, and Sophie the French nurse, were decent people; but in no
respect remarkable; with Sophie I used to talk French, and sometimes I
asked her questions about her native country; but she was not of a
descriptive or narrative turn, and generally gave such vapid and confused
answers as were calculated rather to check than encourage inquiry.
October, November, December passed away. One afternoon in January, Mrs.
Fairfax had begged a holiday for Adele, because she had a cold; and, as
Adele seconded the request with an ardour that reminded me how precious
occasional holidays had been to me in my own childhood, I accorded it,
deeming that I did well in showing pliability on the point. It was a
fine, calm day, though very cold; I was tired of sitting still in the
library through a whole long morning: Mrs. Fairfax had just written a
letter which was waiting to be posted, so I put on my bonnet and cloak
and volunteered to carry it to Hay; the distance, two miles, would be a
pleasant winter afternoon walk. Having seen Adele comfortably seated in
her little chair by Mrs. Fairfax's parlour fireside, and given her her
best wax doll (which I usually kept enveloped in silver paper in a
drawer) to play with, and a story-book for change of amusement; and
having replied to her "Revenez bientot, ma bonne amie, ma chere Mdlle.
Jeannette," with a kiss I set out.
The ground was hard, the air was still, my road was lonely; I walked fast
till I got warm, and then I walked slowly to enjoy and analyse the
species of pleasure brooding for me in the hour and situation. It was
three o'clock; the church bell tolled as I passed under the belfry: the
charm of the hour lay in its approaching dimness, in the low-gliding and
pale-beaming sun. I was a mile from Thornfield, in a lane noted for wild
roses in summer, for nuts and blackberries in autumn, and even now
possessing a few coral treasures in hips and haws, but whose best winter
delight lay in its utter solitude and leafless repose. If a breath of
air stirred, it made no sound here; for there was not a holly, not an
evergreen to rustle, and the stripped hawthorn and hazel bushes were as
still as the white, worn stones which causewayed the middle of the path.
Far and wide, on each side, there were only fields, where no cattle now
browsed; and the little brown birds, which stirred occasionally in the
hedge, looked like single russet leaves that had forgotten to drop.
This lane inclined up-hill all the way to Hay; having reached the middle,
I sat down on a stile which led thence into a field. Gathering my mantle
about me, and sheltering my hands in my muff, I did not feel the cold,
though it froze keenly; as was attested by a sheet of ice covering the
causeway, where a little brooklet, now congealed, had overflowed after a
rapid thaw some days since. From my seat I could look down on
Thornfield: the grey and battlemented hall was the principal object in
the vale below me; its woods and dark rookery rose against the west. I
lingered till the sun went down amongst the trees, and sank crimson and
clear behind them. I then turned eastward.
On the hill-top above me sat the rising moon; pale yet as a cloud, but
brightening momentarily, she looked over Hay, which, half lost in trees,
sent up a blue smoke from its few chimneys: it was yet a mile distant,
but in the absolute hush I could hear plainly its thin murmurs of life.
My ear, too, felt the flow of currents; in what dales and depths I could
not tell: but there were many hills beyond Hay, and doubtless many becks
threading their passes. That evening calm betrayed alike the tinkle of
the nearest streams, the sough of the most remote.
A rude noise broke on these fine ripplings and whisperings, at once so
far away and so clear: a positive tramp, tramp, a metallic clatter, which
effaced the soft wave-wanderings; as, in a picture, the solid mass of a
crag, or the rough boles of a great oak, drawn in dark and strong on the
foreground, efface the aerial distance of azure hill, sunny horizon, and
blended clouds where tint melts into tint.
The din was on the causeway: a horse was coming; the windings of the lane
yet hid it, but it approached. I was just leaving the stile; yet, as the
path was narrow, I sat still to let it go by. In those days I was young,
and all sorts of fancies bright and dark tenanted my mind: the memories
of nursery stories were there amongst other rubbish; and when they
recurred, maturing youth added to them a vigour and vividness beyond what
childhood could give. As this horse approached, and as I watched for it
to appear through the dusk, I remembered certain of Bessie's tales,
wherein figured a North-of-England spirit called a "Gytrash," which, in
the form of horse, mule, or large dog, haunted solitary ways, and
sometimes came upon belated travellers, as this horse was now coming upon
me.
It was very near, but not yet in sight; when, in addition to the tramp,
tramp, I heard a rush under the hedge, and close down by the hazel stems
glided a great dog, whose black and white colour made him a distinct
object against the trees. It was exactly one form of Bessie's Gytrash--a
lion-like creature with long hair and a huge head: it passed me, however,
quietly enough; not staying to look up, with strange pretercanine eyes,
in my face, as I half expected it would. The horse followed,--a tall
steed, and on its back a rider. The man, the human being, broke the
spell at once. Nothing ever rode the Gytrash: it was always alone; and
goblins, to my notions, though they might tenant the dumb carcasses of
beasts, could scarce covet shelter in the commonplace human form. No
Gytrash was this,--only a traveller taking the short cut to Millcote. He
passed, and I went on; a few steps, and I turned: a sliding sound and an
exclamation of "What the deuce is to do now?" and a clattering tumble,
arrested my attention. Man and horse were down; they had slipped on the
sheet of ice which glazed the causeway. The dog came bounding back, and
seeing his master in a predicament, and hearing the horse groan, barked
till the evening hills echoed the sound, which was deep in proportion to
his magnitude. He snuffed round the prostrate group, and then he ran up
to me; it was all he could do,--there was no other help at hand to
summon. I obeyed him, and walked down to the traveller, by this time
struggling himself free of his steed. His efforts were so vigorous, I
thought he could not be much hurt; but I asked him the question--
"Are you injured, sir?"
I think he was swearing, but am not certain; however, he was pronouncing
some formula which prevented him from replying to me directly.
"Can I do anything?" I asked again.
"You must just stand on one side," he answered as he rose, first to his
knees, and then to his feet. I did; whereupon began a heaving, stamping,
clattering process, accompanied by a barking and baying which removed me
effectually some yards' distance; but I would not be driven quite away
till I saw the event. This was finally fortunate; the horse was
re-established, and the dog was silenced with a "Down, Pilot!" The
traveller now, stooping, felt his foot and leg, as if trying whether they
were sound; apparently something ailed them, for he halted to the stile
whence I had just risen, and sat down.
I was in the mood for being useful, or at least officious, I think, for I
now drew near him again.
"If you are hurt, and want help, sir, I can fetch some one either from
Thornfield Hall or from Hay."
"Thank you: I shall do: I have no broken bones,--only a sprain;" and
again he stood up and tried his foot, but the result extorted an
involuntary "Ugh!"
Something of daylight still lingered, and the moon was waxing bright: I
could see him plainly. His figure was enveloped in a riding cloak, fur
collared and steel clasped; its details were not apparent, but I traced
the general points of middle height and considerable breadth of chest. He
had a dark face, with stern features and a heavy brow; his eyes and
gathered eyebrows looked ireful and thwarted just now; he was past youth,
but had not reached middle-age; perhaps he might be thirty-five. I felt
no fear of him, and but little shyness. Had he been a handsome, heroic-
looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus
questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked. I
had hardly ever seen a handsome youth; never in my life spoken to one. I
had a theoretical reverence and homage for beauty, elegance, gallantry,
fascination; but had I met those qualities incarnate in masculine shape,
I should have known instinctively that they neither had nor could have
sympathy with anything in me, and should have shunned them as one would
fire, lightning, or anything else that is bright but antipathetic.
If even this stranger had smiled and been good-humoured to me when I
addressed him; if he had put off my offer of assistance gaily and with
thanks, I should have gone on my way and not felt any vocation to renew
inquiries: but the frown, the roughness of the traveller, set me at my
ease: I retained my station when he waved to me to go, and announced--
"I cannot think of leaving you, sir, at so late an hour, in this solitary
lane, till I see you are fit to mount your horse."
He looked at me when I said this; he had hardly turned his eyes in my
direction before.
"I should think you ought to be at home yourself," said he, "if you have
a home in this neighbourhood: where do you come from?"
"From just below; and I am not at all afraid of being out late when it is
moonlight: I will run over to Hay for you with pleasure, if you wish it:
indeed, I am going there to post a letter."
"You live just below--do you mean at that house with the battlements?"
pointing to Thornfield Hall, on which the moon cast a hoary gleam,
bringing it out distinct and pale from the woods that, by contrast with
the western sky, now seemed one mass of shadow.
"Yes, sir."
"Whose house is it?"
"Mr. Rochester's."
"Do you know Mr. Rochester?"
"No, I have never seen him."
"He is not resident, then?"
"No."
"Can you tell me where he is?"
"I cannot."
"You are not a servant at the hall, of course. You are--" He stopped,
ran his eye over my dress, which, as usual, was quite simple: a black
merino cloak, a black beaver bonnet; neither of them half fine enough for
a lady's-maid. He seemed puzzled to decide what I was; I helped him.
"I am the governess."
"Ah, the governess!" he repeated; "deuce take me, if I had not forgotten!
The governess!" and again my raiment underwent scrutiny. In two minutes
he rose from the stile: his face expressed pain when he tried to move.
"I cannot commission you to fetch help," he said; "but you may help me a
little yourself, if you will be so kind."
"Yes, sir."
"You have not an umbrella that I can use as a stick?"
"No."
"Try to get hold of my horse's bridle and lead him to me: you are not
afraid?"
I should have been afraid to touch a horse when alone, but when told to
do it, I was disposed to obey. I put down my muff on the stile, and went
up to the tall steed; I endeavoured to catch the bridle, but it was a
spirited thing, and would not let me come near its head; I made effort on
effort, though in vain: meantime, I was mortally afraid of its trampling
fore-feet. The traveller waited and watched for some time, and at last
he laughed.
{I was mortally afraid of its trampling forefeet: p107.jpg}
"I see," he said, "the mountain will never be brought to Mahomet, so all
you can do is to aid Mahomet to go to the mountain; I must beg of you to
come here."
I came. "Excuse me," he continued: "necessity compels me to make you
useful." He laid a heavy hand on my shoulder, and leaning on me with
some stress, limped to his horse. Having once caught the bridle, he
mastered it directly and sprang to his saddle; grimacing grimly as he
made the effort, for it wrenched his sprain.
"Now," said he, releasing his under lip from a hard bite, "just hand me
my whip; it lies there under the hedge."
I sought it and found it.
"Thank you; now make haste with the letter to Hay, and return as fast as
you can."
A touch of a spurred heel made his horse first start and rear, and then
bound away; the dog rushed in his traces; all three vanished,
"Like heath that, in the wilderness,
The wild wind whirls away."
I took up my muff and walked on. The incident had occurred and was gone
for me: it _was_ an incident of no moment, no romance, no interest in a
sense; yet it marked with change one single hour of a monotonous life. My
help had been needed and claimed; I had given it: I was pleased to have
done something; trivial, transitory though the deed was, it was yet an
active thing, and I was weary of an existence all passive. The new face,
too, was like a new picture introduced to the gallery of memory; and it
was dissimilar to all the others hanging there: firstly, because it was
masculine; and, secondly, because it was dark, strong, and stern. I had
it still before me when I entered Hay, and slipped the letter into the
post-office; I saw it as I walked fast down-hill all the way home. When
I came to the stile, I stopped a minute, looked round and listened, with
an idea that a horse's hoofs might ring on the causeway again, and that a
rider in a cloak, and a Gytrash-like Newfoundland dog, might be again
apparent: I saw only the hedge and a pollard willow before me, rising up
still and straight to meet the moonbeams; I heard only the faintest waft
of wind roaming fitful among the trees round Thornfield, a mile distant;
and when I glanced down in the direction of the murmur, my eye,
traversing the hall-front, caught a light kindling in a window: it
reminded me that I was late, and I hurried on.
I did not like re-entering Thornfield. To pass its threshold was to
return to stagnation; to cross the silent hall, to ascend the darksome
staircase, to seek my own lonely little room, and then to meet tranquil
Mrs. Fairfax, and spend the long winter evening with her, and her only,
was to quell wholly the faint excitement wakened by my walk,--to slip
again over my faculties the viewless fetters of an uniform and too still
existence; of an existence whose very privileges of security and ease I
was becoming incapable of appreciating. What good it would have done me
at that time to have been tossed in the storms of an uncertain struggling
life, and to have been taught by rough and bitter experience to long for
the calm amidst which I now repined! Yes, just as much good as it would
do a man tired of sitting still in a "too easy chair" to take a long
walk: and just as natural was the wish to stir, under my circumstances,
as it would be under his.
I lingered at the gates; I lingered on the lawn; I paced backwards and
forwards on the pavement; the shutters of the glass door were closed; I
could not see into the interior; and both my eyes and spirit seemed drawn
from the gloomy house--from the grey-hollow filled with rayless cells, as
it appeared to me--to that sky expanded before me,--a blue sea absolved
from taint of cloud; the moon ascending it in solemn march; her orb
seeming to look up as she left the hill-tops, from behind which she had
come, far and farther below her, and aspired to the zenith, midnight dark
in its fathomless depth and measureless distance; and for those trembling
stars that followed her course; they made my heart tremble, my veins glow
when I viewed them. Little things recall us to earth; the clock struck
in the hall; that sufficed; I turned from moon and stars, opened a side-
door, and went in.
The hall was not dark, nor yet was it lit, only by the high-hung bronze
lamp; a warm glow suffused both it and the lower steps of the oak
staircase. This ruddy shine issued from the great dining-room, whose two-
leaved door stood open, and showed a genial fire in the grate, glancing
on marble hearth and brass fire-irons, and revealing purple draperies and
polished furniture, in the most pleasant radiance. It revealed, too, a
group near the mantelpiece: I had scarcely caught it, and scarcely become
aware of a cheerful mingling of voices, amongst which I seemed to
distinguish the tones of Adele, when the door closed.
I hastened to Mrs. Fairfax's room; there was a fire there too, but no
candle, and no Mrs. Fairfax. Instead, all alone, sitting upright on the
rug, and gazing with gravity at the blaze, I beheld a great black and
white long-haired dog, just like the Gytrash of the lane. It was so like
it that I went forward and said--"Pilot" and the thing got up and came to
me and snuffed me. I caressed him, and he wagged his great tail; but he
looked an eerie creature to be alone with, and I could not tell whence he
had come. I rang the bell, for I wanted a candle; and I wanted, too, to
get an account of this visitant. Leah entered.
"What dog is this?"
"He came with master."
"With whom?"
"With master--Mr. Rochester--he is just arrived."
"Indeed! and is Mrs. Fairfax with him?"
"Yes, and Miss Adele; they are in the dining-room, and John is gone for a
surgeon; for master has had an accident; his horse fell and his ankle is
sprained."
"Did the horse fall in Hay Lane?"
"Yes, coming down-hill; it slipped on some ice."
"Ah! Bring me a candle will you Leah?"
Leah brought it; she entered, followed by Mrs. Fairfax, who repeated the
news; adding that Mr. Carter the surgeon was come, and was now with Mr.
Rochester: then she hurried out to give orders about tea, and I went
upstairs to take off my things. | Jane has been at Thornfield for a little while now, and still believes that she will have a smooth career there. She feels that she is making reasonable progress with Adele although the girl has no great talents. After working with her one day, Jane takes a walk alone up to the third story. There she looks out at the view and thinks about the world, wishing she could have more interactions with it, although she does enjoy the simple life at Thornfield. When she comes up to the third story such as this, she often hears Grace Poole's laugh, but when she actually sees her, her appearance acts as a damper to the curiosity raised by her laughing. October, November and December pass, and one day when Adele has a cold, Jane offers to walk to Hay, two miles a way, to post a letter for Mrs. Fairfax. It is a cold day, and when Jane sits down to rest, she hears a horse coming. A dog runs by her, and soon a man on a horse follows. The man passes her, and she looks when she hears a noise to see that the man and the horse have slipped on the ice. Jane offers her help, and the man her where she lives. She explains she is from Thornfield, and when he asks about her master, replies that she has never met him. She helps him onto the horse, and he continues on and she goes on to Hay. When Jane returns to Thornfield, she is surprised to see the dog in Mrs. Fairfax's room. She asks a servant where it came from, and she says that it came with Mr. Rochester, who had just arrived with a sprained ankle |
"From ocean to ocean"--so say the Americans; and these four words
compose the general designation of the "great trunk line" which crosses
the entire width of the United States. The Pacific Railroad is,
however, really divided into two distinct lines: the Central Pacific,
between San Francisco and Ogden, and the Union Pacific, between Ogden
and Omaha. Five main lines connect Omaha with New York.
New York and San Francisco are thus united by an uninterrupted metal
ribbon, which measures no less than three thousand seven hundred and
eighty-six miles. Between Omaha and the Pacific the railway crosses a
territory which is still infested by Indians and wild beasts, and a
large tract which the Mormons, after they were driven from Illinois in
1845, began to colonise.
The journey from New York to San Francisco consumed, formerly, under
the most favourable conditions, at least six months. It is now
accomplished in seven days.
It was in 1862 that, in spite of the Southern Members of Congress, who
wished a more southerly route, it was decided to lay the road between
the forty-first and forty-second parallels. President Lincoln himself
fixed the end of the line at Omaha, in Nebraska. The work was at once
commenced, and pursued with true American energy; nor did the rapidity
with which it went on injuriously affect its good execution. The road
grew, on the prairies, a mile and a half a day. A locomotive, running
on the rails laid down the evening before, brought the rails to be laid
on the morrow, and advanced upon them as fast as they were put in
position.
The Pacific Railroad is joined by several branches in Iowa, Kansas,
Colorado, and Oregon. On leaving Omaha, it passes along the left bank
of the Platte River as far as the junction of its northern branch,
follows its southern branch, crosses the Laramie territory and the
Wahsatch Mountains, turns the Great Salt Lake, and reaches Salt Lake
City, the Mormon capital, plunges into the Tuilla Valley, across the
American Desert, Cedar and Humboldt Mountains, the Sierra Nevada, and
descends, via Sacramento, to the Pacific--its grade, even on the Rocky
Mountains, never exceeding one hundred and twelve feet to the mile.
Such was the road to be traversed in seven days, which would enable
Phileas Fogg--at least, so he hoped--to take the Atlantic steamer at
New York on the 11th for Liverpool.
The car which he occupied was a sort of long omnibus on eight wheels,
and with no compartments in the interior. It was supplied with two
rows of seats, perpendicular to the direction of the train on either
side of an aisle which conducted to the front and rear platforms.
These platforms were found throughout the train, and the passengers
were able to pass from one end of the train to the other. It was
supplied with saloon cars, balcony cars, restaurants, and smoking-cars;
theatre cars alone were wanting, and they will have these some day.
Book and news dealers, sellers of edibles, drinkables, and cigars, who
seemed to have plenty of customers, were continually circulating in the
aisles.
The train left Oakland station at six o'clock. It was already night,
cold and cheerless, the heavens being overcast with clouds which seemed
to threaten snow. The train did not proceed rapidly; counting the
stoppages, it did not run more than twenty miles an hour, which was a
sufficient speed, however, to enable it to reach Omaha within its
designated time.
There was but little conversation in the car, and soon many of the
passengers were overcome with sleep. Passepartout found himself beside
the detective; but he did not talk to him. After recent events, their
relations with each other had grown somewhat cold; there could no
longer be mutual sympathy or intimacy between them. Fix's manner had
not changed; but Passepartout was very reserved, and ready to strangle
his former friend on the slightest provocation.
Snow began to fall an hour after they started, a fine snow, however,
which happily could not obstruct the train; nothing could be seen from
the windows but a vast, white sheet, against which the smoke of the
locomotive had a greyish aspect.
At eight o'clock a steward entered the car and announced that the time
for going to bed had arrived; and in a few minutes the car was
transformed into a dormitory. The backs of the seats were thrown back,
bedsteads carefully packed were rolled out by an ingenious system,
berths were suddenly improvised, and each traveller had soon at his
disposition a comfortable bed, protected from curious eyes by thick
curtains. The sheets were clean and the pillows soft. It only
remained to go to bed and sleep which everybody did--while the train
sped on across the State of California.
The country between San Francisco and Sacramento is not very hilly.
The Central Pacific, taking Sacramento for its starting-point, extends
eastward to meet the road from Omaha. The line from San Francisco to
Sacramento runs in a north-easterly direction, along the American
River, which empties into San Pablo Bay. The one hundred and twenty
miles between these cities were accomplished in six hours, and towards
midnight, while fast asleep, the travellers passed through Sacramento;
so that they saw nothing of that important place, the seat of the State
government, with its fine quays, its broad streets, its noble hotels,
squares, and churches.
The train, on leaving Sacramento, and passing the junction, Roclin,
Auburn, and Colfax, entered the range of the Sierra Nevada. 'Cisco was
reached at seven in the morning; and an hour later the dormitory was
transformed into an ordinary car, and the travellers could observe the
picturesque beauties of the mountain region through which they were
steaming. The railway track wound in and out among the passes, now
approaching the mountain-sides, now suspended over precipices, avoiding
abrupt angles by bold curves, plunging into narrow defiles, which
seemed to have no outlet. The locomotive, its great funnel emitting a
weird light, with its sharp bell, and its cow-catcher extended like a
spur, mingled its shrieks and bellowings with the noise of torrents and
cascades, and twined its smoke among the branches of the gigantic pines.
There were few or no bridges or tunnels on the route. The railway
turned around the sides of the mountains, and did not attempt to
violate nature by taking the shortest cut from one point to another.
The train entered the State of Nevada through the Carson Valley about
nine o'clock, going always northeasterly; and at midday reached Reno,
where there was a delay of twenty minutes for breakfast.
From this point the road, running along Humboldt River, passed
northward for several miles by its banks; then it turned eastward, and
kept by the river until it reached the Humboldt Range, nearly at the
extreme eastern limit of Nevada.
Having breakfasted, Mr. Fogg and his companions resumed their places in
the car, and observed the varied landscape which unfolded itself as
they passed along the vast prairies, the mountains lining the horizon,
and the creeks, with their frothy, foaming streams. Sometimes a great
herd of buffaloes, massing together in the distance, seemed like a
moveable dam. These innumerable multitudes of ruminating beasts often
form an insurmountable obstacle to the passage of the trains; thousands
of them have been seen passing over the track for hours together, in
compact ranks. The locomotive is then forced to stop and wait till the
road is once more clear.
This happened, indeed, to the train in which Mr. Fogg was travelling.
About twelve o'clock a troop of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo
encumbered the track. The locomotive, slackening its speed, tried to
clear the way with its cow-catcher; but the mass of animals was too
great. The buffaloes marched along with a tranquil gait, uttering now
and then deafening bellowings. There was no use of interrupting them,
for, having taken a particular direction, nothing can moderate and
change their course; it is a torrent of living flesh which no dam could
contain.
The travellers gazed on this curious spectacle from the platforms; but
Phileas Fogg, who had the most reason of all to be in a hurry, remained
in his seat, and waited philosophically until it should please the
buffaloes to get out of the way.
Passepartout was furious at the delay they occasioned, and longed to
discharge his arsenal of revolvers upon them.
"What a country!" cried he. "Mere cattle stop the trains, and go by in
a procession, just as if they were not impeding travel! Parbleu! I
should like to know if Mr. Fogg foresaw this mishap in his programme!
And here's an engineer who doesn't dare to run the locomotive into this
herd of beasts!"
The engineer did not try to overcome the obstacle, and he was wise. He
would have crushed the first buffaloes, no doubt, with the cow-catcher;
but the locomotive, however powerful, would soon have been checked, the
train would inevitably have been thrown off the track, and would then
have been helpless.
The best course was to wait patiently, and regain the lost time by
greater speed when the obstacle was removed. The procession of
buffaloes lasted three full hours, and it was night before the track
was clear. The last ranks of the herd were now passing over the rails,
while the first had already disappeared below the southern horizon.
It was eight o'clock when the train passed through the defiles of the
Humboldt Range, and half-past nine when it penetrated Utah, the region
of the Great Salt Lake, the singular colony of the Mormons. | The railway between New York and San Francisco is described along with the politics of it. The long artery, which has to be traversed in seven days to reach New York, is outlined. Then the train carriages are interestingly detailed. Passepartout and Fix are now distanced from each other. Passepartout is reserved and suspicious of Fix's trickery. For some time, the train journey is absolutely smooth and nothing extraordinary happens. The landscape that they are passing through is outlined. The travelers observe nature around them. There are vast prairies, mountains standing out on the horizon, and creeks with their seething, foaming waters. At three o'clock in the afternoon, a herd of ten or twelve thousand head of buffalo block the way. The train had to be stopped till the animals move out of the way. Passepartout was furious at the delay and wanted the engine driver to go at full speed, through these obstructing beasts. But the engine driver was sensible in not taking such a drastic step. The march of the bisons lasted three hours; after which the train started and then entered the territory of Utah, the curious land of Great Salt Lake and the Mormons. |
ON Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for
morning service, Bartle Massey re-entered Adam's room, after a short
absence, and said, "Adam, here's a visitor wants to see you."
Adam was seated with his back towards the door, but he started up and
turned round instantly, with a flushed face and an eager look. His face
was even thinner and more worn than we have seen it before, but he was
washed and shaven this Sunday morning.
"Is it any news?" he said.
"Keep yourself quiet, my lad," said Bartle; "keep quiet. It's not what
you're thinking of. It's the young Methodist woman come from the prison.
She's at the bottom o' the stairs, and wants to know if you think
well to see her, for she has something to say to you about that poor
castaway; but she wouldn't come in without your leave, she said. She
thought you'd perhaps like to go out and speak to her. These preaching
women are not so back'ard commonly," Bartle muttered to himself.
"Ask her to come in," said Adam.
He was standing with his face towards the door, and as Dinah entered,
lifting up her mild grey eyes towards him, she saw at once the great
change that had come since the day when she had looked up at the tall
man in the cottage. There was a trembling in her clear voice as she put
her hand into his and said, "Be comforted, Adam Bede, the Lord has not
forsaken her."
"Bless you for coming to her," Adam said. "Mr. Massey brought me word
yesterday as you was come."
They could neither of them say any more just yet, but stood before each
other in silence; and Bartle Massey, too, who had put on his spectacles,
seemed transfixed, examining Dinah's face. But he recovered himself
first, and said, "Sit down, young woman, sit down," placing the chair
for her and retiring to his old seat on the bed.
"Thank you, friend; I won't sit down," said Dinah, "for I must hasten
back. She entreated me not to stay long away. What I came for, Adam
Bede, was to pray you to go and see the poor sinner and bid her
farewell. She desires to ask your forgiveness, and it is meet you should
see her to-day, rather than in the early morning, when the time will be
short."
Adam stood trembling, and at last sank down on his chair again.
"It won't be," he said, "it'll be put off--there'll perhaps come a
pardon. Mr. Irwine said there was hope. He said, I needn't quite give it
up."
"That's a blessed thought to me," said Dinah, her eyes filling with
tears. "It's a fearful thing hurrying her soul away so fast."
"But let what will be," she added presently. "You will surely come, and
let her speak the words that are in her heart. Although her poor soul is
very dark and discerns little beyond the things of the flesh, she is no
longer hard. She is contrite, she has confessed all to me. The pride of
her heart has given way, and she leans on me for help and desires to
be taught. This fills me with trust, for I cannot but think that the
brethren sometimes err in measuring the Divine love by the sinner's
knowledge. She is going to write a letter to the friends at the Hall
Farm for me to give them when she is gone, and when I told her you were
here, she said, 'I should like to say good-bye to Adam and ask him to
forgive me.' You will come, Adam? Perhaps you will even now come back
with me."
"I can't," Adam said. "I can't say good-bye while there's any hope. I'm
listening, and listening--I can't think o' nothing but that. It can't be
as she'll die that shameful death--I can't bring my mind to it."
He got up from his chair again and looked away out of the window, while
Dinah stood with compassionate patience. In a minute or two he turned
round and said, "I will come, Dinah...to-morrow morning...if it must be.
I may have more strength to bear it, if I know it must be. Tell her, I
forgive her; tell her I will come--at the very last."
"I will not urge you against the voice of your own heart," said Dinah.
"I must hasten back to her, for it is wonderful how she clings now, and
was not willing to let me out of her sight. She used never to make any
return to my affection before, but now tribulation has opened her heart.
Farewell, Adam. Our heavenly Father comfort you and strengthen you
to bear all things." Dinah put out her hand, and Adam pressed it in
silence.
Bartle Massey was getting up to lift the stiff latch of the door for
her, but before he could reach it, she had said gently, "Farewell,
friend," and was gone, with her light step down the stairs.
"Well," said Bartle, taking off his spectacles and putting them into his
pocket, "if there must be women to make trouble in the world, it's
but fair there should be women to be comforters under it; and she's
one--she's one. It's a pity she's a Methodist; but there's no getting a
woman without some foolishness or other."
Adam never went to bed that night. The excitement of suspense,
heightening with every hour that brought him nearer the fatal moment,
was too great, and in spite of his entreaties, in spite of his promises
that he would be perfectly quiet, the schoolmaster watched too.
"What does it matter to me, lad?" Bartle said: "a night's sleep more
or less? I shall sleep long enough, by and by, underground. Let me keep
thee company in trouble while I can."
It was a long and dreary night in that small chamber. Adam would
sometimes get up and tread backwards and forwards along the short space
from wall to wall; then he would sit down and hide his face, and no
sound would be heard but the ticking of the watch on the table, or
the falling of a cinder from the fire which the schoolmaster carefully
tended. Sometimes he would burst out into vehement speech, "If I could
ha' done anything to save her--if my bearing anything would ha' done any
good...but t' have to sit still, and know it, and do nothing...it's
hard for a man to bear...and to think o' what might ha' been now, if
it hadn't been for HIM....O God, it's the very day we should ha' been
married."
"Aye, my lad," said Bartle tenderly, "it's heavy--it's heavy. But you
must remember this: when you thought of marrying her, you'd a notion
she'd got another sort of a nature inside her. You didn't think she
could have got hardened in that little while to do what she's done."
"I know--I know that," said Adam. "I thought she was loving and
tender-hearted, and wouldn't tell a lie, or act deceitful. How could I
think any other way? And if he'd never come near her, and I'd married
her, and been loving to her, and took care of her, she might never
ha' done anything bad. What would it ha' signified--my having a bit o'
trouble with her? It 'ud ha' been nothing to this."
"There's no knowing, my lad--there's no knowing what might have come.
The smart's bad for you to bear now: you must have time--you must have
time. But I've that opinion of you, that you'll rise above it all and be
a man again, and there may good come out of this that we don't see."
"Good come out of it!" said Adam passionately. "That doesn't alter th'
evil: HER ruin can't be undone. I hate that talk o' people, as if there
was a way o' making amends for everything. They'd more need be brought
to see as the wrong they do can never be altered. When a man's spoiled
his fellow-creatur's life, he's no right to comfort himself with
thinking good may come out of it. Somebody else's good doesn't alter her
shame and misery."
"Well, lad, well," said Bartle, in a gentle tone, strangely in contrast
with his usual peremptoriness and impatience of contradiction, "it's
likely enough I talk foolishness. I'm an old fellow, and it's a good
many years since I was in trouble myself. It's easy finding reasons why
other folks should be patient."
"Mr. Massey," said Adam penitently, "I'm very hot and hasty. I owe you
something different; but you mustn't take it ill of me."
"Not I, lad--not I."
So the night wore on in agitation till the chill dawn and the growing
light brought the tremulous quiet that comes on the brink of despair.
There would soon be no more suspense.
"Let us go to the prison now, Mr. Massey," said Adam, when he saw the
hand of his watch at six. "If there's any news come, we shall hear about
it."
The people were astir already, moving rapidly, in one direction, through
the streets. Adam tried not to think where they were going, as they
hurried past him in that short space between his lodging and the prison
gates. He was thankful when the gates shut him in from seeing those
eager people.
No; there was no news come--no pardon--no reprieve.
Adam lingered in the court half an hour before he could bring himself
to send word to Dinah that he was come. But a voice caught his ear: he
could not shut out the words.
"The cart is to set off at half-past seven."
It must be said--the last good-bye: there was no help.
In ten minutes from that time, Adam was at the door of the cell. Dinah
had sent him word that she could not come to him; she could not leave
Hetty one moment; but Hetty was prepared for the meeting.
He could not see her when he entered, for agitation deadened his senses,
and the dim cell was almost dark to him. He stood a moment after the
door closed behind him, trembling and stupefied.
But he began to see through the dimness--to see the dark eyes lifted up
to him once more, but with no smile in them. O God, how sad they looked!
The last time they had met his was when he parted from her with his
heart full of joyous hopeful love, and they looked out with a tearful
smile from a pink, dimpled, childish face. The face was marble now; the
sweet lips were pallid and half-open and quivering; the dimples were all
gone--all but one, that never went; and the eyes--O, the worst of all
was the likeness they had to Hetty's. They were Hetty's eyes looking
at him with that mournful gaze, as if she had come back to him from the
dead to tell him of her misery.
She was clinging close to Dinah; her cheek was against Dinah's. It
seemed as if her last faint strength and hope lay in that contact, and
the pitying love that shone out from Dinah's face looked like a visible
pledge of the Invisible Mercy.
When the sad eyes met--when Hetty and Adam looked at each other--she
felt the change in him too, and it seemed to strike her with fresh
fear. It was the first time she had seen any being whose face seemed to
reflect the change in herself: Adam was a new image of the dreadful past
and the dreadful present. She trembled more as she looked at him.
"Speak to him, Hetty," Dinah said; "tell him what is in your heart."
Hetty obeyed her, like a little child.
"Adam...I'm very sorry...I behaved very wrong to you...will you forgive
me...before I die?"
Adam answered with a half-sob, "Yes, I forgive thee Hetty. I forgave
thee long ago."
It had seemed to Adam as if his brain would burst with the anguish of
meeting Hetty's eyes in the first moments, but the sound of her voice
uttering these penitent words touched a chord which had been less
strained. There was a sense of relief from what was becoming unbearable,
and the rare tears came--they had never come before, since he had hung
on Seth's neck in the beginning of his sorrow.
Hetty made an involuntary movement towards him, some of the love that
she had once lived in the midst of was come near her again. She kept
hold of Dinah's hand, but she went up to Adam and said timidly, "Will
you kiss me again, Adam, for all I've been so wicked?"
Adam took the blanched wasted hand she put out to him, and they gave
each other the solemn unspeakable kiss of a lifelong parting.
"And tell him," Hetty said, in rather a stronger voice, "tell him...for
there's nobody else to tell him...as I went after him and couldn't find
him...and I hated him and cursed him once...but Dinah says I should
forgive him...and I try...for else God won't forgive me."
There was a noise at the door of the cell now--the key was being turned
in the lock, and when the door opened, Adam saw indistinctly that there
were several faces there. He was too agitated to see more--even to
see that Mr. Irwine's face was one of them. He felt that the last
preparations were beginning, and he could stay no longer. Room
was silently made for him to depart, and he went to his chamber in
loneliness, leaving Bartle Massey to watch and see the end. | It is now "Sunday morning, when the church bells in Stoniton were ringing for the morning service" . But Bartle Massey and Adam are still in that apartment. Do they never leave? Should they just bring in a laugh track and start doing a sitcom called Massey? You know, like Seinfeld, except they visit the jail instead of going to a diner? All of a sudden--and with a Cosmo Kramer-esque burst through the door--comes Dinah Morris. She's here to grab something out of Adam's refrigerator without asking. No, actually, she's here to encourage Adam "to go and see the poor sinner and bid her farewell" . This isn't the best news. But Dinah is at least convinced that Elaine Hetty "is no longer hard" and "has confessed all to me" . Adam is unwilling to give up hope. Still, he is determined to pay a trip to Hetty and comfort her in her final hours. Dinah leaves. It's going to be a long, sleepless night for Adam. He feels betrayed, berates himself for thinking Hetty "was loving and tender-hearted and wouldn't tell a lie" . Bartle Massey assures him that all this evil might, somehow, some way, produce some good. Adam won't hear of it. Things continue like this until 6:00 in the morning, when Adam leaves for the prison. Hetty is in her cell "clinging close to Dinah" . But Dinah urges her to speak with Adam. She obeys. She apologizes to Adam. And Adam forgives her--in fact, he "forgave thee a long time ago" . But there isn't much time to dally. The "last preparations" for Hetty's execution are underway. Yet Adam is "too agitated to see more" . |
The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his
declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as
his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having
no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the
moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the
observances which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding
Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon
after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words,
"May I hope, Madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth,
when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the
course of this morning?"
Before Elizabeth had time for any thing but a blush of surprise, Mrs.
Bennet instantly answered,
"Oh dear!--Yes--certainly.--I am sure Lizzy will be very happy--I am
sure she can have no objection.--Come, Kitty, I want you up stairs." And
gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth
called out,
"Dear Ma'am, do not go.--I beg you will not go.--Mr. Collins must excuse
me.--He can have nothing to say to me that any body need not hear. I am
going away myself."
"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy.--I desire you will stay where you are."--And
upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about
to escape, she added, "Lizzy, I _insist_ upon your staying and hearing
Mr. Collins."
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction--and a moment's
consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it
over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again, and tried
to conceal by incessant employment the feelings which were divided
between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as
soon as they were gone Mr. Collins began.
"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from
doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You
would have been less amiable in my eyes had there _not_ been this little
unwillingness; but allow me to assure you that I have your respected
mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport
of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to
dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as
soon as I entered the house I singled you out as the companion of my
future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this
subject, perhaps it will be advisable for me to state my reasons for
marrying--and moreover for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of
selecting a wife, as I certainly did."
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away
with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing that she could not
use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him farther, and
he continued:
"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for
every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example
of matrimony in his parish. Secondly, that I am convinced it will add
very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly--which perhaps I ought to have
mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation
of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness.
Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this
subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left
Hunsford--between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was
arranging Miss de Bourgh's foot-stool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you
must marry. A clergyman like you must marry.--Chuse properly, chuse a
gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let her be an active,
useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small
income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as
you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the
way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and
kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the
advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond any
thing I can describe; and your wit and vivacity I think must be
acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect
which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general
intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views
were directed to Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I
assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that
being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured
father, (who, however, may live many years longer,) I could not satisfy
myself without resolving to chuse a wife from among his daughters, that
the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy
event takes place--which, however, as I have already said, may not be
for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I
flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing
remains for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the
violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and
shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well
aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds
in the 4 per cents. which will not be yours till after your mother's
decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head,
therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that
no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
"You are too hasty, Sir," she cried. "You forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for
the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of
your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline
them."
"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the
hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the
man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their
favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a
third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just
said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."
"Upon my word, Sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is rather an
extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not
one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so
daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second
time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal.--You could not make _me_
happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who
would make _you_ so.--Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I
am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the
situation."
"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins
very gravely--"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all
disapprove of you. And you may be certain that when I have the honour of
seeing her again I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty,
economy, and other amiable qualifications."
"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must
give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of
believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be
considered, therefore, as finally settled." And rising as she thus
spoke, she would have quitted the room, had not Mr. Collins thus
addressed her,
"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on this subject I
shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given
me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I
know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the
first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to
encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the
female character."
"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you puzzle me
exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form
of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
may convince you of its being one."
"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your
refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for
believing it are briefly these:--It does not appear to me that my hand
is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would
be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections
with the family of De Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are
circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into farther
consideration that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no
means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your
portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the
effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must
therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I
shall chuse to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by
suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females."
"I do assure you, Sir, that I have no pretension whatever to that kind
of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would
rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you
again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but
to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect
forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant
female intending to plague you, but as a rational creature speaking the
truth from her heart."
"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward
gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express
authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of
being acceptable."
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no
reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he
persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering
encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered
in such a manner as must be decisive, and whose behaviour at least could
not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
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."
The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and
Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily
attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusion of her mother.
As for the gentleman himself, _his_ feelings were chiefly expressed, not
by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by
stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to
her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of
himself, were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose
civility in listening to him, was a seasonable relief to them all, and
especially to her friend.
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill humour or ill
health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth
had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did
not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on
Saturday, and to Saturday he still meant to stay.
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham
were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball.
He joined them on their entering the town and attended them to their
aunt's, where his regret and vexation, and the concern of every body was
well talked over.--To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged
that the necessity of his absence _had_ been self imposed.
"I found," said he, "as the time drew near, that I had better not meet
Mr. Darcy;--that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so
many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes
might arise unpleasant to more than myself."
She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full
discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly
bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with
them to Longbourn, and during the walk, he particularly attended to her.
His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the
compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an
occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came
from Netherfield, and was opened immediately. The envelope contained a
sheet of elegant, little, hot pressed paper, well covered with a lady's
fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as
she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages.
Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to
join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but
Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention
even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and his companion taken leave,
than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her up stairs. When they
had gained their own room, Jane taking out the letter, said,
"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains, has surprised me a
good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are
on their way to town; and without any intention of coming back again.
You shall hear what she says."
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information
of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly,
and of their meaning to dine that day in Grosvenor street, where Mr.
Hurst had a house. The next was in these words. "I do not pretend to
regret any thing I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my
dearest friend; but we will hope at some future period, to enjoy many
returns of the delightful intercourse we have known, and in the mean
while may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most
unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these high
flown expressions, Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of
distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she
saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their
absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as
to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must soon
cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
"It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be
able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not
hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks
forward, may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful
intercourse you have known as friends, will be renewed with yet greater
satisfaction as sisters?--Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by
them."
"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into
Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you--
"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which
took him to London, might be concluded in three or four days, but as we
are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when
Charles gets to town, he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have
determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend
his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintance are
already there for the winter; I wish I could hear that you, my dearest
friend, had any intention of making one in the croud, but of that I
despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in
the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux
will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three, of
whom we shall deprive you."
"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this
winter."
"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean he _should_."
"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing.--He is his own master.
But you do not know _all_. I _will_ read you the passage which
particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from _you_." "Mr. Darcy
is impatient to see his sister, and to confess the truth, _we_ are
scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana
Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the
affection she inspires in Louisa and myself, is heightened into
something still more interesting, from the hope we dare to entertain of
her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before
mentioned to you my feelings on this subject, but I will not leave the
country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them
unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already, he will have
frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing, her
relations all wish the connection as much as his own, and a sister's
partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most
capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to
favour an attachment and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest
Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness
of so many?"
"What think you of _this_ sentence, my dear Lizzy?"--said Jane as she
finished it. "Is it not clear enough?--Does it not expressly declare
that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she
is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference, and that if she
suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to
put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"
"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different.--Will you hear it?"
"Most willingly."
"You shall have it in few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is
in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to
town in the hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he
does not care about you."
Jane shook her head.
"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me.--No one who has ever seen you
together, can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley I am sure cannot. She is
not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy
for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is
this. We are not rich enough, or grand enough for them; and she is the
more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that
when there has been _one_ intermarriage, she may have less trouble in
achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I
dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But,
my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley
tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest
degree less sensible of _your_ merit than when he took leave of you on
Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that instead of
being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."
"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your
representation of all this, might make me quite easy. But I know the
foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving any
one; and all that I can hope in this case is, that she is deceived
herself."
"That is right.--You could not have started a more happy idea, since you
will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived by all means.
You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."
"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in
accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry
elsewhere?"
"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth, "and if upon mature
deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is
more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by
all means to refuse him."
"How can you talk so?"--said Jane faintly smiling,--"You must know that
though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could
not hesitate."
"I did not think you would;--and that being the case, I cannot consider
your situation with much compassion."
"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be
required. A thousand things may arise in six months!"
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost
contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's
interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those
wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man
so totally independent of every one.
She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on
the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect.
Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope,
though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that
Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the
family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct;
but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern,
and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen
to go away, just as they were all getting so intimate together. After
lamenting it however at some length, she had the consolation of thinking
that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn,
and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration that, though
he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have
two full courses.
The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases, and again during the
chief of the day, was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins.
Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good
humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express."
Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and
that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was
very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth
had any conception of;--its object was nothing less, than to secure her
from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards
herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so
favourable that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost
sure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon.
But here, she did injustice to the fire and independence of his
character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next
morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw
himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins,
from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to
conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known
till its success could be known likewise; for though feeling almost
secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging,
he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His
reception however was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived
him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly
set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared
to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, every
thing was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they
entered the house, he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was
to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be
waved for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his
happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature, must
guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its
continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and
disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that
establishment were gained.
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent;
and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present
circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom
they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were
exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate with more
interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer
Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided
opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the
Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife
should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family in short
were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes
of _coming out_ a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have
done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's
dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had
gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were
in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins to be sure was neither sensible nor
agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be
imaginary. But still he would be her husband.--Without thinking highly
either of men or of matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it
was the only honourable provision for well-educated young women of small
fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their
pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now
obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been
handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable
circumstance in the business, was the surprise it must occasion to
Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other
person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though
her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such
disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and
therefore charged Mr. Collins when he returned to Longbourn to dinner,
to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise
of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept
without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence, burst
forth in such very direct questions on his return, as required some
ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great
self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the
family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved
for the night; and Mrs. Bennet with great politeness and cordiality said
how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his
other engagements might allow him to visit them.
"My dear Madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly
gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you
may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as
possible."
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for
so speedy a return, immediately said,
"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my
good sir?--You had better neglect your relations, than run the risk of
offending your patroness."
"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins, "I am particularly obliged to you
for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so
material a step without her ladyship's concurrence."
"You cannot be too much on your guard. Risk any thing rather than her
displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us
again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home,
and be satisfied that _we_ shall take no offence."
"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such
affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive
from me a letter of thanks for this, as well as for every other mark of
your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins,
though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall
now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting
my cousin Elizabeth."
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally
surprised to find that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished
to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of
her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him.
She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a
solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no
means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and
improve himself by such an example as her's, he might become a very
agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this
kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a
private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying himself in love with her
friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but
that Charlotte could encourage him, seemed almost as far from
possibility as that she could encourage him herself, and her
astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the
bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out,
"Engaged to Mr. Collins! my dear Charlotte,--impossible!"
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her
story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a
reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon
regained her composure, and calmly replied,
"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza?--Do you think it incredible
that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion,
because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?"
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort
for it, was able to assure her with tolerable firmness that the prospect
of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished
her all imaginable happiness.
"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte,--"you must be
surprised, very much surprised,--so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to
marry you. But when you have had time to think it all over, I hope you
will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic you know. I
never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's
character, connections, and situation in life, I am convinced that my
chance of happiness with him is as fair, as most people can boast on
entering the marriage state."
Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;"--and after an awkward pause,
they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much
longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It
was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so
unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers
of marriage within three days, was nothing in comparison of his being
now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony
was not exactly like her own, but she could not have supposed it
possible that when called into action, she would have sacrificed every
better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins,
was a most humiliating picture!--And to the pang of a friend disgracing
herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction
that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot
she had chosen.
Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what
she had heard, and doubting whether she were authorised to mention it,
when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter to
announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them,
and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the
houses, he unfolded the matter,--to an audience not merely wondering,
but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than
politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken, and Lydia, always
unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed,
"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story?--Do not you know
that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne
without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried
him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the
truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the
most forbearing courtesy.
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant
a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by
mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and
endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters,
by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she
was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the
happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character
of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while
Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings
found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving
the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins
had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy
together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two
inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole; one, that
Elizabeth was the real cause of all the mischief; and the other, that
she herself had been barbarously used by them all; and on these two
points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could
console and nothing appease her.--Nor did that day wear out her
resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without
scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William
or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she
could at all forgive their daughter.
Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such
as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for
it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had
been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and
more foolish than his daughter!
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said
less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness;
nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and
Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a
clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news
to spread at Meryton.
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on
Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she
called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was,
though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been
enough to drive happiness away.
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them
mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no
real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her
disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her
sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could
never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as
Bingley had now been gone a week, and nothing was heard of his return.
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting
the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised
letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their
father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a
twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging
his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many
rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection
of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was
merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready
to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither
he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine,
he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take
place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable
argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him
the happiest of men.
Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of
pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary she was as much disposed to
complain of it as her husband.--It was very strange that he should come
to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient
and exceedingly troublesome.--She hated having visitors in the house
while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the
most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they
gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued
absence.
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after
day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the
report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to
Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs.
Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous
falsehood.
Even Elizabeth began to fear--not that Bingley was indifferent--but that
his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she
was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so
dishonourable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its
frequently recurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters
and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss
Darcy and the amusements of London, might be too much, she feared, for
the strength of his attachment.
As for Jane, _her_ anxiety under this suspence was, of course, more
painful than Elizabeth's; but whatever she felt she was desirous of
concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject
was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an
hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her
impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he
did not come back, she should think herself very ill used. It needed all
Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable
tranquillity.
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on the Monday fortnight, but his
reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his
first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention;
and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them
from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by
him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time
to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of any
thing concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill humour, and
wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of
Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she
regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see
them she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and
whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that
they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself
and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She
complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte
Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to
make way for _her_, and live to see her take my place in it!"
"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for
better things. Let us flatter ourselves that _I_ may be the survivor."
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and, therefore, instead of
making any answer, she went on as before,
"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was
not for the entail I should not mind it."
"What should not you mind?"
"I should not mind any thing at all."
"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such
insensibility."
"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for any thing about the entail.
How any one could have the conscience to entail away an estate from
one's own daughters I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr.
Collins too!--Why should _he_ have it more than anybody else?"
"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.
END OF VOL. I.
[Illustration: A VICARAGE HOUSE.]
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE:
A Novel.
In Three Volumes.
By the Author of "Sense and Sensibility."
VOL. II.
London:
Printed for T. Egerton,
Military Library, Whitehall. | The next day following the Netherfield Ball, Mr. Collins decides to make his play for Elizabeth. He is totally confident that he will be successful, for who could refuse such a suitor who has so much to offer. He asks permission from Mrs. Bennett to speak to Elizabeth alone. She already suspects what is going to happen. The discourse between these two includes some of the most humorous moments in the story. Collins conducts the proposal as if it is a business transaction. He points out his own virtues, his association with the De Bourgh family, and Elizabeth's own insecurity. He advises Elizabeth that he has been spurred on by his patron who charged him to acquire a wife who is a person that is active, useful, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way." Elizabeth refuses Collins proposal, but he is undaunted and merely thinks she is being coy. He tells her that it is unthinkable for her to refuse him, but in plain terms Elizabeth says, "You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation." Finally, Collins realizes that his courtship of Elizabeth is over. Mrs. Bennett is appalled by this situation saying that she will never see her again. Elizabeth is summoned to her father's retreat in the library and he says, An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must 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." Charlotte Lucas visits the Bennett household and learns of the breakdown of Mr. Collins suit of Elizabeth. She begins spending more time with Collins, and in a few days they are engaged to be married. Elizabeth is annoyed at her friend accepting marriage with someone she doesn't love, but Charlotte has accepted Collins' proposal in order to obtain security. Jane receives a letter from Caroline Bingley advising her that the whole Netherfield household have moved to London for the winter. Jane is greatly disappointed. It is evident that Miss Georgiana Darcy is spending time with Bingley. The news makes Jane despondent, whereas Elizabeth is angry, and suspects Darcy has a role in this development. |
The haggling business, which had mainly depended on the horse, became
disorganized forthwith. Distress, if not penury, loomed in the
distance. Durbeyfield was what was locally called a slack-twisted
fellow; he had good strength to work at times; but the times could
not be relied on to coincide with the hours of requirement; and,
having been unaccustomed to the regular toil of the day-labourer,
he was not particularly persistent when they did so coincide.
Tess, meanwhile, as the one who had dragged her parents into this
quagmire, was silently wondering what she could do to help them out
of it; and then her mother broached her scheme.
"We must take the ups wi' the downs, Tess," said she; "and never
could your high blood have been found out at a more called-for
moment. You must try your friends. Do ye know that there is a very
rich Mrs d'Urberville living on the outskirts o' The Chase, who must
be our relation? You must go to her and claim kin, and ask for some
help in our trouble."
"I shouldn't care to do that," says Tess. "If there is such a lady,
'twould be enough for us if she were friendly--not to expect her to
give us help."
"You could win her round to do anything, my dear. Besides, perhaps
there's more in it than you know of. I've heard what I've heard,
good-now."
The oppressive sense of the harm she had done led Tess to be more
deferential than she might otherwise have been to the maternal
wish; but she could not understand why her mother should find such
satisfaction in contemplating an enterprise of, to her, such doubtful
profit. Her mother might have made inquiries, and have discovered
that this Mrs d'Urberville was a lady of unequalled virtues and
charity. But Tess's pride made the part of poor relation one of
particular distaste to her.
"I'd rather try to get work," she murmured.
"Durbeyfield, you can settle it," said his wife, turning to where he
sat in the background. "If you say she ought to go, she will go."
"I don't like my children going and making themselves beholden to
strange kin," murmured he. "I'm the head of the noblest branch o'
the family, and I ought to live up to it."
His reasons for staying away were worse to Tess than her own
objections to going. "Well, as I killed the horse, mother," she said
mournfully, "I suppose I ought to do something. I don't mind going
and seeing her, but you must leave it to me about asking for help.
And don't go thinking about her making a match for me--it is silly."
"Very well said, Tess!" observed her father sententiously.
"Who said I had such a thought?" asked Joan.
"I fancy it is in your mind, mother. But I'll go."
Rising early next day she walked to the hill-town called Shaston,
and there took advantage of a van which twice in the week ran from
Shaston eastward to Chaseborough, passing near Trantridge, the parish
in which the vague and mysterious Mrs d'Urberville had her residence.
Tess Durbeyfield's route on this memorable morning lay amid the
north-eastern undulations of the Vale in which she had been born, and
in which her life had unfolded. The Vale of Blackmoor was to her the
world, and its inhabitants the races thereof. From the gates and
stiles of Marlott she had looked down its length in the wondering
days of infancy, and what had been mystery to her then was not
much less than mystery to her now. She had seen daily from her
chamber-window towers, villages, faint white mansions; above all,
the town of Shaston standing majestically on its height; its windows
shining like lamps in the evening sun. She had hardly ever visited
the place, only a small tract even of the Vale and its environs being
known to her by close inspection. Much less had she been far outside
the valley. Every contour of the surrounding hills was as personal
to her as that of her relatives' faces; but for what lay beyond, her
judgment was dependent on the teaching of the village school, where
she had held a leading place at the time of her leaving, a year or
two before this date.
In those early days she had been much loved by others of her own
sex and age, and had used to be seen about the village as one of
three--all nearly of the same year--walking home from school side
by side; Tess the middle one--in a pink print pinafore, of a finely
reticulated pattern, worn over a stuff frock that had lost its
original colour for a nondescript tertiary--marching on upon long
stalky legs, in tight stockings which had little ladder-like holes
at the knees, torn by kneeling in the roads and banks in search of
vegetable and mineral treasures; her then earth-coloured hair hanging
like pot-hooks; the arms of the two outside girls resting round the
waist of Tess; her arms on the shoulders of the two supporters.
As Tess grew older, and began to see how matters stood, she felt
quite a Malthusian towards her mother for thoughtlessly giving her so
many little sisters and brothers, when it was such a trouble to nurse
and provide for them. Her mother's intelligence was that of a happy
child: Joan Durbeyfield was simply an additional one, and that not
the eldest, to her own long family of waiters on Providence.
However, Tess became humanely beneficent towards the small ones,
and to help them as much as possible she used, as soon as she left
school, to lend a hand at haymaking or harvesting on neighbouring
farms; or, by preference, at milking or butter-making processes,
which she had learnt when her father had owned cows; and being
deft-fingered it was a kind of work in which she excelled.
Every day seemed to throw upon her young shoulders more of the
family burdens, and that Tess should be the representative of the
Durbeyfields at the d'Urberville mansion came as a thing of course.
In this instance it must be admitted that the Durbeyfields were
putting their fairest side outward.
She alighted from the van at Trantridge Cross, and ascended on foot
a hill in the direction of the district known as The Chase, on the
borders of which, as she had been informed, Mrs d'Urberville's seat,
The Slopes, would be found. It was not a manorial home in the
ordinary sense, with fields, and pastures, and a grumbling farmer,
out of whom the owner had to squeeze an income for himself and his
family by hook or by crook. It was more, far more; a country-house
built for enjoyment pure and simple, with not an acre of troublesome
land attached to it beyond what was required for residential
purposes, and for a little fancy farm kept in hand by the owner, and
tended by a bailiff.
The crimson brick lodge came first in sight, up to its eaves in dense
evergreens. Tess thought this was the mansion itself till, passing
through the side wicket with some trepidation, and onward to a point
at which the drive took a turn, the house proper stood in full view.
It was of recent erection--indeed almost new--and of the same rich
red colour that formed such a contrast with the evergreens of the
lodge. Far behind the corner of the house--which rose like a
geranium bloom against the subdued colours around--stretched the soft
azure landscape of The Chase--a truly venerable tract of forest land,
one of the few remaining woodlands in England of undoubted primaeval
date, wherein Druidical mistletoe was still found on aged oaks, and
where enormous yew-trees, not planted by the hand of man grew as
they had grown when they were pollarded for bows. All this sylvan
antiquity, however, though visible from The Slopes, was outside the
immediate boundaries of the estate.
Everything on this snug property was bright, thriving, and well kept;
acres of glass-houses stretched down the inclines to the copses at
their feet. Everything looked like money--like the last coin issued
from the Mint. The stables, partly screened by Austrian pines
and evergreen oaks, and fitted with every late appliance, were
as dignified as Chapels-of-Ease. On the extensive lawn stood an
ornamental tent, its door being towards her.
Simple Tess Durbeyfield stood at gaze, in a half-alarmed attitude,
on the edge of the gravel sweep. Her feet had brought her onward to
this point before she had quite realized where she was; and now all
was contrary to her expectation.
"I thought we were an old family; but this is all new!" she said, in
her artlessness. She wished that she had not fallen in so readily
with her mother's plans for "claiming kin," and had endeavoured to
gain assistance nearer home.
The d'Urbervilles--or Stoke-d'Urbervilles, as they at first called
themselves--who owned all this, were a somewhat unusual family to
find in such an old-fashioned part of the country. Parson Tringham
had spoken truly when he said that our shambling John Durbeyfield was
the only really lineal representative of the old d'Urberville family
existing in the county, or near it; he might have added, what he knew
very well, that the Stoke-d'Urbervilles were no more d'Urbervilles of
the true tree then he was himself. Yet it must be admitted that this
family formed a very good stock whereon to regraft a name which sadly
wanted such renovation.
When old Mr Simon Stoke, latterly deceased, had made his fortune as
an honest merchant (some said money-lender) in the North, he decided
to settle as a county man in the South of England, out of hail of
his business district; and in doing this he felt the necessity of
recommencing with a name that would not too readily identify him with
the smart tradesman of the past, and that would be less commonplace
than the original bald, stark words. Conning for an hour in the
British Museum the pages of works devoted to extinct, half-extinct,
obscured, and ruined families appertaining to the quarter of England
in which he proposed to settle, he considered that _d'Urberville_
looked and sounded as well as any of them: and d'Urberville
accordingly was annexed to his own name for himself and his heirs
eternally. Yet he was not an extravagant-minded man in this, and in
constructing his family tree on the new basis was duly reasonable in
framing his inter-marriages and aristocratic links, never inserting
a single title above a rank of strict moderation.
Of this work of imagination poor Tess and her parents were naturally
in ignorance--much to their discomfiture; indeed, the very
possibility of such annexations was unknown to them; who supposed
that, though to be well-favoured might be the gift of fortune, a
family name came by nature.
Tess still stood hesitating like a bather about to make his plunge,
hardly knowing whether to retreat or to persevere, when a figure came
forth from the dark triangular door of the tent. It was that of a
tall young man, smoking.
He had an almost swarthy complexion, with full lips, badly moulded,
though red and smooth, above which was a well-groomed black moustache
with curled points, though his age could not be more than three- or
four-and-twenty. Despite the touches of barbarism in his contours,
there was a singular force in the gentleman's face, and in his bold
rolling eye.
"Well, my Beauty, what can I do for you?" said he, coming forward.
And perceiving that she stood quite confounded: "Never mind me. I am
Mr d'Urberville. Have you come to see me or my mother?"
This embodiment of a d'Urberville and a namesake differed even more
from what Tess had expected than the house and grounds had differed.
She had dreamed of an aged and dignified face, the sublimation of
all the d'Urberville lineaments, furrowed with incarnate memories
representing in hieroglyphic the centuries of her family's and
England's history. But she screwed herself up to the work in hand,
since she could not get out of it, and answered--
"I came to see your mother, sir."
"I am afraid you cannot see her--she is an invalid," replied the
present representative of the spurious house; for this was Mr Alec,
the only son of the lately deceased gentleman. "Cannot I answer your
purpose? What is the business you wish to see her about?"
"It isn't business--it is--I can hardly say what!"
"Pleasure?"
"Oh no. Why, sir, if I tell you, it will seem--"
Tess's sense of a certain ludicrousness in her errand was now
so strong that, notwithstanding her awe of him, and her general
discomfort at being here, her rosy lips curved towards a smile,
much to the attraction of the swarthy Alexander.
"It is so very foolish," she stammered; "I fear can't tell you!"
"Never mind; I like foolish things. Try again, my dear," said he
kindly.
"Mother asked me to come," Tess continued; "and, indeed, I was in the
mind to do so myself likewise. But I did not think it would be like
this. I came, sir, to tell you that we are of the same family as
you."
"Ho! Poor relations?"
"Yes."
"Stokes?"
"No; d'Urbervilles."
"Ay, ay; I mean d'Urbervilles."
"Our names are worn away to Durbeyfield; but we have several proofs
that we are d'Urbervilles. Antiquarians hold we are,--and--and we
have an old seal, marked with a ramping lion on a shield, and a
castle over him. And we have a very old silver spoon, round in the
bowl like a little ladle, and marked with the same castle. But it
is so worn that mother uses it to stir the pea-soup."
"A castle argent is certainly my crest," said he blandly. "And my
arms a lion rampant."
"And so mother said we ought to make ourselves beknown to you--as
we've lost our horse by a bad accident, and are the oldest branch o'
the family."
"Very kind of your mother, I'm sure. And I, for one, don't regret
her step." Alec looked at Tess as he spoke, in a way that made her
blush a little. "And so, my pretty girl, you've come on a friendly
visit to us, as relations?"
"I suppose I have," faltered Tess, looking uncomfortable again.
"Well--there's no harm in it. Where do you live? What are you?"
She gave him brief particulars; and responding to further inquiries
told him that she was intending to go back by the same carrier who
had brought her.
"It is a long while before he returns past Trantridge Cross.
Supposing we walk round the grounds to pass the time, my pretty Coz?"
Tess wished to abridge her visit as much as possible; but the young
man was pressing, and she consented to accompany him. He conducted
her about the lawns, and flower-beds, and conservatories; and thence
to the fruit-garden and greenhouses, where he asked her if she liked
strawberries.
"Yes," said Tess, "when they come."
"They are already here." D'Urberville began gathering specimens
of the fruit for her, handing them back to her as he stooped; and,
presently, selecting a specially fine product of the "British Queen"
variety, he stood up and held it by the stem to her mouth.
"No--no!" she said quickly, putting her fingers between his hand and
her lips. "I would rather take it in my own hand."
"Nonsense!" he insisted; and in a slight distress she parted her lips
and took it in.
They had spent some time wandering desultorily thus, Tess eating in
a half-pleased, half-reluctant state whatever d'Urberville offered
her. When she could consume no more of the strawberries he filled
her little basket with them; and then the two passed round to the
rose-trees, whence he gathered blossoms and gave her to put in her
bosom. She obeyed like one in a dream, and when she could affix no
more he himself tucked a bud or two into her hat, and heaped her
basket with others in the prodigality of his bounty. At last,
looking at his watch, he said, "Now, by the time you have had
something to eat, it will be time for you to leave, if you want to
catch the carrier to Shaston. Come here, and I'll see what grub I
can find."
Stoke d'Urberville took her back to the lawn and into the tent, where
he left her, soon reappearing with a basket of light luncheon, which
he put before her himself. It was evidently the gentleman's wish not
to be disturbed in this pleasant _tete-a-tete_ by the servantry.
"Do you mind my smoking?" he asked.
"Oh, not at all, sir."
He watched her pretty and unconscious munching through the skeins of
smoke that pervaded the tent, and Tess Durbeyfield did not divine,
as she innocently looked down at the roses in her bosom, that there
behind the blue narcotic haze was potentially the "tragic mischief"
of her drama--one who stood fair to be the blood-red ray in the
spectrum of her young life. She had an attribute which amounted
to a disadvantage just now; and it was this that caused Alec
d'Urberville's eyes to rivet themselves upon her. It was a
luxuriance of aspect, a fulness of growth, which made her appear more
of a woman than she really was. She had inherited the feature from
her mother without the quality it denoted. It had troubled her mind
occasionally, till her companions had said that it was a fault which
time would cure.
She soon had finished her lunch. "Now I am going home, sir," she
said, rising.
"And what do they call you?" he asked, as he accompanied her along
the drive till they were out of sight of the house.
"Tess Durbeyfield, down at Marlott."
"And you say your people have lost their horse?"
"I--killed him!" she answered, her eyes filling with tears as she
gave particulars of Prince's death. "And I don't know what to do
for father on account of it!"
"I must think if I cannot do something. My mother must find a berth
for you. But, Tess, no nonsense about 'd'Urberville';--'Durbeyfield'
only, you know--quite another name."
"I wish for no better, sir," said she with something of dignity.
For a moment--only for a moment--when they were in the turning of the
drive, between the tall rhododendrons and conifers, before the lodge
became visible, he inclined his face towards her as if--but, no: he
thought better of it, and let her go.
Thus the thing began. Had she perceived this meeting's import she
might have asked why she was doomed to be seen and coveted that day
by the wrong man, and not by some other man, the right and desired
one in all respects--as nearly as humanity can supply the right
and desired; yet to him who amongst her acquaintance might have
approximated to this kind, she was but a transient impression, half
forgotten.
In the ill-judged execution of the well-judged plan of things the
call seldom produces the comer, the man to love rarely coincides with
the hour for loving. Nature does not often say "See!" to her poor
creature at a time when seeing can lead to happy doing; or reply
"Here!" to a body's cry of "Where?" till the hide-and-seek has become
an irksome, outworn game. We may wonder whether at the acme and
summit of the human progress these anachronisms will be corrected by
a finer intuition, a closer interaction of the social machinery than
that which now jolts us round and along; but such completeness is not
to be prophesied, or even conceived as possible. Enough that in the
present case, as in millions, it was not the two halves of a perfect
whole that confronted each other at the perfect moment; a missing
counterpart wandered independently about the earth waiting in
crass obtuseness till the late time came. Out of which maladroit
delay sprang anxieties, disappointments, shocks, catastrophes, and
passing-strange destinies.
When d'Urberville got back to the tent he sat down astride on a
chair, reflecting, with a pleased gleam in his face. Then he broke
into a loud laugh.
"Well, I'm damned! What a funny thing! Ha-ha-ha! And what a crumby
girl!" | Tess does not argue when her mother sends her to the Trantridge estate of the d'Urbervilles to work. Joan Durbeyfield has no idea, however, that the d'Urbervilles have absolutely no blood relation to Tess and that the name itself was purchased to enhance the family's social standing. Tess is surprised to find a large new red brick country estate instead of the ancient house she envisioned. Here Tess meets Alec d'Urberville who, in his early twenties, is very attracted to his new "poor relation. After feeding her strawberries and showering her with roses, he explains that his mother is ill but that he will find a way to help her. Then he sends her on her way |
IX. The Gorgon's Head
It was a heavy mass of building, that chateau of Monsieur the Marquis,
with a large stone courtyard before it, and two stone sweeps of
staircase meeting in a stone terrace before the principal door. A stony
business altogether, with heavy stone balustrades, and stone urns, and
stone flowers, and stone faces of men, and stone heads of lions, in
all directions. As if the Gorgon's head had surveyed it, when it was
finished, two centuries ago.
Up the broad flight of shallow steps, Monsieur the Marquis, flambeau
preceded, went from his carriage, sufficiently disturbing the darkness
to elicit loud remonstrance from an owl in the roof of the great pile
of stable building away among the trees. All else was so quiet, that the
flambeau carried up the steps, and the other flambeau held at the great
door, burnt as if they were in a close room of state, instead of being
in the open night-air. Other sound than the owl's voice there was none,
save the falling of a fountain into its stone basin; for, it was one of
those dark nights that hold their breath by the hour together, and then
heave a long low sigh, and hold their breath again.
The great door clanged behind him, and Monsieur the Marquis crossed a
hall grim with certain old boar-spears, swords, and knives of the chase;
grimmer with certain heavy riding-rods and riding-whips, of which many a
peasant, gone to his benefactor Death, had felt the weight when his lord
was angry.
Avoiding the larger rooms, which were dark and made fast for the night,
Monsieur the Marquis, with his flambeau-bearer going on before, went up
the staircase to a door in a corridor. This thrown open, admitted him
to his own private apartment of three rooms: his bed-chamber and two
others. High vaulted rooms with cool uncarpeted floors, great dogs upon
the hearths for the burning of wood in winter time, and all luxuries
befitting the state of a marquis in a luxurious age and country.
The fashion of the last Louis but one, of the line that was never to
break--the fourteenth Louis--was conspicuous in their rich furniture;
but, it was diversified by many objects that were illustrations of old
pages in the history of France.
A supper-table was laid for two, in the third of the rooms; a round
room, in one of the chateau's four extinguisher-topped towers. A small
lofty room, with its window wide open, and the wooden jalousie-blinds
closed, so that the dark night only showed in slight horizontal lines of
black, alternating with their broad lines of stone colour.
"My nephew," said the Marquis, glancing at the supper preparation; "they
said he was not arrived."
Nor was he; but, he had been expected with Monseigneur.
"Ah! It is not probable he will arrive to-night; nevertheless, leave the
table as it is. I shall be ready in a quarter of an hour."
In a quarter of an hour Monseigneur was ready, and sat down alone to his
sumptuous and choice supper. His chair was opposite to the window, and
he had taken his soup, and was raising his glass of Bordeaux to his
lips, when he put it down.
"What is that?" he calmly asked, looking with attention at the
horizontal lines of black and stone colour.
"Monseigneur? That?"
"Outside the blinds. Open the blinds."
It was done.
"Well?"
"Monseigneur, it is nothing. The trees and the night are all that are
here."
The servant who spoke, had thrown the blinds wide, had looked out into
the vacant darkness, and stood with that blank behind him, looking round
for instructions.
"Good," said the imperturbable master. "Close them again."
That was done too, and the Marquis went on with his supper. He was
half way through it, when he again stopped with his glass in his hand,
hearing the sound of wheels. It came on briskly, and came up to the
front of the chateau.
"Ask who is arrived."
It was the nephew of Monseigneur. He had been some few leagues behind
Monseigneur, early in the afternoon. He had diminished the distance
rapidly, but not so rapidly as to come up with Monseigneur on the road.
He had heard of Monseigneur, at the posting-houses, as being before him.
He was to be told (said Monseigneur) that supper awaited him then and
there, and that he was prayed to come to it. In a little while he came.
He had been known in England as Charles Darnay.
Monseigneur received him in a courtly manner, but they did not shake
hands.
"You left Paris yesterday, sir?" he said to Monseigneur, as he took his
seat at table.
"Yesterday. And you?"
"I come direct."
"From London?"
"Yes."
"You have been a long time coming," said the Marquis, with a smile.
"On the contrary; I come direct."
"Pardon me! I mean, not a long time on the journey; a long time
intending the journey."
"I have been detained by"--the nephew stopped a moment in his
answer--"various business."
"Without doubt," said the polished uncle.
So long as a servant was present, no other words passed between them.
When coffee had been served and they were alone together, the nephew,
looking at the uncle and meeting the eyes of the face that was like a
fine mask, opened a conversation.
"I have come back, sir, as you anticipate, pursuing the object that
took me away. It carried me into great and unexpected peril; but it is
a sacred object, and if it had carried me to death I hope it would have
sustained me."
"Not to death," said the uncle; "it is not necessary to say, to death."
"I doubt, sir," returned the nephew, "whether, if it had carried me to
the utmost brink of death, you would have cared to stop me there."
The deepened marks in the nose, and the lengthening of the fine straight
lines in the cruel face, looked ominous as to that; the uncle made a
graceful gesture of protest, which was so clearly a slight form of good
breeding that it was not reassuring.
"Indeed, sir," pursued the nephew, "for anything I know, you may have
expressly worked to give a more suspicious appearance to the suspicious
circumstances that surrounded me."
"No, no, no," said the uncle, pleasantly.
"But, however that may be," resumed the nephew, glancing at him with
deep distrust, "I know that your diplomacy would stop me by any means,
and would know no scruple as to means."
"My friend, I told you so," said the uncle, with a fine pulsation in the
two marks. "Do me the favour to recall that I told you so, long ago."
"I recall it."
"Thank you," said the Marquis--very sweetly indeed.
His tone lingered in the air, almost like the tone of a musical
instrument.
"In effect, sir," pursued the nephew, "I believe it to be at once your
bad fortune, and my good fortune, that has kept me out of a prison in
France here."
"I do not quite understand," returned the uncle, sipping his coffee.
"Dare I ask you to explain?"
"I believe that if you were not in disgrace with the Court, and had not
been overshadowed by that cloud for years past, a letter de cachet would
have sent me to some fortress indefinitely."
"It is possible," said the uncle, with great calmness. "For the honour
of the family, I could even resolve to incommode you to that extent.
Pray excuse me!"
"I perceive that, happily for me, the Reception of the day before
yesterday was, as usual, a cold one," observed the nephew.
"I would not say happily, my friend," returned the uncle, with refined
politeness; "I would not be sure of that. A good opportunity for
consideration, surrounded by the advantages of solitude, might influence
your destiny to far greater advantage than you influence it for
yourself. But it is useless to discuss the question. I am, as you say,
at a disadvantage. These little instruments of correction, these gentle
aids to the power and honour of families, these slight favours that
might so incommode you, are only to be obtained now by interest
and importunity. They are sought by so many, and they are granted
(comparatively) to so few! It used not to be so, but France in all such
things is changed for the worse. Our not remote ancestors held the right
of life and death over the surrounding vulgar. From this room, many such
dogs have been taken out to be hanged; in the next room (my bedroom),
one fellow, to our knowledge, was poniarded on the spot for professing
some insolent delicacy respecting his daughter--_his_ daughter? We have
lost many privileges; a new philosophy has become the mode; and the
assertion of our station, in these days, might (I do not go so far as
to say would, but might) cause us real inconvenience. All very bad, very
bad!"
The Marquis took a gentle little pinch of snuff, and shook his head;
as elegantly despondent as he could becomingly be of a country still
containing himself, that great means of regeneration.
"We have so asserted our station, both in the old time and in the modern
time also," said the nephew, gloomily, "that I believe our name to be
more detested than any name in France."
"Let us hope so," said the uncle. "Detestation of the high is the
involuntary homage of the low."
"There is not," pursued the nephew, in his former tone, "a face I can
look at, in all this country round about us, which looks at me with any
deference on it but the dark deference of fear and slavery."
"A compliment," said the Marquis, "to the grandeur of the family,
merited by the manner in which the family has sustained its grandeur.
Hah!" And he took another gentle little pinch of snuff, and lightly
crossed his legs.
But, when his nephew, leaning an elbow on the table, covered his eyes
thoughtfully and dejectedly with his hand, the fine mask looked at
him sideways with a stronger concentration of keenness, closeness,
and dislike, than was comportable with its wearer's assumption of
indifference.
"Repression is the only lasting philosophy. The dark deference of fear
and slavery, my friend," observed the Marquis, "will keep the dogs
obedient to the whip, as long as this roof," looking up to it, "shuts
out the sky."
That might not be so long as the Marquis supposed. If a picture of the
chateau as it was to be a very few years hence, and of fifty like it as
they too were to be a very few years hence, could have been shown to
him that night, he might have been at a loss to claim his own from
the ghastly, fire-charred, plunder-wrecked rains. As for the roof
he vaunted, he might have found _that_ shutting out the sky in a new
way--to wit, for ever, from the eyes of the bodies into which its lead
was fired, out of the barrels of a hundred thousand muskets.
"Meanwhile," said the Marquis, "I will preserve the honour and repose
of the family, if you will not. But you must be fatigued. Shall we
terminate our conference for the night?"
"A moment more."
"An hour, if you please."
"Sir," said the nephew, "we have done wrong, and are reaping the fruits
of wrong."
"_We_ have done wrong?" repeated the Marquis, with an inquiring smile,
and delicately pointing, first to his nephew, then to himself.
"Our family; our honourable family, whose honour is of so much account
to both of us, in such different ways. Even in my father's time, we did
a world of wrong, injuring every human creature who came between us and
our pleasure, whatever it was. Why need I speak of my father's time,
when it is equally yours? Can I separate my father's twin-brother, joint
inheritor, and next successor, from himself?"
"Death has done that!" said the Marquis.
"And has left me," answered the nephew, "bound to a system that is
frightful to me, responsible for it, but powerless in it; seeking to
execute the last request of my dear mother's lips, and obey the last
look of my dear mother's eyes, which implored me to have mercy and to
redress; and tortured by seeking assistance and power in vain."
"Seeking them from me, my nephew," said the Marquis, touching him on the
breast with his forefinger--they were now standing by the hearth--"you
will for ever seek them in vain, be assured."
Every fine straight line in the clear whiteness of his face, was
cruelly, craftily, and closely compressed, while he stood looking
quietly at his nephew, with his snuff-box in his hand. Once again he
touched him on the breast, as though his finger were the fine point of
a small sword, with which, in delicate finesse, he ran him through the
body, and said,
"My friend, I will die, perpetuating the system under which I have
lived."
When he had said it, he took a culminating pinch of snuff, and put his
box in his pocket.
"Better to be a rational creature," he added then, after ringing a small
bell on the table, "and accept your natural destiny. But you are lost,
Monsieur Charles, I see."
"This property and France are lost to me," said the nephew, sadly; "I
renounce them."
"Are they both yours to renounce? France may be, but is the property? It
is scarcely worth mentioning; but, is it yet?"
"I had no intention, in the words I used, to claim it yet. If it passed
to me from you, to-morrow--"
"Which I have the vanity to hope is not probable."
"--or twenty years hence--"
"You do me too much honour," said the Marquis; "still, I prefer that
supposition."
"--I would abandon it, and live otherwise and elsewhere. It is little to
relinquish. What is it but a wilderness of misery and ruin!"
"Hah!" said the Marquis, glancing round the luxurious room.
"To the eye it is fair enough, here; but seen in its integrity,
under the sky, and by the daylight, it is a crumbling tower of waste,
mismanagement, extortion, debt, mortgage, oppression, hunger, nakedness,
and suffering."
"Hah!" said the Marquis again, in a well-satisfied manner.
"If it ever becomes mine, it shall be put into some hands better
qualified to free it slowly (if such a thing is possible) from the
weight that drags it down, so that the miserable people who cannot leave
it and who have been long wrung to the last point of endurance, may, in
another generation, suffer less; but it is not for me. There is a curse
on it, and on all this land."
"And you?" said the uncle. "Forgive my curiosity; do you, under your new
philosophy, graciously intend to live?"
"I must do, to live, what others of my countrymen, even with nobility at
their backs, may have to do some day--work."
"In England, for example?"
"Yes. The family honour, sir, is safe from me in this country. The
family name can suffer from me in no other, for I bear it in no other."
The ringing of the bell had caused the adjoining bed-chamber to be
lighted. It now shone brightly, through the door of communication. The
Marquis looked that way, and listened for the retreating step of his
valet.
"England is very attractive to you, seeing how indifferently you have
prospered there," he observed then, turning his calm face to his nephew
with a smile.
"I have already said, that for my prospering there, I am sensible I may
be indebted to you, sir. For the rest, it is my Refuge."
"They say, those boastful English, that it is the Refuge of many. You
know a compatriot who has found a Refuge there? A Doctor?"
"Yes."
"With a daughter?"
"Yes."
"Yes," said the Marquis. "You are fatigued. Good night!"
As he bent his head in his most courtly manner, there was a secrecy
in his smiling face, and he conveyed an air of mystery to those words,
which struck the eyes and ears of his nephew forcibly. At the same
time, the thin straight lines of the setting of the eyes, and the thin
straight lips, and the markings in the nose, curved with a sarcasm that
looked handsomely diabolic.
"Yes," repeated the Marquis. "A Doctor with a daughter. Yes. So
commences the new philosophy! You are fatigued. Good night!"
It would have been of as much avail to interrogate any stone face
outside the chateau as to interrogate that face of his. The nephew
looked at him, in vain, in passing on to the door.
"Good night!" said the uncle. "I look to the pleasure of seeing you
again in the morning. Good repose! Light Monsieur my nephew to his
chamber there!--And burn Monsieur my nephew in his bed, if you will," he
added to himself, before he rang his little bell again, and summoned his
valet to his own bedroom.
The valet come and gone, Monsieur the Marquis walked to and fro in his
loose chamber-robe, to prepare himself gently for sleep, that hot still
night. Rustling about the room, his softly-slippered feet making no
noise on the floor, he moved like a refined tiger:--looked like some
enchanted marquis of the impenitently wicked sort, in story, whose
periodical change into tiger form was either just going off, or just
coming on.
He moved from end to end of his voluptuous bedroom, looking again at the
scraps of the day's journey that came unbidden into his mind; the slow
toil up the hill at sunset, the setting sun, the descent, the mill, the
prison on the crag, the little village in the hollow, the peasants at
the fountain, and the mender of roads with his blue cap pointing out the
chain under the carriage. That fountain suggested the Paris fountain,
the little bundle lying on the step, the women bending over it, and the
tall man with his arms up, crying, "Dead!"
"I am cool now," said Monsieur the Marquis, "and may go to bed."
So, leaving only one light burning on the large hearth, he let his thin
gauze curtains fall around him, and heard the night break its silence
with a long sigh as he composed himself to sleep.
The stone faces on the outer walls stared blindly at the black night
for three heavy hours; for three heavy hours, the horses in the stables
rattled at their racks, the dogs barked, and the owl made a noise with
very little resemblance in it to the noise conventionally assigned to
the owl by men-poets. But it is the obstinate custom of such creatures
hardly ever to say what is set down for them.
For three heavy hours, the stone faces of the chateau, lion and human,
stared blindly at the night. Dead darkness lay on all the landscape,
dead darkness added its own hush to the hushing dust on all the roads.
The burial-place had got to the pass that its little heaps of poor grass
were undistinguishable from one another; the figure on the Cross might
have come down, for anything that could be seen of it. In the village,
taxers and taxed were fast asleep. Dreaming, perhaps, of banquets, as
the starved usually do, and of ease and rest, as the driven slave and
the yoked ox may, its lean inhabitants slept soundly, and were fed and
freed.
The fountain in the village flowed unseen and unheard, and the fountain
at the chateau dropped unseen and unheard--both melting away, like the
minutes that were falling from the spring of Time--through three dark
hours. Then, the grey water of both began to be ghostly in the light,
and the eyes of the stone faces of the chateau were opened.
Lighter and lighter, until at last the sun touched the tops of the still
trees, and poured its radiance over the hill. In the glow, the water
of the chateau fountain seemed to turn to blood, and the stone faces
crimsoned. The carol of the birds was loud and high, and, on the
weather-beaten sill of the great window of the bed-chamber of Monsieur
the Marquis, one little bird sang its sweetest song with all its might.
At this, the nearest stone face seemed to stare amazed, and, with open
mouth and dropped under-jaw, looked awe-stricken.
Now, the sun was full up, and movement began in the village. Casement
windows opened, crazy doors were unbarred, and people came forth
shivering--chilled, as yet, by the new sweet air. Then began the rarely
lightened toil of the day among the village population. Some, to the
fountain; some, to the fields; men and women here, to dig and delve; men
and women there, to see to the poor live stock, and lead the bony cows
out, to such pasture as could be found by the roadside. In the church
and at the Cross, a kneeling figure or two; attendant on the latter
prayers, the led cow, trying for a breakfast among the weeds at its
foot.
The chateau awoke later, as became its quality, but awoke gradually and
surely. First, the lonely boar-spears and knives of the chase had been
reddened as of old; then, had gleamed trenchant in the morning sunshine;
now, doors and windows were thrown open, horses in their stables looked
round over their shoulders at the light and freshness pouring in at
doorways, leaves sparkled and rustled at iron-grated windows, dogs
pulled hard at their chains, and reared impatient to be loosed.
All these trivial incidents belonged to the routine of life, and the
return of morning. Surely, not so the ringing of the great bell of the
chateau, nor the running up and down the stairs; nor the hurried
figures on the terrace; nor the booting and tramping here and there and
everywhere, nor the quick saddling of horses and riding away?
What winds conveyed this hurry to the grizzled mender of roads, already
at work on the hill-top beyond the village, with his day's dinner (not
much to carry) lying in a bundle that it was worth no crow's while to
peck at, on a heap of stones? Had the birds, carrying some grains of it
to a distance, dropped one over him as they sow chance seeds? Whether or
no, the mender of roads ran, on the sultry morning, as if for his life,
down the hill, knee-high in dust, and never stopped till he got to the
fountain.
All the people of the village were at the fountain, standing about
in their depressed manner, and whispering low, but showing no other
emotions than grim curiosity and surprise. The led cows, hastily brought
in and tethered to anything that would hold them, were looking stupidly
on, or lying down chewing the cud of nothing particularly repaying their
trouble, which they had picked up in their interrupted saunter. Some of
the people of the chateau, and some of those of the posting-house, and
all the taxing authorities, were armed more or less, and were crowded
on the other side of the little street in a purposeless way, that was
highly fraught with nothing. Already, the mender of roads had penetrated
into the midst of a group of fifty particular friends, and was smiting
himself in the breast with his blue cap. What did all this portend,
and what portended the swift hoisting-up of Monsieur Gabelle behind
a servant on horseback, and the conveying away of the said Gabelle
(double-laden though the horse was), at a gallop, like a new version of
the German ballad of Leonora?
It portended that there was one stone face too many, up at the chateau.
The Gorgon had surveyed the building again in the night, and had added
the one stone face wanting; the stone face for which it had waited
through about two hundred years.
It lay back on the pillow of Monsieur the Marquis. It was like a fine
mask, suddenly startled, made angry, and petrified. Driven home into the
heart of the stone figure attached to it, was a knife. Round its hilt
was a frill of paper, on which was scrawled:
"Drive him fast to his tomb. This, from Jacques." | Once inside the chateau, in his elegant private rooms, the Marquis prepares for supper and awaits his nephew's arrival. When his nephew -- Charles Darnay -- arrives, the two exchange brief formalities and then, after the servants have left, Darnay tells his uncle that he is renouncing all ties to his family and to France. Although he is coolly polite, the Marquis' dislike for his nephew is apparent. Darnay equally despises his uncle, and the fear and hatred inspired by the Evremond name troubles him. Before they part, the Marquis asks about Darnay's relationship with Doctor Manette and Lucie and then smiles mysteriously. In the morning, the Marquis is discovered dead -- stabbed by a member of the Jacquerie. |
ACT II
(SCENE.—The same. The door into the dining room is shut. It is
morning. MRS. STOCKMANN, with a sealed letter in her hand, comes in
from the dining room, goes to the door of the DOCTOR'S study, and peeps
in.)
Mrs. Stockmann. Are you in, Thomas?
Dr. Stockmann (from within his room). Yes, I have just come in. (Comes
into the room.) What is it?
Mrs. Stockmann. A letter from your brother.
Dr. Stockmann. Aha, let us see! (Opens the letter and reads:) "I return
herewith the manuscript you sent me" (reads on in a low murmur) H'm!—
Mrs. Stockmann. What does he say?
Dr. Stockmann (putting the papers in his pocket). Oh, he only writes
that he will come up here himself about midday.
Mrs. Stockmann. Well, try and remember to be at home this time.
Dr. Stockmann. That will be all right; I have got through all my
morning visits.
Mrs. Stockmann. I am extremely curious to know how he takes it.
Dr. Stockmann. You will see he won't like it's having been I, and not
he, that made the discovery.
Mrs. Stockmann. Aren't you a little nervous about that?
Dr. Stockmann. Oh, he really will be pleased enough, you know. But, at
the same time, Peter is so confoundedly afraid of anyone's doing any
service to the town except himself.
Mrs. Stockmann. I will tell you what, Thomas—you should be good
natured, and share the credit of this with him. Couldn't you make out
that it was he who set you on the scent of this discovery?
Dr. Stockmann. I am quite willing. If only I can get the thing set
right. I—
(MORTEN KIIL puts his head in through the door leading from the hall,
looks around in an enquiring manner, and chuckles.)
Morten Kiil (slyly). Is it—is it true?
Mrs. Stockmann (going to the door). Father!—is it you?
Dr. Stockmann. Ah, Mr. Kiil—good morning, good morning!
Mrs. Stockmann. But come along in.
Morten Kiil. If it is true, I will; if not, I am off.
Dr. Stockmann. If what is true?
Morten Kiil. This tale about the water supply, is it true?
Dr. Stockmann. Certainly it is true, but how did you come to hear it?
Morten Kiil (coming in). Petra ran in on her way to the school—
Dr. Stockmann. Did she?
Morten Kiil. Yes; and she declares that—I thought she was only making
a fool of me—but it isn't like Petra to do that.
Dr. Stockmann. Of course not. How could you imagine such a thing!
Morten Kiil. Oh well, it is better never to trust anybody; you may find
you have been made a fool of before you know where you are. But it is
really true, all the same?
Dr. Stockmann. You can depend upon it that it is true. Won't you sit
down? (Settles him on the couch.) Isn't it a real bit of luck for the
town—
Morten Kiil (suppressing his laughter). A bit of luck for the town?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that I made the discovery in good time.
Morten Kiil (as before). Yes, yes. Yes!—But I should never have
thought you the sort of man to pull your own brother's leg like this!
Dr. Stockmann. Pull his leg!
Mrs. Stockmann. Really, father dear—
Morten Kiil (resting his hands and his chin on the handle of his stick
and winking slyly at the DOCTOR). Let me see, what was the story? Some
kind of beast that had got into the water-pipes, wasn't it?
Dr. Stockmann. Infusoria—yes.
Morten Kiil. And a lot of these beasts had got in, according to
Petra—a tremendous lot.
Dr. Stockmann. Certainly; hundreds of thousands of them, probably.
Morten Kiil. But no one can see them—isn't that so?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes; you can't see them,
Morten Kiil (with a quiet chuckle). Damn—it's the finest story I have
ever heard!
Dr. Stockmann. What do you mean?
Morten Kiil. But you will never get the Mayor to believe a thing like
that.
Dr. Stockmann. We shall see.
Morten Kiil. Do you think he will be fool enough to—?
Dr. Stockmann. I hope the whole town will be fools enough.
Morten Kiil. The whole town! Well, it wouldn't be a bad thing. It would
just serve them right, and teach them a lesson. They think themselves
so much cleverer than we old fellows. They hounded me out of the
council; they did, I tell you—they hounded me out. Now they shall pay
for it. You pull their legs too, Thomas!
Dr. Stockmann. Really, I—
Morten Kiil. You pull their legs! (Gets up.) If you can work it so that
the Mayor and his friends all swallow the same bait, I will give ten
pounds to a charity—like a shot!
Dr. Stockmann. That is very kind of you.
Morten Kiil. Yes, I haven't got much money to throw away, I can tell
you; but, if you can work this, I will give five pounds to a charity at
Christmas.
(HOVSTAD comes in by the hall door.)
Hovstad. Good morning! (Stops.) Oh, I beg your pardon
Dr. Stockmann. Not at all; come in.
Morten Kiil (with another chuckle). Oho!—is he in this too?
Hovstad. What do you mean?
Dr. Stockmann. Certainly he is.
Morten Kiil. I might have known it! It must get into the papers. You
know how to do it, Thomas! Set your wits to work. Now I must go.
Dr. Stockmann. Won't you stay a little while?
Morten Kiil. No, I must be off now. You keep up this game for all it is
worth; you won't repent it, I'm damned if you will!
(He goes out; MRS. STOCKMANN follows him into the hall.)
Dr. Stockmann (laughing). Just imagine—the old chap doesn't believe a
word of all this about the water supply.
Hovstad. Oh that was it, then?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, that was what we were talking about. Perhaps it is
the same thing that brings you here?
Hovstad. Yes, it is, Can you spare me a few minutes, Doctor?
Dr. Stockmann. As long as you like, my dear fellow.
Hovstad. Have you heard from the Mayor yet?
Dr. Stockmann. Not yet. He is coming here later.
Hovstad. I have given the matter a great deal of thought since last
night.
Dr. Stockmann. Well?
Hovstad. From your point of view, as a doctor and a man of science,
this affair of the water supply is an isolated matter. I mean, you do
not realise that it involves a great many other things.
Dr. Stockmann. How do you mean?—Let us sit down, my dear fellow. No,
sit here on the couch. (HOVSTAD Sits down on the couch, DR. STOCKMANN
On a chair on the other side of the table.) Now then. You mean that—?
Hovstad. You said yesterday that the pollution of the water was due to
impurities in the soil.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, unquestionably it is due to that poisonous morass
up at Molledal.
Hovstad. Begging your pardon, Doctor, I fancy it is due to quite
another morass altogether.
Dr. Stockmann. What morass?
Hovstad. The morass that the whole life of our town is built on and is
rotting in.
Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce are you driving at, Hovstad?
Hovstad. The whole of the town's interests have, little by little, got
into the hands of a pack of officials.
Dr. Stockmann. Oh, come!—they are not all officials.
Hovstad. No, but those that are not officials are at any rate the
officials' friends and adherents; it is the wealthy folk, the old
families in the town, that have got us entirely in their hands.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but after all they are men of ability and knowledge.
Hovstad. Did they show any ability or knowledge when they laid the
conduit pipes where they are now?
Dr. Stockmann. No, of course that was a great piece of stupidity on
their part. But that is going to be set right now.
Hovstad. Do you think that will be all such plain sailing?
Dr. Stockmann. Plain sailing or no, it has got to be done, anyway.
Hovstad. Yes, provided the press takes up the question.
Dr. Stockmann. I don't think that will be necessary, my dear fellow, I
am certain my brother—
Hovstad. Excuse me, doctor; I feel bound to tell you I am inclined to
take the matter up.
Dr. Stockmann. In the paper?
Hovstad. Yes. When I took over the "People's Messenger" my idea was to
break up this ring of self-opinionated old fossils who had got hold of
all the influence.
Dr. Stockmann. But you know you told me yourself what the result had
been; you nearly ruined your paper.
Hovstad. Yes, at the time we were obliged to climb down a peg or two,
it is quite true—because there was a danger of the whole project of
the Baths coming to nothing if they failed us. But now the scheme has
been carried through, and we can dispense with these grand gentlemen.
Dr. Stockmann. Dispense with them, yes; but, we owe them a great debt
of gratitude.
Hovstad. That shall be recognised ungrudgingly, But a journalist of my
democratic tendencies cannot let such an opportunity as this slip. The
bubble of official infallibility must be pricked. This superstition
must be destroyed, like any other.
Dr. Stockmann. I am whole-heartedly with you in that, Mr. Hovstad; if
it is a superstition, away with it!
Hovstad. I should be very reluctant to bring the Mayor into it, because
he is your brother. But I am sure you will agree with me that truth
should be the first consideration.
Dr. Stockmann. That goes without saying. (With sudden emphasis.) Yes,
but—but—
Hovstad. You must not misjudge me. I am neither more self-interested
nor more ambitious than most men.
Dr. Stockmann. My dear fellow—who suggests anything of the kind?
Hovstad. I am of humble origin, as you know; and that has given me
opportunities of knowing what is the most crying need in the humbler
ranks of life. It is that they should be allowed some part in the
direction of public affairs, Doctor. That is what will develop their
faculties and intelligence and self respect—
Dr. Stockmann. I quite appreciate that.
Hovstad. Yes—and in my opinion a journalist incurs a heavy
responsibility if he neglects a favourable opportunity of emancipating
the masses—the humble and oppressed. I know well enough that in
exalted circles I shall be called an agitator, and all that sort of
thing; but they may call what they like. If only my conscience doesn't
reproach me, then—
Dr. Stockmann. Quite right! Quite right, Mr. Hovstad. But all the
same—devil take it! (A knock is heard at the door.) Come in!
(ASLAKSEN appears at the door. He is poorly but decently dressed, in
black, with a slightly crumpled white neckcloth; he wears gloves and
has a felt hat in his hand.)
Aslaksen (bowing). Excuse my taking the liberty, Doctor—
Dr. Stockmann (getting up). Ah, it is you, Aslaksen!
Aslaksen. Yes, Doctor.
Hovstad (standing up). Is it me you want, Aslaksen?
Aslaksen. No; I didn't know I should find you here. No, it was the
Doctor I—
Dr. Stockmann. I am quite at your service. What is it?
Aslaksen. Is what I heard from Mr. Billing true, sir—that you mean to
improve our water supply?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, for the Baths.
Aslaksen. Quite so, I understand. Well, I have come to say that I will
back that up by every means in my power.
Hovstad (to the DOCTOR). You see!
Dr. Stockmann. I shall be very grateful to you, but—
Aslaksen. Because it may be no bad thing to have us small tradesmen at
your back. We form, as it were, a compact majority in the town—if we
choose. And it is always a good thing to have the majority with you,
Doctor.
Dr. Stockmann. That is undeniably true; but I confess I don't see why
such unusual precautions should be necessary in this case. It seems to
me that such a plain, straightforward thing—
Aslaksen. Oh, it may be very desirable, all the same. I know our local
authorities so well; officials are not generally very ready to act on
proposals that come from other people. That is why I think it would not
be at all amiss if we made a little demonstration.
Hovstad. That's right.
Dr. Stockmann. Demonstration, did you say? What on earth are you going
to make a demonstration about?
Aslaksen. We shall proceed with the greatest moderation, Doctor.
Moderation is always my aim; it is the greatest virtue in a citizen—at
least, I think so.
Dr. Stockmann. It is well known to be a characteristic of yours, Mr.
Aslaksen.
Aslaksen. Yes, I think I may pride myself on that. And this matter of
the water supply is of the greatest importance to us small tradesmen.
The Baths promise to be a regular gold-mine for the town. We shall all
make our living out of them, especially those of us who are
householders. That is why we will back up the project as strongly as
possible. And as I am at present Chairman of the Householders'
Association.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes—?
Aslaksen. And, what is more, local secretary of the Temperance
Society—you know, sir, I suppose, that I am a worker in the temperance
cause?
Dr. Stockmann. Of course, of course.
Aslaksen. Well, you can understand that I come into contact with a
great many people. And as I have the reputation of a temperate and
law-abiding citizen—like yourself, Doctor—I have a certain influence
in the town, a little bit of power, if I may be allowed to say so.
Dr. Stockmann. I know that quite well, Mr. Aslaksen.
Aslaksen. So you see it would be an easy matter for me to set on foot
some testimonial, if necessary.
Dr. Stockmann. A testimonial?
Aslaksen. Yes, some kind of an address of thanks from the townsmen for
your share in a matter of such importance to the community. I need
scarcely say that it would have to be drawn up with the greatest regard
to moderation, so as not to offend the authorities—who, after all,
have the reins in their hands. If we pay strict attention to that, no
one can take it amiss, I should think!
Hovstad. Well, and even supposing they didn't like it—
Aslaksen. No, no, no; there must be no discourtesy to the authorities,
Mr. Hovstad. It is no use falling foul of those upon whom our welfare
so closely depends. I have done that in my time, and no good ever comes
of it. But no one can take exception to a reasonable and frank
expression of a citizen's views.
Dr. Stockmann (shaking him by the hand). I can't tell you, dear Mr.
Aslaksen, how extremely pleased I am to find such hearty support among
my fellow-citizens. I am delighted—delighted! Now, you will take a
small glass of sherry, eh?
Aslaksen. No, thank you; I never drink alcohol of that kind.
Dr. Stockmann. Well, what do you say to a glass of beer, then?
Aslaksen. Nor that either, thank you, Doctor. I never drink anything as
early as this. I am going into town now to talk this over with one or
two householders, and prepare the ground.
Dr. Stockmann. It is tremendously kind of you, Mr. Aslaksen; but I
really cannot understand the necessity for all these precautions. It
seems to me that the thing should go of itself.
Aslaksen. The authorities are somewhat slow to move, Doctor. Far be it
from me to seem to blame them—
Hovstad. We are going to stir them up in the paper tomorrow, Aslaksen.
Aslaksen. But not violently, I trust, Mr. Hovstad. Proceed with
moderation, or you will do nothing with them. You may take my advice; I
have gathered my experience in the school of life. Well, I must say
goodbye, Doctor. You know now that we small tradesmen are at your back
at all events, like a solid wall. You have the compact majority on your
side Doctor.
Dr. Stockmann. I am very much obliged, dear Mr. Aslaksen, (Shakes hands
with him.) Goodbye, goodbye.
Aslaksen. Are you going my way, towards the printing-office. Mr.
Hovstad?
Hovstad, I will come later; I have something to settle up first.
Aslaksen. Very well. (Bows and goes out; STOCKMANN follows him into the
hall.)
Hovstad (as STOCKMANN comes in again). Well, what do you think of that,
Doctor? Don't you think it is high time we stirred a little life into
all this slackness and vacillation and cowardice?
Dr. Stockmann. Are you referring to Aslaksen?
Hovstad, Yes, I am. He is one of those who are floundering in a
bog—decent enough fellow though he may be, otherwise. And most of the
people here are in just the same case—see-sawing and edging first to
one side and then to the other, so overcome with caution and scruple
that they never dare to take any decided step.
Dr. Stockmann, Yes, but Aslaksen seemed to me so thoroughly
well-intentioned.
Hovstad. There is one thing I esteem higher than that; and that is for
a man to be self-reliant and sure of himself.
Dr. Stockmann. I think you are perfectly right there.
Hovstad. That is why I want to seize this opportunity, and try if I
cannot manage to put a little virility into these well-intentioned
people for once. The idol of Authority must be shattered in this town.
This gross and inexcusable blunder about the water supply must be
brought home to the mind of every municipal voter.
Dr. Stockmann. Very well; if you are of opinion that it is for the good
of the community, so be it. But not until I have had a talk with my
brother.
Hovstad. Anyway, I will get a leading article ready; and if the Mayor
refuses to take the matter up—
Dr. Stockmann. How can you suppose such a thing possible!
Hovstad. It is conceivable. And in that case—
Dr. Stockmann. In that case I promise you—. Look here, in that case
you may print my report—every word of it.
Hovstad. May I? Have I your word for it?
Dr. Stockmann (giving him the MS.). Here it is; take it with you. It
can do no harm for you to read it through, and you can give it me back
later on.
Hovstad. Good, good! That is what I will do. And now goodbye, Doctor.
Dr. Stockmann. Goodbye, goodbye. You will see everything will run quite
smoothly, Mr. Hovstad—quite smoothly.
Hovstad. Hm!—we shall see. (Bows and goes out.)
Dr. Stockmann (opens the dining-room door and looks in). Katherine! Oh,
you are back, Petra?
Petra (coming in). Yes, I have just come from the school.
Mrs. Stockmann (coming in). Has he not been here yet?
Dr. Stockmann. Peter? No, but I have had a long talk with Hovstad. He
is quite excited about my discovery, I find it has a much wider bearing
than I at first imagined. And he has put his paper at my disposal if
necessity should arise.
Mrs. Stockmann. Do you think it will?
Dr. Stockmann. Not for a moment. But at all events it makes me feel
proud to know that I have the liberal-minded independent press on my
side. Yes, and just imagine—I have had a visit from the Chairman of
the Householders' Association!
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh! What did he want?
Dr. Stockmann. To offer me his support too. They will support me in a
body if it should be necessary. Katherine—do you know what I have got
behind me?
Mrs. Stockmann. Behind you? No, what have you got behind you?
Dr. Stockmann. The compact majority.
Mrs. Stockmann. Really? Is that a good thing for you Thomas?
Dr. Stockmann. I should think it was a good thing. (Walks up and down
rubbing his hands.) By Jove, it's a fine thing to feel this bond of
brotherhood between oneself and one's fellow citizens!
Petra. And to be able to do so much that is good and useful, father!
Dr. Stockmann. And for one's own native town into the bargain, my child!
Mrs. Stockmann. That was a ring at the bell.
Dr. Stockmann. It must be he, then. (A knock is heard at the door.)
Come in!
Peter Stockmann (comes in from the hall). Good morning.
Dr. Stockmann. Glad to see you, Peter!
Mrs. Stockmann. Good morning, Peter, How are you?
Peter Stockmann. So so, thank you. (To DR. STOCKMANN.) I received from
you yesterday, after office hours, a report dealing with the condition
of the water at the Baths.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Have you read it?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, I have,
Dr. Stockmann. And what have you to say to it?
Peter Stockmann (with a sidelong glance). Hm!—
Mrs. Stockmann. Come along, Petra. (She and PETRA go into the room on
the left.)
Peter Stockmann (after a pause). Was it necessary to make all these
investigations behind my back?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, because until I was absolutely certain about it—
Peter Stockmann. Then you mean that you are absolutely certain now?
Dr. Stockmann. Surely you are convinced of that.
Peter Stockmann. Is it your intention to bring this document before the
Baths Committee as a sort of official communication?
Dr. Stockmann. Certainly. Something must be done in the matter—and
that quickly.
Peter Stockmann. As usual, you employ violent expressions in your
report. You say, amongst other things, that what we offer visitors in
our Baths is a permanent supply of poison.
Dr. Stockmann. Well, can you describe it any other way, Peter? Just
think—water that is poisonous, whether you drink it or bathe in it!
And this we offer to the poor sick folk who come to us trustfully and
pay us at an exorbitant rate to be made well again!
Peter Stockmann. And your reasoning leads you to this conclusion, that
we must build a sewer to draw off the alleged impurities from Molledal
and must relay the water conduits.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes. Do you see any other way out of it? I don't.
Peter Stockmann. I made a pretext this morning to go and see the town
engineer, and, as if only half seriously, broached the subject of these
proposals as a thing we might perhaps have to take under consideration
some time later on.
Dr. Stockmann. Some time later on!
Peter Stockmann. He smiled at what he considered to be my extravagance,
naturally. Have you taken the trouble to consider what your proposed
alterations would cost? According to the information I obtained, the
expenses would probably mount up to fifteen or twenty thousand pounds.
Dr. Stockmann. Would it cost so much?
Peter Stockmann. Yes; and the worst part of it would be that the work
would take at least two years.
Dr. Stockmann. Two years? Two whole years?
Peter Stockmann. At least. And what are we to do with the Baths in the
meantime? Close them? Indeed we should be obliged to. And do you
suppose anyone would come near the place after it had got out that the
water was dangerous?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes but, Peter, that is what it is.
Peter Stockmann. And all this at this juncture—just as the Baths are
beginning to be known. There are other towns in the neighbourhood with
qualifications to attract visitors for bathing purposes. Don't you
suppose they would immediately strain every nerve to divert the entire
stream of strangers to themselves? Unquestionably they would; and then
where should we be? We should probably have to abandon the whole thing,
which has cost us so much money-and then you would have ruined your
native town.
Dr. Stockmann. I—should have ruined—!
Peter Stockmann. It is simply and solely through the Baths that the
town has before it any future worth mentioning. You know that just as
well as I.
Dr. Stockmann. But what do you think ought to be done, then?
Peter Stockmann. Your report has not convinced me that the condition of
the water at the Baths is as bad as you represent it to be.
Dr. Stockmann. I tell you it is even worse!—or at all events it will
be in summer, when the warm weather comes.
Peter Stockmann. As I said, I believe you exaggerate the matter
considerably. A capable physician ought to know what measures to
take—he ought to be capable of preventing injurious influences or of
remedying them if they become obviously persistent.
Dr. Stockmann. Well? What more?
Peter Stockmann. The water supply for the Baths is now an established
fact, and in consequence must be treated as such. But probably the
Committee, at its discretion, will not be disinclined to consider the
question of how far it might be possible to introduce certain
improvements consistently with a reasonable expenditure.
Dr. Stockmann. And do you suppose that I will have anything to do with
such a piece of trickery as that?
Peter Stockmann. Trickery!!
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, it would be a trick—a fraud, a lie, a downright
crime towards the public, towards the whole community!
Peter Stockmann. I have not, as I remarked before, been able to
convince myself that there is actually any imminent danger.
Dr. Stockmann. You have! It is impossible that you should not be
convinced. I know I have represented the facts absolutely truthfully
and fairly. And you know it very well, Peter, only you won't
acknowledge it. It was owing to your action that both the Baths and the
water conduits were built where they are; and that is what you won't
acknowledge—that damnable blunder of yours. Pooh!—do you suppose I
don't see through you?
Peter Stockmann. And even if that were true? If I perhaps guard my
reputation somewhat anxiously, it is in the interests of the town.
Without moral authority I am powerless to direct public affairs as
seems, to my judgment, to be best for the common good. And on that
account—and for various other reasons too—it appears to me to be a
matter of importance that your report should not be delivered to the
Committee. In the interests of the public, you must withhold it. Then,
later on, I will raise the question and we will do our best, privately;
but nothing of this unfortunate affair not a single word of it—must
come to the ears of the public.
Dr. Stockmann. I am afraid you will not be able to prevent that now, my
dear Peter.
Peter Stockmann. It must and shall be prevented.
Dr. Stockmann. It is no use, I tell you. There are too many people that
know about it.
Peter Stockmann. That know about it? Who? Surely you don't mean those
fellows on the "People's Messenger"?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, they know. The liberal-minded independent press is
going to see that you do your duty.
Peter Stockmann (after a short pause). You are an extraordinarily
independent man, Thomas. Have you given no thought to the consequences
this may have for yourself?
Dr. Stockmann. Consequences?—for me?
Peter Stockmann. For you and yours, yes.
Dr. Stockmann. What the deuce do you mean?
Peter Stockmann. I believe I have always behaved in a brotherly way to
you—haven't I always been ready to oblige or to help you?
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, you have, and I am grateful to you for it.
Peter Stockmann. There is no need. Indeed, to some extent I was forced
to do so—for my own sake. I always hoped that, if I helped to improve
your financial position, I should be able to keep some check on you.
Dr. Stockmann. What! Then it was only for your own sake—!
Peter Stockmann. Up to a certain point, yes. It is painful for a man in
an official position to have his nearest relative compromising himself
time after time.
Dr. Stockmann. And do you consider that I do that?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, unfortunately, you do, without even being aware
of it. You have a restless, pugnacious, rebellious disposition. And
then there is that disastrous propensity of yours to want to write
about every sort of possible and impossible thing. The moment an idea
comes into your head, you must needs go and write a newspaper article
or a whole pamphlet about it.
Dr. Stockmann. Well, but is it not the duty of a citizen to let the
public share in any new ideas he may have?
Peter Stockmann. Oh, the public doesn't require any new ideas. The
public is best served by the good, old established ideas it already has.
Dr. Stockmann. And that is your honest opinion?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, and for once I must talk frankly to you. Hitherto
I have tried to avoid doing so, because I know how irritable you are;
but now I must tell you the truth, Thomas. You have no conception what
an amount of harm you do yourself by your impetuosity. You complain of
the authorities, you even complain of the government—you are always
pulling them to pieces; you insist that you have been neglected and
persecuted. But what else can such a cantankerous man as you expect?
Dr. Stockmann. What next! Cantankerous, am I?
Peter Stockmann. Yes, Thomas, you are an extremely cantankerous man to
work with—I know that to my cost. You disregard everything that you
ought to have consideration for. You seem completely to forget that it
is me you have to thank for your appointment here as medical officer to
the Baths.
Dr. Stockmann. I was entitled to it as a matter of course!—I and
nobody else! I was the first person to see that the town could be made
into a flourishing watering-place, and I was the only one who saw it at
that time. I had to fight single-handed in support of the idea for many
years; and I wrote and wrote—
Peter Stockmann. Undoubtedly. But things were not ripe for the scheme
then—though, of course, you could not judge of that in your
out-of-the-way corner up north. But as soon as the opportune moment
came I—and the others—took the matter into our hands.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, and made this mess of all my beautiful plan. It is
pretty obvious now what clever fellows you were!
Peter Stockmann. To my mind the whole thing only seems to mean that you
are seeking another outlet for your combativeness. You want to pick a
quarrel with your superiors—an old habit of yours. You cannot put up
with any authority over you. You look askance at anyone who occupies a
superior official position; you regard him as a personal enemy, and
then any stick is good enough to beat him with. But now I have called
your attention to the fact that the town's interests are at stake—and,
incidentally, my own too. And therefore, I must tell you, Thomas, that
you will find me inexorable with regard to what I am about to require
you to do.
Dr. Stockmann. And what is that?
Peter Stockmann. As you have been so indiscreet as to speak of this
delicate matter to outsiders, despite the fact that you ought to have
treated it as entirely official and confidential, it is obviously
impossible to hush it up now. All sorts of rumours will get about
directly, and everybody who has a grudge against us will take care to
embellish these rumours. So it will be necessary for you to refute them
publicly.
Dr. Stockmann. I! How? I don't understand.
Peter Stockmann. What we shall expect is that, after making further
investigations, you will come to the conclusion that the matter is not
by any means as dangerous or as critical as you imagined in the first
instance.
Dr. Stockmann. Oho!—so that is what you expect!
Peter Stockmann. And, what is more, we shall expect you to make public
profession of your confidence in the Committee and in their readiness
to consider fully and conscientiously what steps may be necessary to
remedy any possible defects.
Dr. Stockmann. But you will never be able to do that by patching and
tinkering at it—never! Take my word for it, Peter; I mean what I say,
as deliberately and emphatically as possible.
Peter Stockmann. As an officer under the Committee, you have no right
to any individual opinion.
Dr. Stockmann (amazed). No right?
Peter Stockmann. In your official capacity, no. As a private person, it
is quite another matter. But as a subordinate member of the staff of
the Baths, you have no right to express any opinion which runs contrary
to that of your superiors.
Dr. Stockmann. This is too much! I, a doctor, a man of science, have no
right to—!
Peter Stockmann. The matter in hand is not simply a scientific one. It
is a complicated matter, and has its economic as well as its technical
side.
Dr. Stockmann. I don't care what it is! I intend to be free to express
my opinion on any subject under the sun.
Peter Stockmann. As you please—but not on any subject concerning the
Baths. That we forbid.
Dr. Stockmann (shouting). You forbid—! You! A pack of—
Peter Stockmann. I forbid it—I, your chief; and if I forbid it, you
have to obey.
Dr. Stockmann (controlling himself). Peter—if you were not my brother—
Petra (throwing open the door). Father, you shan't stand this!
Mrs. Stockmann (coming in after her). Petra, Petra!
Peter Stockmann. Oh, so you have been eavesdropping.
Mrs. Stockmann. You were talking so loud, we couldn't help it!
Petra. Yes, I was listening.
Peter Stockmann. Well, after all, I am very glad—
Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). You were saying something about
forbidding and obeying?
Peter Stockmann. You obliged me to take that tone with you.
Dr. Stockmann. And so I am to give myself the lie, publicly?
Peter Stockmann. We consider it absolutely necessary that you should
make some such public statement as I have asked for.
Dr. Stockmann. And if I do not—obey?
Peter Stockmann. Then we shall publish a statement ourselves to
reassure the public.
Dr. Stockmann. Very well; but in that case I shall use my pen against
you. I stick to what I have said; I will show that I am right and that
you are wrong. And what will you do then?
Peter Stockmann. Then I shall not be able to prevent your being
dismissed.
Dr. Stockmann. What—?
Petra. Father—dismissed!
Mrs. Stockmann. Dismissed!
Peter Stockmann. Dismissed from the staff of the Baths. I shall be
obliged to propose that you shall immediately be given notice, and
shall not be allowed any further participation in the Baths' affairs.
Dr. Stockmann. You would dare to do that!
Peter Stockmann. It is you that are playing the daring game.
Petra. Uncle, that is a shameful way to treat a man like father!
Mrs. Stockmann. Do hold your tongue, Petra!
Peter Stockmann (looking at PETRA). Oh, so we volunteer our opinions
already, do we? Of course. (To MRS. STOCKMANN.) Katherine, I imagine
you are the most sensible person in this house. Use any influence you
may have over your husband, and make him see what this will entail for
his family as well as—
Dr. Stockmann. My family is my own concern and nobody else's!
Peter Stockmann. —for his own family, as I was saying, as well as for
the town he lives in.
Dr. Stockmann. It is I who have the real good of the town at heart! I
want to lay bare the defects that sooner or later must come to the
light of day. I will show whether I love my native town.
Peter Stockmann. You, who in your blind obstinacy want to cut off the
most important source of the town's welfare?
Dr. Stockmann. The source is poisoned, man! Are you mad? We are making
our living by retailing filth and corruption! The whole of our
flourishing municipal life derives its sustenance from a lie!
Peter Stockmann. All imagination—or something even worse. The man who
can throw out such offensive insinuations about his native town must be
an enemy to our community.
Dr. Stockmann (going up to him). Do you dare to—!
Mrs. Stockmann (throwing herself between them). Thomas!
Petra (catching her father by the arm). Don't lose your temper, father!
Peter Stockmann. I will not expose myself to violence. Now you have had
a warning; so reflect on what you owe to yourself and your family.
Goodbye. (Goes out.)
Dr. Stockmann (walking up and down). Am I to put up with such treatment
as this? In my own house, Katherine! What do you think of that!
Mrs. Stockmann. Indeed it is both shameful and absurd, Thomas—
Petra. If only I could give uncle a piece of my mind—
Dr. Stockmann. It is my own fault. I ought to have flown out at him
long ago!—shown my teeth!—bitten! To hear him call me an enemy to our
community! Me! I shall not take that lying down, upon my soul!
Mrs. Stockmann. But, dear Thomas, your brother has power on his side.
Dr. Stockmann. Yes, but I have right on mine, I tell you.
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh yes, right—right. What is the use of having right
on your side if you have not got might?
Petra. Oh, mother!—how can you say such a thing!
Dr. Stockmann. Do you imagine that in a free country it is no use
having right on your side? You are absurd, Katherine. Besides, haven't
I got the liberal-minded, independent press to lead the way, and the
compact majority behind me? That is might enough, I should think!
Mrs. Stockmann. But, good heavens, Thomas, you don't mean to?
Dr. Stockmann. Don't mean to what?
Mrs. Stockmann. To set yourself up in opposition to your brother.
Dr. Stockmann. In God's name, what else do you suppose I should do but
take my stand on right and truth?
Petra. Yes, I was just going to say that.
Mrs. Stockmann. But it won't do you any earthly good. If they won't do
it, they won't.
Dr. Stockmann. Oho, Katherine! Just give me time, and you will see how
I will carry the war into their camp.
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, you carry the war into their camp, and you get
your dismissal—that is what you will do.
Dr. Stockmann. In any case I shall have done my duty towards the
public—towards the community, I, who am called its enemy!
Mrs. Stockmann. But towards your family, Thomas? Towards your own home!
Do you think that is doing your duty towards those you have to provide
for?
Petra. Ah, don't think always first of us, mother.
Mrs. Stockmann. Oh, it is easy for you to talk; you are able to shift
for yourself, if need be. But remember the boys, Thomas; and think a
little of yourself too, and of me—
Dr. Stockmann. I think you are out of your senses, Katherine! If I were
to be such a miserable coward as to go on my knees to Peter and his
damned crew, do you suppose I should ever know an hour's peace of mind
all my life afterwards?
Mrs. Stockmann. I don't know anything about that; but God preserve us
from the peace of mind we shall have, all the same, if you go on
defying him! You will find yourself again without the means of
subsistence, with no income to count upon. I should think we had had
enough of that in the old days. Remember that, Thomas; think what that
means.
Dr. Stockmann (collecting himself with a struggle and clenching his
fists). And this is what this slavery can bring upon a free, honourable
man! Isn't it horrible, Katherine?
Mrs. Stockmann. Yes, it is sinful to treat you so, it is perfectly
true. But, good heavens, one has to put up with so much injustice in
this world. There are the boys, Thomas! Look at them! What is to become
of them? Oh, no, no, you can never have the heart—. (EJLIF and MORTEN
have come in, while she was speaking, with their school books in their
hands.)
Dr. Stockmann. The boys— I (Recovers himself suddenly.) No, even if
the whole world goes to pieces, I will never bow my neck to this yokel
(Goes towards his room.)
Mrs. Stockmann (following him). Thomas—what are you going to do!
Dr. Stockmann (at his door). I mean to have the right to look my sons
in the face when they are grown men. (Goes into his room.)
Mrs. Stockmann (bursting into tears). God help us all!
Petra. Father is splendid! He will not give in.
(The boys look on in amazement; PETRA signs to them not to speak.) | Act Two begins the following morning in the same place. Kate gives Thomas a letter from Peter. He has returned the report and analysis, and Thomas says Peter is coming to see him at midday. Thomas says Peter will not be pleased that he made the discovery, but thinks he will be glad enough underneath. Kate asks him to be generous and says to let Peter share the credit with him. He says he supposes so, as long as things are put right. Morten Kiil appears and he says he will only come in if it is true. He then explains and asks if the story about the water supply is true. Petra told him about it and Thomas confirms it. Kiil suppresses a laugh when Thomas says how the news is a wonderful piece of luck. He asks why and Thomas says because he discovered it in time. Kiil asks about the 'small animals' that no one can see, and Thomas explains that these are minute organisms. Kiil says he will never persuade the Mayor to believe this. Kiil is still annoyed that he was thrown off the council and tells him to do what he can to make the Mayor and his 'pals' 'fall for it'. He adds that he will give PS5 to the poor if he does. He then reduces it and says he will give PS2 10 to the poor next Christmas. Hovstad then comes to the house and Kiil asks if he is in on it too, and Thomas says he is. Kiil leaves and Thomas laughs at how he does not believe what he has said about the water supply. The conversation continues and Hovstad says how Thomas has said that the pollution of the water 'is caused by various impurities in the soil'. Thomas agrees that it comes from the marsh and Hovstad says he thinks 'it's caused by a quite different sort of marsh': 'I'm thinking of the marsh in which the whole of our municipal life is rotting!' He explains that he thinks 'the affairs of this town have drifted into the hands of a pack of bureaucrats' and a handful of men have power and these are from 'the old families'. Thomas says that they are able men and Hovstad questions this. He then assures Thomas that The Herald will be taking the cause up and tells him he swore he would 'break up this ring of bigoted old fools' when he took over the paper. Thomas is more cautious and says how Hovstad has tried this before and nearly 'wrecked' the paper. He also says they owe 'a great debt of gratitude' to these men. Hovstad agrees but says 'as a journalist with democratic beliefs' he cannot let the 'opportunity slip'. He says the truth should come first, and Thomas says 'yes, of course' and then adds, 'but all the same-'. Hovstad says how he comes of 'humble stock' and knows the working classes need to be allowed 'some part in the direction of public affairs'. He sees this as his responsibility. Aslaksen then calls and tells Thomas that he will give his support for a new water supply. He says he is of the 'small middle-class' men and these form a 'solid majority' in the town. Thomas says how he does not see this as necessary as the matter is straightforward. Aslaksen says the local authorities are never eager to adopt new measures and says he thinks it might be a good idea to organise a little demonstration, which will be done in 'moderation' . He then says how important the matter of the water supply is and as the Chairman of the Householders' Association and a member of the Temperance Society he has some influence in the town. He also says he could call for a vote of thanks and Thomas thanks him. He offers Aslaksen a glass of sherry and then beer, and Aslaksen declines both. Aslaksen speaks of moderation again when Hovstad says he will give 'them' 'a good shake-up' in the newspaper. When Aslaksen leaves, Hovstad asks Thomas if he thinks it is time to put an end to 'all this dithering weakness and cowardice' . Hovstad says he demands more than this of a man and expects principles to be acted on confidently. He also says that 'worship of authority has got to be stamped out in this town' and the 'criminal blunder' must be told to everyone. Thomas agrees if he thinks it is for 'the common good' but wants to speak to his brother first. He says he may print his report if his brother refuses to take the matter up. He gives it to him and says it will not do any harm to read it anyway. Peter appears some time after Hovstad leaves and asks Thomas if it was necessary to make all these investigations behind his back. He then asks if he has taken the trouble to think about what the proposed alterations of building a sewer and relaying water pipes will cost. He continues and says it will be somewhere between PS40,000 and PS50,000 and will take two years. Thomas is surprised at both of these points and Peter also says how in the meantime they will have to close the Baths. He also says if this happens, the town will be ruined and it will be Thomas's fault. When Peter says he is not even convinced there is any imminent danger, Thomas argues that he does know but will not acknowledge it as it was through him that the Baths and pipes were built where they are. |
THE MAN WHO WAS RUNNING
In the early evening time Dr. Kemp was sitting in his study in the
belvedere on the hill overlooking Burdock. It was a pleasant little
room, with three windows--north, west, and south--and bookshelves
covered with books and scientific publications, and a broad
writing-table, and, under the north window, a microscope, glass
slips, minute instruments, some cultures, and scattered bottles of
reagents. Dr. Kemp's solar lamp was lit, albeit the sky was still
bright with the sunset light, and his blinds were up because there
was no offence of peering outsiders to require them pulled down.
Dr. Kemp was a tall and slender young man, with flaxen hair and a
moustache almost white, and the work he was upon would earn him, he
hoped, the fellowship of the Royal Society, so highly did he think
of it.
And his eye, presently wandering from his work, caught the sunset
blazing at the back of the hill that is over against his own. For a
minute perhaps he sat, pen in mouth, admiring the rich golden
colour above the crest, and then his attention was attracted by the
little figure of a man, inky black, running over the hill-brow
towards him. He was a shortish little man, and he wore a high hat,
and he was running so fast that his legs verily twinkled.
"Another of those fools," said Dr. Kemp. "Like that ass who ran
into me this morning round a corner, with the ''Visible Man
a-coming, sir!' I can't imagine what possesses people. One might
think we were in the thirteenth century."
He got up, went to the window, and stared at the dusky hillside, and
the dark little figure tearing down it. "He seems in a confounded
hurry," said Dr. Kemp, "but he doesn't seem to be getting on. If
his pockets were full of lead, he couldn't run heavier."
"Spurted, sir," said Dr. Kemp.
In another moment the higher of the villas that had clambered up the
hill from Burdock had occulted the running figure. He was visible
again for a moment, and again, and then again, three times between
the three detached houses that came next, and then the terrace hid
him.
"Asses!" said Dr. Kemp, swinging round on his heel and walking
back to his writing-table.
But those who saw the fugitive nearer, and perceived the abject
terror on his perspiring face, being themselves in the open roadway,
did not share in the doctor's contempt. By the man pounded, and as
he ran he chinked like a well-filled purse that is tossed to and
fro. He looked neither to the right nor the left, but his dilated
eyes stared straight downhill to where the lamps were being lit, and
the people were crowded in the street. And his ill-shaped mouth fell
apart, and a glairy foam lay on his lips, and his breath came hoarse
and noisy. All he passed stopped and began staring up the road and
down, and interrogating one another with an inkling of discomfort
for the reason of his haste.
And then presently, far up the hill, a dog playing in the road
yelped and ran under a gate, and as they still wondered
something--a wind--a pad, pad, pad,--a sound like a panting breathing,
rushed by.
People screamed. People sprang off the pavement: It passed in
shouts, it passed by instinct down the hill. They were shouting in
the street before Marvel was halfway there. They were bolting into
houses and slamming the doors behind them, with the news. He heard
it and made one last desperate spurt. Fear came striding by, rushed
ahead of him, and in a moment had seized the town.
"The Invisible Man is coming! The Invisible Man!"
IN THE "JOLLY CRICKETERS"
The "Jolly Cricketers" is just at the bottom of the hill, where the
tram-lines begin. The barman leant his fat red arms on the counter
and talked of horses with an anaemic cabman, while a black-bearded
man in grey snapped up biscuit and cheese, drank Burton, and
conversed in American with a policeman off duty.
"What's the shouting about!" said the anaemic cabman, going off at a
tangent, trying to see up the hill over the dirty yellow blind in
the low window of the inn. Somebody ran by outside. "Fire, perhaps,"
said the barman.
Footsteps approached, running heavily, the door was pushed open
violently, and Marvel, weeping and dishevelled, his hat gone, the
neck of his coat torn open, rushed in, made a convulsive turn, and
attempted to shut the door. It was held half open by a strap.
"Coming!" he bawled, his voice shrieking with terror. "He's coming.
The 'Visible Man! After me! For Gawd's sake! 'Elp! 'Elp! 'Elp!"
"Shut the doors," said the policeman. "Who's coming? What's the
row?" He went to the door, released the strap, and it slammed. The
American closed the other door.
"Lemme go inside," said Marvel, staggering and weeping, but still
clutching the books. "Lemme go inside. Lock me in--somewhere. I
tell you he's after me. I give him the slip. He said he'd kill me
and he will."
"_You're_ safe," said the man with the black beard. "The door's shut.
What's it all about?"
"Lemme go inside," said Marvel, and shrieked aloud as a blow
suddenly made the fastened door shiver and was followed by a hurried
rapping and a shouting outside. "Hullo," cried the policeman, "who's
there?" Mr. Marvel began to make frantic dives at panels that looked
like doors. "He'll kill me--he's got a knife or something. For
Gawd's sake--!"
"Here you are," said the barman. "Come in here." And he held up the
flap of the bar.
Mr. Marvel rushed behind the bar as the summons outside was
repeated. "Don't open the door," he screamed. "_Please_ don't open
the door. _Where_ shall I hide?"
"This, this Invisible Man, then?" asked the man with the black
beard, with one hand behind him. "I guess it's about time we saw
him."
The window of the inn was suddenly smashed in, and there was a
screaming and running to and fro in the street. The policeman had
been standing on the settee staring out, craning to see who was at
the door. He got down with raised eyebrows. "It's that," he said.
The barman stood in front of the bar-parlour door which was now
locked on Mr. Marvel, stared at the smashed window, and came round
to the two other men.
Everything was suddenly quiet. "I wish I had my truncheon," said
the policeman, going irresolutely to the door. "Once we open, in he
comes. There's no stopping him."
"Don't you be in too much hurry about that door," said the anaemic
cabman, anxiously.
"Draw the bolts," said the man with the black beard, "and if he
comes--" He showed a revolver in his hand.
"That won't do," said the policeman; "that's murder."
"I know what country I'm in," said the man with the beard. "I'm
going to let off at his legs. Draw the bolts."
"Not with that blinking thing going off behind me," said the
barman, craning over the blind.
"Very well," said the man with the black beard, and stooping down,
revolver ready, drew them himself. Barman, cabman, and policeman
faced about.
"Come in," said the bearded man in an undertone, standing back and
facing the unbolted doors with his pistol behind him. No one came
in, the door remained closed. Five minutes afterwards when a second
cabman pushed his head in cautiously, they were still waiting, and
an anxious face peered out of the bar-parlour and supplied
information. "Are all the doors of the house shut?" asked Marvel.
"He's going round--prowling round. He's as artful as the devil."
"Good Lord!" said the burly barman. "There's the back! Just watch
them doors! I say--!" He looked about him helplessly. The
bar-parlour door slammed and they heard the key turn. "There's
the yard door and the private door. The yard door--"
He rushed out of the bar.
In a minute he reappeared with a carving-knife in his hand. "The
yard door was open!" he said, and his fat underlip dropped. "He may
be in the house now!" said the first cabman.
"He's not in the kitchen," said the barman. "There's two women
there, and I've stabbed every inch of it with this little beef
slicer. And they don't think he's come in. They haven't noticed--"
"Have you fastened it?" asked the first cabman.
"I'm out of frocks," said the barman.
The man with the beard replaced his revolver. And even as he did so
the flap of the bar was shut down and the bolt clicked, and then
with a tremendous thud the catch of the door snapped and the
bar-parlour door burst open. They heard Marvel squeal like a caught
leveret, and forthwith they were clambering over the bar to his
rescue. The bearded man's revolver cracked and the looking-glass at
the back of the parlour starred and came smashing and tinkling down.
As the barman entered the room he saw Marvel, curiously crumpled up
and struggling against the door that led to the yard and kitchen.
The door flew open while the barman hesitated, and Marvel was
dragged into the kitchen. There was a scream and a clatter of pans.
Marvel, head down, and lugging back obstinately, was forced to the
kitchen door, and the bolts were drawn.
Then the policeman, who had been trying to pass the barman, rushed
in, followed by one of the cabmen, gripped the wrist of the
invisible hand that collared Marvel, was hit in the face and went
reeling back. The door opened, and Marvel made a frantic effort to
obtain a lodgment behind it. Then the cabman collared something.
"I got him," said the cabman. The barman's red hands came clawing
at the unseen. "Here he is!" said the barman.
Mr. Marvel, released, suddenly dropped to the ground and made an
attempt to crawl behind the legs of the fighting men. The struggle
blundered round the edge of the door. The voice of the Invisible
Man was heard for the first time, yelling out sharply, as the
policeman trod on his foot. Then he cried out passionately and
his fists flew round like flails. The cabman suddenly whooped
and doubled up, kicked under the diaphragm. The door into the
bar-parlour from the kitchen slammed and covered Mr. Marvel's
retreat. The men in the kitchen found themselves clutching at and
struggling with empty air.
"Where's he gone?" cried the man with the beard. "Out?"
"This way," said the policeman, stepping into the yard and
stopping.
A piece of tile whizzed by his head and smashed among the crockery
on the kitchen table.
"I'll show him," shouted the man with the black beard, and suddenly
a steel barrel shone over the policeman's shoulder, and five
bullets had followed one another into the twilight whence the
missile had come. As he fired, the man with the beard moved his
hand in a horizontal curve, so that his shots radiated out into the
narrow yard like spokes from a wheel.
A silence followed. "Five cartridges," said the man with the black
beard. "That's the best of all. Four aces and a joker. Get a
lantern, someone, and come and feel about for his body."
DR. KEMP'S VISITOR
Dr. Kemp had continued writing in his study until the shots
aroused him. Crack, crack, crack, they came one after the other.
"Hullo!" said Dr. Kemp, putting his pen into his mouth again and
listening. "Who's letting off revolvers in Burdock? What are the
asses at now?"
He went to the south window, threw it up, and leaning out stared
down on the network of windows, beaded gas-lamps and shops, with its
black interstices of roof and yard that made up the town at night.
"Looks like a crowd down the hill," he said, "by 'The Cricketers,'"
and remained watching. Thence his eyes wandered over the town to far
away where the ships' lights shone, and the pier glowed--a little
illuminated, facetted pavilion like a gem of yellow light. The moon
in its first quarter hung over the westward hill, and the stars were
clear and almost tropically bright.
After five minutes, during which his mind had travelled into a
remote speculation of social conditions of the future, and lost
itself at last over the time dimension, Dr. Kemp roused himself
with a sigh, pulled down the window again, and returned to his
writing desk.
It must have been about an hour after this that the front-door bell
rang. He had been writing slackly, and with intervals of
abstraction, since the shots. He sat listening. He heard the servant
answer the door, and waited for her feet on the staircase, but she
did not come. "Wonder what that was," said Dr. Kemp.
He tried to resume his work, failed, got up, went downstairs from
his study to the landing, rang, and called over the balustrade to
the housemaid as she appeared in the hall below. "Was that a
letter?" he asked.
"Only a runaway ring, sir," she answered.
"I'm restless to-night," he said to himself. He went back to his
study, and this time attacked his work resolutely. In a little
while he was hard at work again, and the only sounds in the room
were the ticking of the clock and the subdued shrillness of his
quill, hurrying in the very centre of the circle of light his
lampshade threw on his table.
It was two o'clock before Dr. Kemp had finished his work for the
night. He rose, yawned, and went downstairs to bed. He had already
removed his coat and vest, when he noticed that he was thirsty. He
took a candle and went down to the dining-room in search of a
syphon and whiskey.
Dr. Kemp's scientific pursuits have made him a very observant
man, and as he recrossed the hall, he noticed a dark spot on the
linoleum near the mat at the foot of the stairs. He went on
upstairs, and then it suddenly occurred to him to ask himself what
the spot on the linoleum might be. Apparently some subconscious
element was at work. At any rate, he turned with his burden, went
back to the hall, put down the syphon and whiskey, and bending
down, touched the spot. Without any great surprise he found it had
the stickiness and colour of drying blood.
He took up his burden again, and returned upstairs, looking about
him and trying to account for the blood-spot. On the landing he saw
something and stopped astonished. The door-handle of his own room
was blood-stained.
He looked at his own hand. It was quite clean, and then he
remembered that the door of his room had been open when he came down
from his study, and that consequently he had not touched the handle
at all. He went straight into his room, his face quite calm--perhaps
a trifle more resolute than usual. His glance, wandering
inquisitively, fell on the bed. On the counterpane was a mess of
blood, and the sheet had been torn. He had not noticed this before
because he had walked straight to the dressing-table. On the further
side the bedclothes were depressed as if someone had been recently
sitting there.
Then he had an odd impression that he had heard a low voice say,
"Good Heavens!--Kemp!" But Dr. Kemp was no believer in voices.
He stood staring at the tumbled sheets. Was that really a voice? He
looked about again, but noticed nothing further than the disordered
and blood-stained bed. Then he distinctly heard a movement across
the room, near the wash-hand stand. All men, however highly
educated, retain some superstitious inklings. The feeling that is
called "eerie" came upon him. He closed the door of the room, came
forward to the dressing-table, and put down his burdens. Suddenly,
with a start, he perceived a coiled and blood-stained bandage of
linen rag hanging in mid-air, between him and the wash-hand stand.
He stared at this in amazement. It was an empty bandage, a bandage
properly tied but quite empty. He would have advanced to grasp it,
but a touch arrested him, and a voice speaking quite close to him.
"Kemp!" said the Voice.
"Eh?" said Kemp, with his mouth open.
"Keep your nerve," said the Voice. "I'm an Invisible Man."
Kemp made no answer for a space, simply stared at the bandage.
"Invisible Man," he said.
"I am an Invisible Man," repeated the Voice.
The story he had been active to ridicule only that morning rushed
through Kemp's brain. He does not appear to have been either very
much frightened or very greatly surprised at the moment.
Realisation came later.
"I thought it was all a lie," he said. The thought uppermost in his
mind was the reiterated arguments of the morning. "Have you a
bandage on?" he asked.
"Yes," said the Invisible Man.
"Oh!" said Kemp, and then roused himself. "I say!" he said. "But
this is nonsense. It's some trick." He stepped forward suddenly,
and his hand, extended towards the bandage, met invisible fingers.
He recoiled at the touch and his colour changed.
"Keep steady, Kemp, for God's sake! I want help badly. Stop!"
The hand gripped his arm. He struck at it.
"Kemp!" cried the Voice. "Kemp! Keep steady!" and the grip
tightened.
A frantic desire to free himself took possession of Kemp. The hand
of the bandaged arm gripped his shoulder, and he was suddenly
tripped and flung backwards upon the bed. He opened his mouth to
shout, and the corner of the sheet was thrust between his teeth.
The Invisible Man had him down grimly, but his arms were free and
he struck and tried to kick savagely.
"Listen to reason, will you?" said the Invisible Man, sticking to
him in spite of a pounding in the ribs. "By Heaven! you'll madden
me in a minute!
"Lie still, you fool!" bawled the Invisible Man in Kemp's ear.
Kemp struggled for another moment and then lay still.
"If you shout, I'll smash your face," said the Invisible Man,
relieving his mouth.
"I'm an Invisible Man. It's no foolishness, and no magic. I really
am an Invisible Man. And I want your help. I don't want to hurt
you, but if you behave like a frantic rustic, I must. Don't you
remember me, Kemp? Griffin, of University College?"
"Let me get up," said Kemp. "I'll stop where I am. And let me sit
quiet for a minute."
He sat up and felt his neck.
"I am Griffin, of University College, and I have made myself
invisible. I am just an ordinary man--a man you have known--made
invisible."
"Griffin?" said Kemp.
"Griffin," answered the Voice. A younger student than you were,
almost an albino, six feet high, and broad, with a pink and white
face and red eyes, who won the medal for chemistry."
"I am confused," said Kemp. "My brain is rioting. What has this to
do with Griffin?"
"I _am_ Griffin."
Kemp thought. "It's horrible," he said. "But what devilry must
happen to make a man invisible?"
"It's no devilry. It's a process, sane and intelligible enough--"
"It's horrible!" said Kemp. "How on earth--?"
"It's horrible enough. But I'm wounded and in pain, and tired ...
Great God! Kemp, you are a man. Take it steady. Give me some food
and drink, and let me sit down here."
Kemp stared at the bandage as it moved across the room, then saw a
basket chair dragged across the floor and come to rest near the bed.
It creaked, and the seat was depressed the quarter of an inch or so.
He rubbed his eyes and felt his neck again. "This beats ghosts," he
said, and laughed stupidly.
"That's better. Thank Heaven, you're getting sensible!"
"Or silly," said Kemp, and knuckled his eyes.
"Give me some whiskey. I'm near dead."
"It didn't feel so. Where are you? If I get up shall I run into you?
_There_! all right. Whiskey? Here. Where shall I give it to you?"
The chair creaked and Kemp felt the glass drawn away from him. He
let go by an effort; his instinct was all against it. It came to
rest poised twenty inches above the front edge of the seat of the
chair. He stared at it in infinite perplexity. "This is--this
must be--hypnotism. You have suggested you are invisible."
"Nonsense," said the Voice.
"It's frantic."
"Listen to me."
"I demonstrated conclusively this morning," began Kemp, "that
invisibility--"
"Never mind what you've demonstrated!--I'm starving," said the
Voice, "and the night is chilly to a man without clothes."
"Food?" said Kemp.
The tumbler of whiskey tilted itself. "Yes," said the Invisible Man
rapping it down. "Have you a dressing-gown?"
Kemp made some exclamation in an undertone. He walked to a wardrobe
and produced a robe of dingy scarlet. "This do?" he asked. It was
taken from him. It hung limp for a moment in mid-air, fluttered
weirdly, stood full and decorous buttoning itself, and sat down in
his chair. "Drawers, socks, slippers would be a comfort," said the
Unseen, curtly. "And food."
"Anything. But this is the insanest thing I ever was in, in my
life!"
He turned out his drawers for the articles, and then went downstairs
to ransack his larder. He came back with some cold cutlets and
bread, pulled up a light table, and placed them before his guest.
"Never mind knives," said his visitor, and a cutlet hung in mid-air,
with a sound of gnawing.
"Invisible!" said Kemp, and sat down on a bedroom chair.
"I always like to get something about me before I eat," said the
Invisible Man, with a full mouth, eating greedily. "Queer fancy!"
"I suppose that wrist is all right," said Kemp.
"Trust me," said the Invisible Man.
"Of all the strange and wonderful--"
"Exactly. But it's odd I should blunder into _your_ house to get my
bandaging. My first stroke of luck! Anyhow I meant to sleep in this
house to-night. You must stand that! It's a filthy nuisance, my
blood showing, isn't it? Quite a clot over there. Gets visible as
it coagulates, I see. It's only the living tissue I've changed, and
only for as long as I'm alive.... I've been in the house three hours."
"But how's it done?" began Kemp, in a tone of exasperation.
"Confound it! The whole business--it's unreasonable from
beginning to end."
"Quite reasonable," said the Invisible Man. "Perfectly reasonable."
He reached over and secured the whiskey bottle. Kemp stared at the
devouring dressing gown. A ray of candle-light penetrating a torn
patch in the right shoulder, made a triangle of light under the
left ribs. "What were the shots?" he asked. "How did the shooting
begin?"
"There was a real fool of a man--a sort of confederate of
mine--curse him!--who tried to steal my money. _Has_ done so."
"Is _he_ invisible too?"
"No."
"Well?"
"Can't I have some more to eat before I tell you all that? I'm
hungry--in pain. And you want me to tell stories!"
Kemp got up. "_You_ didn't do any shooting?" he asked.
"Not me," said his visitor. "Some fool I'd never seen fired at
random. A lot of them got scared. They all got scared at me. Curse
them!--I say--I want more to eat than this, Kemp."
"I'll see what there is to eat downstairs," said Kemp. "Not much,
I'm afraid."
After he had done eating, and he made a heavy meal, the Invisible
Man demanded a cigar. He bit the end savagely before Kemp could
find a knife, and cursed when the outer leaf loosened. It was
strange to see him smoking; his mouth, and throat, pharynx and
nares, became visible as a sort of whirling smoke cast.
"This blessed gift of smoking!" he said, and puffed vigorously.
"I'm lucky to have fallen upon you, Kemp. You must help me. Fancy
tumbling on you just now! I'm in a devilish scrape--I've been mad,
I think. The things I have been through! But we will do things yet.
Let me tell you--"
He helped himself to more whiskey and soda. Kemp got up, looked
about him, and fetched a glass from his spare room. "It's wild--but
I suppose I may drink."
"You haven't changed much, Kemp, these dozen years. You fair men
don't. Cool and methodical--after the first collapse. I must tell
you. We will work together!"
"But how was it all done?" said Kemp, "and how did you get like
this?"
"For God's sake, let me smoke in peace for a little while! And then
I will begin to tell you."
But the story was not told that night. The Invisible Man's wrist
was growing painful; he was feverish, exhausted, and his mind came
round to brood upon his chase down the hill and the struggle about
the inn. He spoke in fragments of Marvel, he smoked faster, his
voice grew angry. Kemp tried to gather what he could.
"He was afraid of me, I could see that he was afraid of me," said
the Invisible Man many times over. "He meant to give me the slip--he
was always casting about! What a fool I was!
"The cur!
"I should have killed him!"
"Where did you get the money?" asked Kemp, abruptly.
The Invisible Man was silent for a space. "I can't tell you
to-night," he said.
He groaned suddenly and leant forward, supporting his invisible
head on invisible hands. "Kemp," he said, "I've had no sleep for
near three days, except a couple of dozes of an hour or so. I
must sleep soon."
"Well, have my room--have this room."
"But how can I sleep? If I sleep--he will get away. Ugh! What
does it matter?"
"What's the shot wound?" asked Kemp, abruptly.
"Nothing--scratch and blood. Oh, God! How I want sleep!"
"Why not?"
The Invisible Man appeared to be regarding Kemp. "Because I've a
particular objection to being caught by my fellow-men," he said
slowly.
Kemp started.
"Fool that I am!" said the Invisible Man, striking the table
smartly. "I've put the idea into your head." | At the beginning of this chapter, the protagonist is sleeping and is awakened by a terrible sound that is very harsh to his ears. Someone is knocking at a pipe somewhere close. The protagonist gets up and races across the room, where he notices near the door for the first time a coin-bank that is shaped like a caricature of a black man with grinning lips and large eyes. When a coin is placed in the man's hand and a lever pressed at the back, the coin will be propelled into the grinning mouth. Enraged, the protagonist breaks the bank, and Mary comes to his door to find out what the commotion is about. He hides his act from Mary and places the shards of the broken bank in his briefcase. He also pays her $100 and attributes his new found wealth to having played the numbers . . The protagonist leaves Mary's for the last time and once he is far enough away from her home, he attempts several times to discard the broken bank, but is unable to because people nearby thwart his plans. A woman stops him from putting it in her trash can, and when he leaves it in the snow at an intersection, a man chases after him with it, thinking he must have accidentally dropped it. One person even accuses him of attempting a "pigeon drop" , so he has to keep the bank. He shops for a suit and arrives at the apartment that the Brotherhood selected for him. The apartment is large and filled with amenities. He settles in and begins to think about the night's rally that he will be attending. . Chapter Sixteen . The protagonist meets with Brother Jack and others to go to the Harlem Rally. Most everyone is quiet and reflective and the protagonist has his own concerns about whether or not his speech will be good. In the midst of the situation, he is skeptical of Jack and others; however, he prepares himself to go in but is blinded by the spotlight. He crashes into a man in front of him as they enter. The protagonist delivers his speech in the same spirit as the eviction speech; however, Jack cautions him against being too revealing to the audience. Ultimately, the crowd responds well and Jack and members of the brotherhood feel that this energy should be organized. One brother, however, doesn't like the speech and feels it was hysterical and politically irresponsible. Another man, Brother Wrestrum, agrees and they convince the other members that the protagonist is in need of training. He is ordered to go through approximately three months of training with Brother Hambro before he can become a leader. In spite of this, the protagonist's feelings are not deadened by the responses. He feels renewed and starts to see many of his life lessons come together and is hopeful that one day his voice will be heard. He is eager to begin study with Brother Hambro in order to move toward this. . Chapter Seventeen . Four months have passed and the protagonist meets with Jack who informs him that he will be the chief spokesman of the Harlem District. Jack also informs the protagonist that even though his studies with Hambro are progressing well, he should master the material and not let it master him. He and the protagonist go to the Harlem office and Jack introduces the protagonist to Brother Tarp, an elderly black man with the organization. . Once he is settled there, the protagonist meets with the Harlem committee. Everyone is present except Tod Clifton, who eventually shows up late. He explains that he has been in a row with a group of black nationalists, Ras the Exhorter and his affiliates. The protagonist befriends Clifton and they adopt Ras's method of rallying the people by placing a ladder on the street and speaking from there. When they attempt this, Ras is angered and confronts them. Clifton and the protagonist discuss the encounter and resolve to continue their work. The next day, Brother Tarp gives the protagonist a picture of Frederick Douglass. The protagonist is slowly gaining recognition in the community and even organizes a drill team called "The People's Hot Foot Squad. " Things are moving along considerably well. . At the end of the chapter, the protagonist is examining his life full circle and has fully adopted the Brotherhood's beliefs on discipline and the ability of science to control events. . |
Scene III.
Leonato's orchard.
[Enter Benedick alone.]
Bene.
Boy!
[Enter Boy.]
Boy.
Signior?
Bene.
In my chamber window lies a book. Bring it hither to me in he
orchard.
Boy.
I am here already, sir.
Bene.
I know that, but I would have thee hence and here again.
(Exit Boy.) I do much wonder that one man, seeing how much
another man is a fool when he dedicates his behaviours to love,
will, after he hath laugh'd at such shallow follies in others,
become the argument of his own scorn by falling in love; and such
a man is Claudio. I have known when there was no music with him
but the drum and the fife; and now had he rather hear the tabor
and the pipe. I have known when he would have walk'd ten mile
afoot to see a good armour; and now will he lie ten nights awake
carving the fashion of a new doublet. He was wont to speak plain
and to the purpose, like an honest man and a soldier; and now is
he turn'd orthography; his words are a very fantastical
banquet--just so many strange dishes. May I be so converted and
see with these eyes? I cannot tell; I think not. I will not be
sworn but love may transform me to an oyster; but I'll take my
oath on it, till he have made an oyster of me he shall never make
me such a fool. One woman is fair, yet I am well; another is
wise, yet I am well; another virtuous, yet I am well; but till
all graces be in one woman, one woman shall not come in my grace.
Rich she
shall be, that's certain; wise, or I'll none; virtuous, or I'll
never cheapen her; fair, or I'll never look on her; mild, or come
not near me; noble, or not I for an angel; of good discourse, an
excellent musician, and her hair shall be of what colour it
please God. Ha, the Prince and Monsieur Love! I will hide me in
the arbour. [Hides.]
[Enter Don Pedro, Leonato, Claudio.]
[Music within.]
Pedro.
Come, shall we hear this music?
Claud.
Yea, my good lord. How still the evening is,
As hush'd on purpose to grace harmony!
Pedro.
See you where Benedick hath hid himself?
Claud.
O, very well, my lord. The music ended,
We'll fit the kid-fox with a pennyworth.
[Enter Balthasar with Music.]
Pedro.
Come, Balthasar, we'll hear that song again.
Balth.
O, good my lord, tax not so bad a voice
To slander music any more than once.
Pedro.
It is the witness still of excellency
To put a strange face on his own perfection.
I pray thee sing, and let me woo no more.
Balth.
Because you talk of wooing, I will sing,
Since many a wooer doth commence his suit
To her he thinks not worthy, yet he wooes,
Yet will he swear he loves.
Pedro.
Nay, pray thee come;
Or if thou wilt hold longer argument,
Do it in notes.
Balth.
Note this before my notes:
There's not a note of mine that's worth the noting.
Pedro.
Why, these are very crotchets that he speaks!
Note notes, forsooth, and nothing! [Music.]
Bene.
[aside] Now divine air! Now is his soul ravish'd! Is it not
strange that sheep's guts should hale souls out of men's bodies?
Well, a horn for my money, when all's done.
[Balthasar sings.]
The Song.
Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more!
Men were deceivers ever,
One foot in sea, and one on shore;
To one thing constant never.
Then sigh not so,
But let them go,
And be you blithe and bonny,
Converting all your sounds of woe
Into Hey nonny, nonny.
Sing no more ditties, sing no moe,
Of dumps so dull and heavy!
The fraud of men was ever so,
Since summer first was leavy.
Then sigh not so, &c.
Pedro.
By my troth, a good song.
Balth.
And an ill singer, my lord.
Pedro.
Ha, no, no, faith! Thou sing'st well enough for a shift.
Bene.
[aside] An he had been a dog that should have howl'd thus, they
would have hang'd him; and I pray God his bad voice bode no
mischief. I had as live have heard the night raven, come what
plague could have come after it.
Pedro.
Yea, marry. Dost thou hear, Balthasar? I pray thee get us some
excellent music; for to-morrow night we would have it at the Lady
Hero's chamber window.
Balth.
The best I can, my lord.
Pedro.
Do so. Farewell.
[Exit Balthasar [with Musicians.]
Come hither, Leonato. What was it you told me of to-day? that
your niece Beatrice was in love with Signior Benedick?
Claud.
O, ay!-[Aside to Pedro] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. --I
did never think that lady would have loved any man.
Leon.
No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that she should so dote on
Signior Benedick, whom she hath in all outward behaviours seem'd
ever to abhor.
Bene.
[aside] Is't possible? Sits the wind in that corner?
Leon.
By my troth, my lord, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that
she loves him with an enraged affection. It is past the infinite
of thought.
Pedro.
May be she doth but counterfeit.
Claud.
Faith, like enough.
Leon.
O God, counterfeit? There was never counterfeit of passion came
so near the life of passion as she discovers it.
Pedro.
Why, what effects of passion shows she?
Claud.
[aside] Bait the hook well! This fish will bite.
Leon.
What effects, my lord? She will sit you--you heard my daughter
tell you how.
Claud.
She did indeed.
Pedro.
How, how, I pray you? You amaze me. I would have thought her
spirit had been invincible against all assaults of affection.
Leon.
I would have sworn it had, my lord--especially against Benedick.
Bene.
[aside] I should think this a gull but that the white-bearded
fellow speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide himself in such
reverence.
Claud.
[aside] He hath ta'en th' infection. Hold it up.
Pedro.
Hath she made her affection known to Benedick?
Leon.
No, and swears she never will. That's her torment.
Claud.
'Tis true indeed. So your daughter says. 'Shall I,' says she,
'that have so oft encount'red him with scorn, write to him that I
love him?'"
Leon.
This says she now when she is beginning to write to him; for
she'll be up twenty times a night, and there will she sit in her
smock till she have writ a sheet of paper. My daughter tells us
all.
Claud.
Now you talk of a sheet of paper, I remember a pretty jest your
daughter told us of.
Leon.
O, when she had writ it, and was reading it over, she found
'Benedick' and 'Beatrice' between the sheet?
Claud.
That.
Leon.
O, she tore the letter into a thousand halfpence, rail'd at
herself that she should be so immodest to write to one that she
knew would flout her. 'I measure him,' says she, 'by my own
spirit; for I should flout him if he writ to me. Yea, though I
love him, I should.'
Claud.
Then down upon her knees she falls, weeps, sobs, beats her heart,
tears her hair, prays, curses--'O sweet Benedick! God give me
patience!'
Leon.
She doth indeed; my daughter says so. And the ecstasy hath so
much overborne her that my daughter is sometime afeard she will
do a desperate outrage to herself. It is very true.
Pedro.
It were good that Benedick knew of it by some other, if she will
not discover it.
Claud.
To what end? He would make but a sport of it and torment the poor
lady worse.
Pedro.
An he should, it were an alms to hang him! She's an excellent
sweet lady, and (out of all suspicion) she is virtuous.
Claud.
And she is exceeding wise.
Pedro.
In everything but in loving Benedick.
Leon.
O, my lord, wisdom and blood combating in so tender a body, we
have ten proofs to one that blood hath the victory. I am sorry
for her, as I have just cause, being her uncle and her
guardian.
Pedro.
I would she had bestowed this dotage on me. I would have daff'd
all other respects and made her half myself. I pray you tell
Benedick of it and hear what 'a will say.
Leon.
Were it good, think you?
Claud.
Hero thinks surely she will die; for she says she will die if he
love her not, and she will die ere she make her love known, and
she will die, if he woo her, rather than she will bate one
breath of her accustomed crossness.
Pedro.
She doth well. If she should make tender of her love, 'tis very
possible he'll scorn it; for the man (as you know all) hath a
contemptible spirit.
Claud.
He is a very proper man.
Pedro.
He hath indeed a good outward happiness.
Claud.
Before God! and in my mind, very wise.
Pedro.
He doth indeed show some sparks that are like wit.
Claud.
And I take him to be valiant.
Pedro.
As Hector, I assure you; and in the managing of quarrels you may
say he is wise, for either he avoids them with great discretion,
or undertakes them with a most Christianlike fear.
Leon.
If he do fear God, 'a must necessarily keep peace. If he break
the peace, he ought to enter into a quarrel with fear and
trembling.
Pedro.
And so will he do; for the man doth fear God, howsoever it seems
not in him by some large jests he will make. Well, I am sorry for
your niece. Shall we go seek Benedick and tell him of her love?
Claud.
Never tell him, my lord. Let her wear it out with good counsel.
Leon.
Nay, that's impossible; she may wear her heart out first.
Pedro.
Well, we will hear further of it by your daughter. Let it cool
the while. I love Benedick well, and I could wish he would
modestly examine himself to see how much he is unworthy so good a
lady.
Leon.
My lord, will you walk? Dinner is ready.
[They walk away.]
Claud.
If he dote on her upon this, I will never trust my expectation.
Pedro.
Let there be the same net spread for her, and that must your
daughter and her gentlewomen carry. The sport will be, when they
hold one an opinion of another's dotage, and no such matter.
That's the scene that I would see, which will be merely a dumb
show. Let us send her to call him in to dinner.
[Exeunt Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato.]
[Benedick advances from the arbour.]
Bene.
This can be no trick. The conference was sadly borne; they have
the truth of this from Hero; they seem to pity the lady. It
seems her affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it must
be requited. I hear how I am censur'd. They say I will bear
myself proudly if I perceive the love come from her. They say too
that she will rather die than give any sign of affection. I did
never think to marry. I must not seem proud. Happy are they that
hear their detractions and can put them to mending. They say the
lady is fair--'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and
virtuous--'tis so, I cannot reprove it; and wise, but for loving
me--by my troth, it is no addition to her wit, nor no great
argument of her folly, for I will be horribly in love with her. I
may chance have some odd quirks and remnants of wit broken on me
because I have railed so long against marriage. But doth not the
appetite alters? A man loves the meat in his youth that he cannot
endure in his age. Shall quips and sentences and these paper
bullets of the brain awe a man from the career of his humour? No,
the world must be peopled. When I said I would die a bachelor, I
did not think I should live till I were married.
[Enter Beatrice.]
Here comes Beatrice. By this day, she's a fair lady! I do spy
some marks of love in her.
Beat.
Against my will I am sent to bid You come in to dinner.
Bene.
Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.
Beat.
I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to
thank me. If it had been painful, I would not have come.
Bene.
You take pleasure then in the message?
Beat.
Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knives point, and choke
a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior. Fare you well.
[Exit.]
Bene.
Ha! 'Against my will I am sent to bid you come in to dinner.'
There's a double meaning in that. 'I took no more pains for those
thanks than you took pains to thank me.' That's as much as to
say, 'Any pains that I take for you is as easy as thanks.' If I
do not take pity of her, I am a villain; if I do not love her, I
am a Jew. I will go get her picture. [Exit.] | Alone, Benedick talks to himself about how Claudio has changed since his engagement to Hero. Benedick has lost a good friend since Claudio now thinks of nothing but Hero and their approaching wedding. He ponders what perfect combination of qualities a woman must possess before he himself would marry her. When Benedick hears Claudio, Leonato, and Don Pedro approaching, he hides in the arbor to eavesdrop/note what they say. Don Pedro and the others know that Benedick has hidden himself within the sound of their voices. Don Pedro asks the musician Balthasar to sing for them, and he sings a song that begins, "Sigh no more, ladies, sigh no more. Men were deceivers ever." After the singer leaves, Don Pedro, Claudio, and Leonato converse loudly about how much Beatrice really loves Benedick in spite of the way she treats him. She will not show affection toward him for fear that she will be rejected. They agree not to speak of it to Benedick for now, and they leave. Benedick can scarcely believe what he has heard, but because Leonato was part of the group, he does not think it can be a joke. He admits that he did not plan to marry and has been contemptuous of marriage, but maybe he can change for the sake of Beatrice. In fact, he suddenly realizes she has all those qualities he was enumerating earlier. Beatrice reluctantly approaches Benedick to call him for dinner. When he tries to speak kindly to her, she replies unkindly and leaves. He tries to read love into her words and reaffirms to himself that he must try to love her. |
So far as I was concerned myself, I had come to port; but I had still
Alan, to whom I was so much beholden, on my hands; and I felt besides a
heavy charge in the matter of the murder and James of the Glens. On both
these heads I unbosomed to Rankeillor the next morning, walking to and
fro about six of the clock before the house of Shaws, and with nothing
in view but the fields and woods that had been my ancestors' and were
now mine. Even as I spoke on these grave subjects, my eye would take a
glad bit of a run over the prospect, and my heart jump with pride.
About my clear duty to my friend, the lawyer had no doubt. I must help
him out of the county at whatever risk; but in the case of James, he was
of a different mind.
"Mr. Thomson," says he, "is one thing, Mr. Thomson's kinsman quite
another. I know little of the facts, but I gather that a great noble
(whom we will call, if you like, the D. of A.)* has some concern and
is even supposed to feel some animosity in the matter. The D. of A. is
doubtless an excellent nobleman; but, Mr. David, timeo qui nocuere deos.
If you interfere to balk his vengeance, you should remember there is
one way to shut your testimony out; and that is to put you in the dock.
There, you would be in the same pickle as Mr. Thomson's kinsman. You
will object that you are innocent; well, but so is he. And to be tried
for your life before a Highland jury, on a Highland quarrel and with
a Highland Judge upon the bench, would be a brief transition to the
gallows."
* The Duke of Argyle.
Now I had made all these reasonings before and found no very good reply
to them; so I put on all the simplicity I could. "In that case, sir,"
said I, "I would just have to be hanged--would I not?"
"My dear boy," cries he, "go in God's name, and do what you think is
right. It is a poor thought that at my time of life I should be advising
you to choose the safe and shameful; and I take it back with an apology.
Go and do your duty; and be hanged, if you must, like a gentleman. There
are worse things in the world than to be hanged."
"Not many, sir," said I, smiling.
"Why, yes, sir," he cried, "very many. And it would be ten times better
for your uncle (to go no farther afield) if he were dangling decently
upon a gibbet."
Thereupon he turned into the house (still in a great fervour of mind,
so that I saw I had pleased him heartily) and there he wrote me two
letters, making his comments on them as he wrote.
"This," says he, "is to my bankers, the British Linen Company, placing a
credit to your name. Consult Mr. Thomson, he will know of ways; and
you, with this credit, can supply the means. I trust you will be a good
husband of your money; but in the affair of a friend like Mr. Thomson,
I would be even prodigal. Then for his kinsman, there is no better way
than that you should seek the Advocate, tell him your tale, and offer
testimony; whether he may take it or not, is quite another matter, and
will turn on the D. of A. Now, that you may reach the Lord Advocate well
recommended, I give you here a letter to a namesake of your own, the
learned Mr. Balfour of Pilrig, a man whom I esteem. It will look better
that you should be presented by one of your own name; and the laird of
Pilrig is much looked up to in the Faculty and stands well with Lord
Advocate Grant. I would not trouble him, if I were you, with any
particulars; and (do you know?) I think it would be needless to refer to
Mr. Thomson. Form yourself upon the laird, he is a good model; when you
deal with the Advocate, be discreet; and in all these matters, may the
Lord guide you, Mr. David!"
Thereupon he took his farewell, and set out with Torrance for the Ferry,
while Alan and I turned our faces for the city of Edinburgh. As we went
by the footpath and beside the gateposts and the unfinished lodge, we
kept looking back at the house of my fathers. It stood there, bare and
great and smokeless, like a place not lived in; only in one of the top
windows, there was the peak of a nightcap bobbing up and down and back
and forward, like the head of a rabbit from a burrow. I had little
welcome when I came, and less kindness while I stayed; but at least I
was watched as I went away.
Alan and I went slowly forward upon our way, having little heart either
to walk or speak. The same thought was uppermost in both, that we were
near the time of our parting; and remembrance of all the bygone days
sate upon us sorely. We talked indeed of what should be done; and it
was resolved that Alan should keep to the county, biding now here, now
there, but coming once in the day to a particular place where I might be
able to communicate with him, either in my own person or by messenger.
In the meanwhile, I was to seek out a lawyer, who was an Appin Stewart,
and a man therefore to be wholly trusted; and it should be his part to
find a ship and to arrange for Alan's safe embarkation. No sooner was
this business done, than the words seemed to leave us; and though I
would seek to jest with Alan under the name of Mr. Thomson, and he with
me on my new clothes and my estate, you could feel very well that we
were nearer tears than laughter.
We came the by-way over the hill of Corstorphine; and when we got
near to the place called Rest-and-be-Thankful, and looked down on
Corstorphine bogs and over to the city and the castle on the hill, we
both stopped, for we both knew without a word said that we had come to
where our ways parted. Here he repeated to me once again what had been
agreed upon between us: the address of the lawyer, the daily hour at
which Alan might be found, and the signals that were to be made by any
that came seeking him. Then I gave what money I had (a guinea or two of
Rankeillor's) so that he should not starve in the meanwhile; and then we
stood a space, and looked over at Edinburgh in silence.
"Well, good-bye," said Alan, and held out his left hand.
"Good-bye," said I, and gave the hand a little grasp, and went off down
hill.
Neither one of us looked the other in the face, nor so long as he was in
my view did I take one back glance at the friend I was leaving. But as
I went on my way to the city, I felt so lost and lonesome, that I could
have found it in my heart to sit down by the dyke, and cry and weep like
any baby.
It was coming near noon when I passed in by the West Kirk and the
Grassmarket into the streets of the capital. The huge height of the
buildings, running up to ten and fifteen storeys, the narrow arched
entries that continually vomited passengers, the wares of the merchants
in their windows, the hubbub and endless stir, the foul smells and the
fine clothes, and a hundred other particulars too small to mention,
struck me into a kind of stupor of surprise, so that I let the crowd
carry me to and fro; and yet all the time what I was thinking of was
Alan at Rest-and-be-Thankful; and all the time (although you would think
I would not choose but be delighted with these braws and novelties)
there was a cold gnawing in my inside like a remorse for something
wrong.
The hand of Providence brought me in my drifting to the very doors of
the British Linen Company's bank. | David tells Mr. Rankeillor that he must help Alan escape. He also wants to clear the name of James of the Glens concerning the Appin murder. Mr. Rankeillor agrees that David should help Alan to escape. But if he enters the witness box in court to try to clear James, he risks being tried for the crime himself, found guilty, and hanged. David is not dissuaded, as he feels it is his duty to come forward. Mr. Rankeillor gives David two letters. One is to his bankers, the British Linen Company, ordering them to give David his inheritance. The other letter is to a relative of David's, a well-respected Balfour, who will help him when he testifies to James's innocence. David arranges to send money to Alan so that he can travel to France. Near Edinburgh, the two men part. David goes to the British Linen Company bank to claim his inheritance. In a final note, the author writes that he may one day write a sequel telling how Alan escaped and what happened about the Appin murder. This will depend on the public's reception of this story. The author assures his readers that all went well for both men. |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Worcester, and Sir Richard Vernon.
Wor. O no, my Nephew must not know, Sir Richard,
The liberall kinde offer of the King
Ver. 'Twere best he did
Wor. Then we are all vndone.
It is not possible, it cannot be,
The King would keepe his word in louing vs,
He will suspect vs still, and finde a time
To punish this offence in others faults:
Supposition, all our liues, shall be stucke full of eyes;
For Treason is but trusted like the Foxe,
Who ne're so tame, so cherisht, and lock'd vp,
Will haue a wilde tricke of his Ancestors:
Looke how he can, or sad or merrily,
Interpretation will misquote our lookes,
And we shall feede like Oxen at a stall,
The better cherisht, still the nearer death.
My Nephewes Trespasse may be well forgot,
It hath the excuse of youth, and heate of blood,
And an adopted name of Priuiledge,
A haire-brain'd Hotspurre, gouern'd by a Spleene:
All his offences liue vpon my head,
And on his Fathers. We did traine him on,
And his corruption being tane from vs,
We as the Spring of all, shall pay for all:
Therefore good Cousin, let not Harry know
In any case, the offer of the King
Ver. Deliuer what you will, Ile say 'tis so.
Heere comes your Cosin.
Enter Hotspurre.
Hot. My Vnkle is return'd,
Deliuer vp my Lord of Westmerland.
Vnkle, what newes?
Wor. The King will bid you battell presently
Dow. Defie him by the Lord of Westmerland
Hot. Lord Dowglas: Go you and tell him so
Dow. Marry and shall, and verie willingly.
Exit Dowglas.
Wor. There is no seeming mercy in the King
Hot. Did you begge any? God forbid
Wor. I told him gently of our greeuances,
Of his Oath-breaking: which he mended thus,
By now forswearing that he is forsworne,
He cals vs Rebels, Traitors, and will scourge
With haughty armes, this hatefull name in vs.
Enter Dowglas.
Dow. Arme Gentlemen, to Armes, for I haue thrown
A braue defiance in King Henries teeth:
And Westmerland that was ingag'd did beare it,
Which cannot choose but bring him quickly on
Wor. The Prince of Wales stept forth before the king,
And Nephew, challeng'd you to single fight
Hot. O, would the quarrell lay vpon our heads,
And that no man might draw short breath to day,
But I and Harry Monmouth. Tell me, tell mee,
How shew'd his Talking? Seem'd it in contempt?
Ver. No, by my Soule: I neuer in my life
Did heare a Challenge vrg'd more modestly,
Vnlesse a Brother should a Brother dare
To gentle exercise, and proofe of Armes.
He gaue you all the Duties of a Man,
Trimm'd vp your praises with a Princely tongue,
Spoke your deseruings like a Chronicle,
Making you euer better then his praise,
By still dispraising praise, valew'd with you:
And which became him like a Prince indeed,
He made a blushing citall of himselfe,
And chid his Trewant youth with such a Grace,
As if he mastred there a double spirit
Of teaching, and of learning instantly:
There did he pause. But let me tell the World,
If he out-liue the enuie of this day,
England did neuer owe so sweet a hope,
So much misconstrued in his Wantonnesse,
Hot. Cousin, I thinke thou art enamored
On his Follies: neuer did I heare
Of any Prince so wilde at Liberty.
But be he as he will, yet once ere night,
I will imbrace him with a Souldiers arme,
That he shall shrinke vnder my curtesie.
Arme, arme with speed. And Fellow's, Soldiers, Friends,
Better consider what you haue to do,
That I that haue not well the gift of Tongue,
Can lift your blood vp with perswasion.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. My Lord, heere are Letters for you
Hot. I cannot reade them now.
O Gentlemen, the time of life is short;
To spend that shortnesse basely, were too long.
If life did ride vpon a Dials point,
Still ending at the arriuall of an houre,
And if we liue, we liue to treade on Kings:
If dye; braue death, when Princes dye with vs.
Now for our Consciences, the Armes is faire,
When the intent for bearing them is iust.
Enter another Messenger.
Mes. My Lord prepare, the King comes on apace
Hot. I thanke him, that he cuts me from my tale:
For I professe not talking: Onely this,
Let each man do his best. And heere I draw a Sword,
Whose worthy temper I intend to staine
With the best blood that I can meete withall,
In the aduenture of this perillous day.
Now Esperance Percy, and set on:
Sound all the lofty Instruments of Warre,
And by that Musicke, let vs all imbrace:
For heauen to earth, some of vs neuer shall,
A second time do such a curtesie.
They embrace, the trumpets sound, the King entereth with his
power, alarum
vnto the battell. Then enter Dowglas, and Sir Walter Blunt.
Blu. What is thy name, that in battel thus y crossest me?
What honor dost thou seeke vpon my head?
Dow. Know then my name is Dowglas,
And I do haunt thee in the Battell thus,
Because some tell me, that thou art a King
Blunt. They tell thee true
Dow. The Lord of Stafford deere to day hath bought
Thy likenesse: for insted of thee King Harry,
This Sword hath ended him, so shall it thee,
Vnlesse thou yeeld thee as a Prisoner
Blu. I was not borne to yeeld, thou haughty Scot,
And thou shalt finde a King that will reuenge
Lords Staffords death.
Fight, Blunt is slaine, then enters Hotspur.
Hot. O Dowglas, hadst thou fought at Holmedon thus
I neuer had triumphed o're a Scot
Dow. All's done, all's won, here breathles lies the king
Hot. Where?
Dow. Heere
Hot. This Dowglas? No, I know this face full well:
A gallant Knight he was, his name was Blunt,
Semblably furnish'd like the King himselfe
Dow. Ah foole: go with thy soule whether it goes,
A borrowed Title hast thou bought too deere.
Why didst thou tell me, that thou wer't a King?
Hot. The King hath many marching in his Coats
Dow. Now by my Sword, I will kill all his Coates,
Ile murder all his Wardrobe peece by peece,
Vntill I meet the King
Hot. Vp, and away,
Our Souldiers stand full fairely for the day.
Exeunt.
Alarum, and enter Falstaffe solus.
Fal. Though I could scape shot-free at London, I fear
the shot heere: here's no scoring, but vpon the pate. Soft
who are you? Sir Walter Blunt, there's Honour for you:
here's no vanity, I am as hot as molten Lead, and as heauy
too; heauen keepe Lead out of mee, I neede no more
weight then mine owne Bowelles. I haue led my rag of
Muffins where they are pepper'd: there's not three of my
150. left aliue, and they for the Townes end, to beg during
life. But who comes heere?
Enter the Prince
Pri. What, stand'st thou idle here? Lend me thy sword,
Many a Nobleman lies starke and stiffe
Vnder the hooues of vaunting enemies,
Whose deaths are vnreueng'd. Prethy lend me thy sword
Fal. O Hal, I prethee giue me leaue to breath awhile:
Turke Gregory neuer did such deeds in Armes, as I haue
done this day. I haue paid Percy, I haue made him sure
Prin. He is indeed, and liuing to kill thee:
I prethee lend me thy sword
Falst. Nay Hal, is Percy bee aliue, thou getst not my
Sword; but take my Pistoll if thou wilt
Prin. Giue it me: What, is it in the case?
Fal. I Hal, 'tis hot: There's that will Sacke a City.
The Prince drawes out a Bottle of Sacke.
Prin. What, is it a time to iest and dally now.
Enter.
Throwes it at him.
Fal. If Percy be aliue, Ile pierce him: if he do come in
my way, so: if he do not, if I come in his (willingly) let
him make a Carbonado of me. I like not such grinning
honour as Sir Walter hath: Giue mee life, which if I can
saue, so: if not, honour comes vnlook'd for, and ther's an
end.
Exit | At the rebel camp, Worcester tells Vernon not to convey the message of peace and pardon, as the king cannot be trusted. Hotspur, who is young and rash, may indeed by forgiven, but the king will blame Northumberland and Worcester and at some point seek revenge. Vernon is hesitant to comply but does so. Hotspur and Douglas enter and Worcester informs them that the king offers only battle. Hotspur orders that Westmoreland, who has been held as hostage to guarantee the safe return of Vernon and Worcester, be sent back with a defiant reply. Douglas leaves momentarily to send off Westmoreland and Worcester continues to spin his tale. Worcester instigates Hotspur further, saying that Prince Hal had challenged him to a duel. When Hotspur asks if the challenge was contemptuous, Vernon intervenes on Hal's behalf, saying that the prince had praised Hotspur highly and spoken nobly. Hotspur refuses to be impressed, however. A messenger comes in with some letters, which Hotspur is too busy to read. Hotspur calls upon his men to march towards the battlefield. A second messenger announces that the kings army is moving in. Hotspur speaks encouragingly to his troops as the rebels prepare to battle. |
My greatest anxiety now was to obtain employment. My health was greatly
improved, though my limbs continued to trouble me with swelling whenever I
walked much. The greatest difficulty in my way was, that those who employed
strangers required a recommendation; and in my peculiar position, I could,
of course, obtain no certificates from the families I had so faithfully
served.
One day an acquaintance told me of a lady who wanted a nurse for her babe,
and I immediately applied for the situation. The lady told me she preferred
to have one who had been a mother, and accustomed to the care of infants. I
told her I had nursed two babes of my own. She asked me many questions,
but, to my great relief, did not require a recommendation from my former
employers. She told me she was an English woman, and that was a pleasant
circumstance to me, because I had heard they had less prejudice against
color than Americans entertained. It was agreed that we should try each
other for a week. The trial proved satisfactory to both parties, and I was
engaged for a month.
The heavenly Father had been most merciful to me in leading me to this
place. Mrs. Bruce was a kind and gentle lady, and proved a true and
sympathizing friend. Before the stipulated month expired, the necessity of
passing up and down stairs frequently, caused my limbs to swell so
painfully, that I became unable to perform my duties. Many ladies would
have thoughtlessly discharged me; but Mrs. Bruce made arrangements to save
me steps, and employed a physician to attend upon me. I had not yet told
her that I was a fugitive slave. She noticed that I was often sad, and
kindly inquired the cause. I spoke of being separated from my children, and
from relatives who were dear to me; but I did not mention the constant
feeling of insecurity which oppressed my spirits. I longed for some one to
confide it; but I had been so deceived by white people, that I had lost all
confidence in them. If they spoke kind words to me, I thought it was for
some selfish purpose. I had entered this family with the distrustful
feelings I had brought with me out of slavery; but ere six months had
passed, I found that the gentle deportment of Mrs. Bruce and the smiles of
her lovely babe were thawing my chilled heart. My narrow mind also began to
expand under the influences of her intelligent conversation, and the
opportunities for reading, which were gladly allowed me whenever I had
leisure from my duties. I gradually became more energetic and more
cheerful.
The old feeling of insecurity, especially with regard to my children, often
threw its dark shadow across my sunshine. Mrs. Bruce offered me a home for
Ellen; but pleasant as it would have been, I did not dare to accept it, for
fear of offending the Hobbs family. Their knowledge of my precarious
situation placed me in their power; and I felt that it was important for me
to keep on the right side of them, till, by dint of labor and economy, I
could make a home for my children. I was far from feeling satisfied with
Ellen's situation. She was not well cared for. She sometimes came to New
York to visit me; but she generally brought a request from Mrs. Hobbs that
I would buy her a pair of shoes, or some article of clothing. This was
accompanied by a promise of payment when Mr. Hobbs's salary at the Custom
House became due; but some how or other the pay-day never came. Thus many
dollars of my earnings were expended to keep my child comfortably clothed.
That, however, was a slight trouble, compared with the fear that their
pecuniary embarrassments might induce them to sell my precious young
daughter. I knew they were in constant communication with Southerners, and
had frequent opportunities to do it. I have stated that when Dr. Flint put
Ellen in jail, at two years old, she had an inflammation of the eyes,
occasioned by measles. This disease still troubled her; and kind Mrs. Bruce
proposed that she should come to New York for a while, to be under the care
of Dr. Elliott, a well known oculist. It did not occur to me that there was
any thing improper in a mother's making such a request; but Mrs. Hobbs was
very angry, and refused to let her go. Situated as I was, it was not
politic to insist upon it. I made no complaint, but I longed to be entirely
free to act a mother's part towards my children. The next time I went over
to Brooklyn, Mrs. Hobbs, as if to apologize for her anger, told me she had
employed her own physician to attend to Ellen's eyes, and that she had
refused my request because she did not consider it safe to trust her in New
York. I accepted the explanation in silence; but she had told me that my
child _belonged_ to her daughter, and I suspected that her real motive was
a fear of my conveying her property away from her. Perhaps I did her
injustice; but my knowledge of Southerners made it difficult for me to feel
otherwise.
Sweet and bitter were mixed in the cup of my life, and I was thankful that
it had ceased to be entirely bitter. I loved Mrs. Bruce's babe. When it
laughed and crowed in my face, and twined its little tender arms
confidingly about my neck, it made me think of the time when Benny and
Ellen were babies, and my wounded heart was soothed. One bright morning, as
I stood at the window, tossing baby in my arms, my attention was attracted
by a young man in sailor's dress, who was closely observing every house as
he passed. I looked at him earnestly. Could it be my brother William? It
_must_ be he--and yet, how changed! I placed the baby safely, flew down
stairs, opened the front door, beckoned to the sailor, and in less than a
minute I was clasped in my brother's arms. How much we had to tell each
other! How we laughed, and how we cried, over each other's adventures! I
took him to Brooklyn, and again saw him with Ellen, the dear child whom he
had loved and tended so carefully, while I was shut up in my miserable den.
He staid in New York a week. His old feelings of affection for me and Ellen
were as lively as ever. There are no bonds so strong as those which are
formed by suffering together. | Linda becomes a nursemaid for an English woman named Mrs. Bruce. When Linda's limbs become swollen from walking up and down the stairs taking care of the baby, Mrs. Bruce gets her a doctor and lightens her work load. Since the Hobbses are not clothing Ellen, Linda uses her wages to buy Ellen clothes. Mrs. Bruce is a really nice lady, and Linda is almost happy. She loves Mrs. Bruce's little baby, because it reminds her of her own little ones. One day, looking out the window, Linda sees a handsome young sailor out the window. It's totally her brother! She runs downstairs, and they hug and laugh and cry. |
CHAPTER XXXIV
THEY journeyed for three and a half months. They saw the Grand Canyon,
the adobe walls of Sante Fe and, in a drive from El Paso into Mexico,
their first foreign land. They jogged from San Diego and La Jolla to Los
Angeles, Pasadena, Riverside, through towns with bell-towered missions
and orange-groves; they viewed Monterey and San Francisco and a forest
of sequoias. They bathed in the surf and climbed foothills and danced,
they saw a polo game and the making of motion-pictures, they sent one
hundred and seventeen souvenir post-cards to Gopher Prairie, and once,
on a dune by a foggy sea when she was walking alone, Carol found an
artist, and he looked up at her and said, "Too damned wet to paint; sit
down and talk," and so for ten minutes she lived in a romantic novel.
Her only struggle was in coaxing Kennicott not to spend all his time
with the tourists from the ten thousand other Gopher Prairies. In
winter, California is full of people from Iowa and Nebraska, Ohio and
Oklahoma, who, having traveled thousands of miles from their familiar
villages, hasten to secure an illusion of not having left them. They
hunt for people from their own states to stand between them and the
shame of naked mountains; they talk steadily, in Pullmans, on hotel
porches, at cafeterias and motion-picture shows, about the motors and
crops and county politics back home. Kennicott discussed land-prices
with them, he went into the merits of the several sorts of motor cars
with them, he was intimate with train porters, and he insisted on seeing
the Luke Dawsons at their flimsy bungalow in Pasadena, where Luke sat
and yearned to go back and make some more money. But Kennicott gave
promise of learning to play. He shouted in the pool at the Coronado, and
he spoke of (though he did nothing more radical than speak of) buying
evening-clothes. Carol was touched by his efforts to enjoy picture
galleries, and the dogged way in which he accumulated dates and
dimensions when they followed monkish guides through missions.
She felt strong. Whenever she was restless she dodged her thoughts by
the familiar vagabond fallacy of running away from them, of moving on
to a new place, and thus she persuaded herself that she was tranquil. In
March she willingly agreed with Kennicott that it was time to go home.
She was longing for Hugh.
They left Monterey on April first, on a day of high blue skies and
poppies and a summer sea.
As the train struck in among the hills she resolved, "I'm going to love
the fine Will Kennicott quality that there is in Gopher Prairie. The
nobility of good sense. It will be sweet to see Vida and Guy and the
Clarks. And I'm going to see my baby! All the words he'll be able to say
now! It's a new start. Everything will be different!"
Thus on April first, among dappled hills and the bronze of scrub oaks,
while Kennicott seesawed on his toes and chuckled, "Wonder what Hugh'll
say when he sees us?"
Three days later they reached Gopher Prairie in a sleet storm.
II
No one knew that they were coming; no one met them; and because of the
icy roads, the only conveyance at the station was the hotel 'bus, which
they missed while Kennicott was giving his trunk-check to the station
agent--the only person to welcome them. Carol waited for him in the
station, among huddled German women with shawls and umbrellas, and
ragged-bearded farmers in corduroy coats; peasants mute as oxen, in a
room thick with the steam of wet coats, the reek of the red-hot stove,
the stench of sawdust boxes which served as cuspidors. The afternoon
light was as reluctant as a winter dawn.
"This is a useful market-center, an interesting pioneer post, but it is
not a home for me," meditated the stranger Carol.
Kennicott suggested, "I'd 'phone for a flivver but it'd take quite a
while for it to get here. Let's walk."
They stepped uncomfortably from the safety of the plank platform and,
balancing on their toes, taking cautious strides, ventured along the
road. The sleety rain was turning to snow. The air was stealthily cold.
Beneath an inch of water was a layer of ice, so that as they wavered
with their suit-cases they slid and almost fell. The wet snow drenched
their gloves; the water underfoot splashed their itching ankles. They
scuffled inch by inch for three blocks. In front of Harry Haydock's
Kennicott sighed:
"We better stop in here and 'phone for a machine."
She followed him like a wet kitten.
The Haydocks saw them laboring up the slippery concrete walk, up the
perilous front steps, and came to the door chanting:
"Well, well, well, back again, eh? Say, this is fine! Have a fine trip?
My, you look like a rose, Carol. How did you like the coast, doc? Well,
well, well! Where-all did you go?"
But as Kennicott began to proclaim the list of places achieved, Harry
interrupted with an account of how much he himself had seen, two years
ago. When Kennicott boasted, "We went through the mission at Santa
Barbara," Harry broke in, "Yeh, that's an interesting old mission. Say,
I'll never forget that hotel there, doc. It was swell. Why, the rooms
were made just like these old monasteries. Juanita and I went from Santa
Barbara to San Luis Obispo. You folks go to San Luis Obispo?"
"No, but----"
"Well you ought to gone to San Luis Obispo. And then we went from there
to a ranch, least they called it a ranch----"
Kennicott got in only one considerable narrative, which began:
"Say, I never knew--did you, Harry?--that in the Chicago district the
Kutz Kar sells as well as the Overland? I never thought much of the
Kutz. But I met a gentleman on the train--it was when we were pulling
out of Albuquerque, and I was sitting on the back platform of the
observation car, and this man was next to me and he asked me for a
light, and we got to talking, and come to find out, he came from Aurora,
and when he found out I came from Minnesota he asked me if I knew Dr.
Clemworth of Red Wing, and of course, while I've never met him, I've
heard of Clemworth lots of times, and seems he's this man's brother!
Quite a coincidence! Well, we got to talking, and we called the
porter--that was a pretty good porter on that car--and we had a couple
bottles of ginger ale, and I happened to mention the Kutz Kar, and this
man--seems he's driven a lot of different kinds of cars--he's got
a Franklin now--and he said that he'd tried the Kutz and liked it
first-rate. Well, when we got into a station--I don't remember the name
of it--Carrie, what the deuce was the name of that first stop we made
the other side of Albuquerque?--well, anyway, I guess we must have
stopped there to take on water, and this man and I got out to stretch
our legs, and darned if there wasn't a Kutz drawn right up at the depot
platform, and he pointed out something I'd never noticed, and I was
glad to learn about it: seems that the gear lever in the Kutz is an inch
longer----"
Even this chronicle of voyages Harry interrupted, with remarks on the
advantages of the ball-gear-shift.
Kennicott gave up hope of adequate credit for being a traveled man, and
telephoned to a garage for a Ford taxicab, while Juanita kissed Carol
and made sure of being the first to tell the latest, which included
seven distinct and proven scandals about Mrs. Swiftwaite, and one
considerable doubt as to the chastity of Cy Bogart.
They saw the Ford sedan making its way over the water-lined ice, through
the snow-storm, like a tug-boat in a fog. The driver stopped at a
corner. The car skidded, it turned about with comic reluctance, crashed
into a tree, and stood tilted on a broken wheel.
The Kennicotts refused Harry Haydock's not too urgent offer to take them
home in his car "if I can manage to get it out of the garage--terrible
day--stayed home from the store--but if you say so, I'll take a shot at
it." Carol gurgled, "No, I think we'd better walk; probably make better
time, and I'm just crazy to see my baby." With their suit-cases they
waddled on. Their coats were soaked through.
Carol had forgotten her facile hopes. She looked about with impersonal
eyes. But Kennicott, through rain-blurred lashes, caught the glory that
was Back Home.
She noted bare tree-trunks, black branches, the spongy brown earth
between patches of decayed snow on the lawns. The vacant lots were
full of tall dead weeds. Stripped of summer leaves the houses were
hopeless--temporary shelters.
Kennicott chuckled, "By golly, look down there! Jack Elder must have
painted his garage. And look! Martin Mahoney has put up a new fence
around his chicken yard. Say, that's a good fence, eh? Chicken-tight
and dog-tight. That's certainly a dandy fence. Wonder how much it cost a
yard? Yes, sir, they been building right along, even in winter. Got more
enterprise than these Californians. Pretty good to be home, eh?"
She noted that all winter long the citizens had been throwing garbage
into their back yards, to be cleaned up in spring. The recent thaw had
disclosed heaps of ashes, dog-bones, torn bedding, clotted paint-cans,
all half covered by the icy pools which filled the hollows of the yards.
The refuse had stained the water to vile colors of waste: thin red, sour
yellow, streaky brown.
Kennicott chuckled, "Look over there on Main Street! They got the
feed store all fixed up, and a new sign on it, black and gold. That'll
improve the appearance of the block a lot."
She noted that the few people whom they passed wore their raggedest
coats for the evil day. They were scarecrows in a shanty town. . . . "To
think," she marveled, "of coming two thousand miles, past mountains
and cities, to get off here, and to plan to stay here! What conceivable
reason for choosing this particular place?"
She noted a figure in a rusty coat and a cloth cap.
Kennicott chuckled, "Look who's coming! It's Sam Clark! Gosh, all rigged
out for the weather."
The two men shook hands a dozen times and, in the Western fashion,
bumbled, "Well, well, well, well, you old hell-hound, you old devil,
how are you, anyway? You old horse-thief, maybe it ain't good to see
you again!" While Sam nodded at her over Kennicott's shoulder, she was
embarrassed.
"Perhaps I should never have gone away. I'm out of practise in lying. I
wish they would get it over! Just a block more and--my baby!"
They were home. She brushed past the welcoming Aunt Bessie and knelt
by Hugh. As he stammered, "O mummy, mummy, don't go away! Stay with me,
mummy!" she cried, "No, I'll never leave you again!"
He volunteered, "That's daddy."
"By golly, he knows us just as if we'd never been away!" said Kennicott.
"You don't find any of these California kids as bright as he is, at his
age!"
When the trunk came they piled about Hugh the bewhiskered little wooden
men fitting one inside another, the miniature junk, and the Oriental
drum, from San Francisco Chinatown; the blocks carved by the old
Frenchman in San Diego; the lariat from San Antonio.
"Will you forgive mummy for going away? Will you?" she whispered.
Absorbed in Hugh, asking a hundred questions about him--had he had any
colds? did he still dawdle over his oatmeal? what about unfortunate
morning incidents? she viewed Aunt Bessie only as a source of
information, and was able to ignore her hint, pointed by a coyly shaken
finger, "Now that you've had such a fine long trip and spent so much
money and all, I hope you're going to settle down and be satisfied and
not----"
"Does he like carrots yet?" replied Carol.
She was cheerful as the snow began to conceal the slatternly yards. She
assured herself that the streets of New York and Chicago were as ugly as
Gopher Prairie in such weather; she dismissed the thought, "But they
do have charming interiors for refuge." She sang as she energetically
looked over Hugh's clothes.
The afternoon grew old and dark. Aunt Bessie went home. Carol took the
baby into her own room. The maid came in complaining, "I can't get no
extra milk to make chipped beef for supper." Hugh was sleepy, and he had
been spoiled by Aunt Bessie. Even to a returned mother, his whining and
his trick of seven times snatching her silver brush were fatiguing. As a
background, behind the noises of Hugh and the kitchen, the house reeked
with a colorless stillness.
From the window she heard Kennicott greeting the Widow Bogart as he had
always done, always, every snowy evening: "Guess this 'll keep up all
night." She waited. There they were, the furnace sounds, unalterable,
eternal: removing ashes, shoveling coal.
Yes. She was back home! Nothing had changed. She had never been away.
California? Had she seen it? Had she for one minute left this scraping
sound of the small shovel in the ash-pit of the furnace? But Kennicott
preposterously supposed that she had. Never had she been quite so far
from going away as now when he believed she had just come back. She
felt oozing through the walls the spirit of small houses and righteous
people. At that instant she knew that in running away she had merely
hidden her doubts behind the officious stir of travel.
"Dear God, don't let me begin agonizing again!" she sobbed. Hugh wept
with her.
"Wait for mummy a second!" She hastened down to the cellar, to
Kennicott.
He was standing before the furnace. However inadequate the rest of the
house, he had seen to it that the fundamental cellar should be large
and clean, the square pillars whitewashed, and the bins for coal and
potatoes and trunks convenient. A glow from the drafts fell on the
smooth gray cement floor at his feet. He was whistling tenderly, staring
at the furnace with eyes which saw the black-domed monster as a symbol
of home and of the beloved routine to which he had returned--his
gipsying decently accomplished, his duty of viewing "sights" and
"curios" performed with thoroughness. Unconscious of her, he stooped
and peered in at the blue flames among the coals. He closed the door
briskly, and made a whirling gesture with his right hand, out of pure
bliss.
He saw her. "Why, hello, old lady! Pretty darn good to be back, eh?"
"Yes," she lied, while she quaked, "Not now. I can't face the job of
explaining now. He's been so good. He trusts me. And I'm going to break
his heart!"
She smiled at him. She tidied his sacred cellar by throwing an empty
bluing bottle into the trash bin. She mourned, "It's only the baby that
holds me. If Hugh died----" She fled upstairs in panic and made sure
that nothing had happened to Hugh in these four minutes.
She saw a pencil-mark on a window-sill. She had made it on a September
day when she had been planning a picnic for Fern Mullins and Erik. Fern
and she had been hysterical with nonsense, had invented mad parties for
all the coming winter. She glanced across the alley at the room which
Fern had occupied. A rag of a gray curtain masked the still window.
She tried to think of some one to whom she wanted to telephone. There
was no one.
The Sam Clarks called that evening and encouraged her to describe the
missions. A dozen times they told her how glad they were to have her
back.
"It is good to be wanted," she thought. "It will drug me. But----Oh, is
all life, always, an unresolved But?" | Carol and Will travel for three and a half months. Carol manages to escape the Gopher Prairie malaise but eventually she longs for her son and they return. They leave Monterrey California on a beautiful sunny day and arrive in Gopher Prairie during a sleet storm. While they wait for a cab at the Haydock's, Juanita relates the latest gossip which is not very different from the gossip extant at their departure. When their cab comically wrecks against a tree, they elect to walk home. Kennicott observes all the small improvements about the town but Carol sees only its brute ugliness. She is happy to see Hugh but quickly despairs when her old dissatisfaction returns. Soon afterward Old Mrs. Perry dies of illness and Carol observes how the town turns its back on poor old Champ Perry who loses his job without a pension. She convinces Lyman Cass to give him an easy job as a night watchman. Major Raymond Wutherspoon returns from the war and for a time the town moons over him. Many people, including Will Kennicott, make a good deal of money on the rising wheat prices and land speculation and one speculator, James Blausser convinces the town to engage in a booster campaign. Everyone in town loves Honest Jim but Carol hates his obvious, crude mannerisms. At Jim's behest the town gears up to attract industry and government and puts in a White Way. Carol is disgusted by the town's new egomania. Kennicott is annoyed and angry that Carol does not share his enthusiasm for the boosting. One night an argument between Carol and Will erupts and Carol tells her husband that she is leaving until she can discover her work - that which will satisfy her; she doesn't know how long she will be gone and she intends to take Hugh. Kennicott protests that he needs her and she retorts: "You have a right to me if you can keep me. Can you. He has no reply. After a month of arguing she departs with Hugh for Washington, D. C. to find war-work. When she leaves on the train she feels lonely and empty but free |
SCENE 3.
A room in the Garter Inn.
[Enter FALSTAFF, HOST, BARDOLPH, NYM, PISTOL, and ROBIN.]
FALSTAFF.
Mine host of the Garter!
HOST.
What says my bully rook? Speak scholarly and wisely.
FALSTAFF.
Truly, mine host, I must turn away some of my followers.
HOST.
Discard, bully Hercules; cashier; let them wag; trot, trot.
FALSTAFF.
I sit at ten pounds a week.
HOST.
Thou'rt an emperor, Caesar, Keiser, and Pheazar. I will entertain
Bardolph; he shall draw, he shall tap; said I well, bully Hector?
FALSTAFF.
Do so, good mine host.
HOST.
I have spoke; let him follow. [To BARDOLPH] Let me see thee froth and
lime. I am at a word; follow.
[Exit.]
FALSTAFF.
Bardolph, follow him. A tapster is a good trade; an old cloak makes
a new jerkin; a withered serving-man a fresh tapster. Go; adieu.
BARDOLPH.
It is a life that I have desired; I will thrive.
PISTOL.
O base Hungarian wight! Wilt thou the spigot wield?
[Exit BARDOLPH.]
NYM.
He was gotten in drink. Is not the humour conceited?
FALSTAFF.
I am glad I am so acquit of this tinder-box: his thefts were too open;
his filching was like an unskilful singer--he kept not time.
NYM.
The good humour is to steal at a minim's rest.
PISTOL.
'Convey' the wise it call. 'Steal!' foh! A fico for the phrase!
FALSTAFF.
Well, sirs, I am almost out at heels.
PISTOL.
Why, then, let kibes ensue.
FALSTAFF.
There is no remedy; I must cony-catch; I must shift.
PISTOL.
Young ravens must have food.
FALSTAFF.
Which of you know Ford of this town?
PISTOL.
I ken the wight; he is of substance good.
FALSTAFF.
My honest lads, I will tell you what I am about.
PISTOL.
Two yards, and more.
FALSTAFF.
No quips now, Pistol. Indeed, I am in the waist two yards about; but
I am now about no waste; I am about thrift. Briefly, I do mean to
make love to Ford's wife; I spy entertainment in her; she discourses,
she carves, she gives the leer of invitation; I can construe the
action of her familiar style; and the hardest voice of her behaviour,
to be Englished rightly, is 'I am Sir John Falstaff's.'
PISTOL.
He hath studied her will, and translated her will out of honesty into
English.
NYM.
The anchor is deep; will that humour pass?
FALSTAFF.
Now, the report goes she has all the rule of her husband's purse; he
hath a legion of angels.
PISTOL.
As many devils entertain; and 'To her, boy,' say I.
NYM.
The humour rises; it is good; humour me the angels.
FALSTAFF.
I have writ me here a letter to her; and here another to Page's wife,
who even now gave me good eyes too, examined my parts with most
judicious oeillades; sometimes the beam of her view gilded my foot,
sometimes my portly belly.
PISTOL.
Then did the sun on dunghill shine.
NYM.
I thank thee for that humour.
FALSTAFF.
O! she did so course o'er my exteriors with such a greedy intention
that the appetite of her eye did seem to scorch me up like a
burning-glass. Here's another letter to her: she bears the purse
too; she is a region in Guiana, all gold and bounty. I will be
cheator to them both, and they shall be exchequers to me; they shall
be my East and West Indies, and I will trade to them both. Go, bear
thou this letter to Mistress Page; and thou this to Mistress Ford.
We will thrive, lads, we will thrive.
PISTOL.
Shall I Sir Pandarus of Troy become,
And by my side wear steel? then Lucifer take all!
NYM.
I will run no base humour. Here, take the humour-letter; I will keep
the haviour of reputation.
FALSTAFF.
[To ROBIN] Hold, sirrah; bear you these letters tightly;
Sail like my pinnace to these golden shores.
Rogues, hence, avaunt! vanish like hailstones, go;
Trudge, plod away o' hoof; seek shelter, pack!
Falstaff will learn the humour of this age;
French thrift, you rogues; myself, and skirted page.
[Exeunt FALSTAFF and ROBIN.]
PISTOL.
Let vultures gripe thy guts! for gourd and fullam holds,
And high and low beguile the rich and poor;
Tester I'll have in pouch when thou shalt lack,
Base Phrygian Turk!
NYM.
I have operations in my head which be humours of revenge.
PISTOL.
Wilt thou revenge?
NYM.
By welkin and her star!
PISTOL.
With wit or steel?
NYM.
With both the humours, I:
I will discuss the humour of this love to Page.
PISTOL.
And I to Ford shall eke unfold
How Falstaff, varlet vile,
His dove will prove, his gold will hold,
And his soft couch defile.
NYM.
My humour shall not cool: I will incense Page to deal with poison;
I will possess him with yellowness, for the revolt of mine is
dangerous: that is my true humour.
PISTOL.
Thou art the Mars of malcontents; I second thee; troop on.
[Exeunt.] | Later on, Falstaff and company chill out at the Garter Inn. Sir John Falstaff confides to the Host of the Garter Inn that he's completely broke. Brain Snack: In Elizabethan England, being a knight didn't necessarily = being a baller. In fact, lots of members of the nobility had very little money. We talk about this more in "Themes: Society and Class." Since Falstaff can't afford to pay a bunch of servants, he has to get rid of one of his toadies. He decides to fire Bardolph because the guy's a lousy thief who's always getting caught and making Falstaff look bad. The Host is feeling generous so he gives Bardolph a job as a "tapster" at the Inn. Pistol and Nim crack some jokes about how awesome it is that Bardolph's going to be serving cocktails since the guy loves to drink so much. Plus, his parents conceived him when they were rip-roaring drunk, which--TMI, folks. Then Pistol and Nim bag on Falstaff for being so fat. Finally, Falstaff gets down to business. It's not enough to fire Bardolph, he's got to "cony-catch" if he's going to survive in this tough economy. Man, we feel you. His plan involves two middle-class housewives--Mistress Page and Mistress Ford. Since both wives have access to their husband's money, Falstaff plans to seduce them both. Brain Snack: Remember how we said that in Shakespeare's England, more and more aristocrats like Falstaff were going broke? Well, at the same time, more and more non-aristocrats were becoming rich by taking advantage of business opportunities . Historians like to refer to this as the rise of the middle-class. By the way, when we say middle-class, we mean people who were somewhere between the nobility and the peasantry on the social scale. That's how it's possible for the Pages and Fords to be both rich and "middle-class" at the same time. We find out that Falstaff has channeled his inner 7th grader by writing a couple of cheesy love notes to the wives. Falstaff claims that both women have been checking out his sexy "parts" and undressing him with their eyes. He compares Mistress Page to "Guiana, all gold and bounty." Translation: Falstaff thinks that his sexual conquest of a rich housewife will be a lot like a New World Conquest. Go to "Symbols" and we'll tell you more about this. Pistol and Nim refuse to deliver Falstaff's letters to the wives so Falstaff has his errand boy do his dirty work. After Falstaff leaves, Pistol and Nim decide to snitch him out to Master Ford and Master Page. |
CHAPTER LXVI
SAD DETAILS
Do not expect any weakness on my part. I have avenged
myself. I have deserved death, and here I am. Pray for
my soul.--_Schiller_
Julien remained motionless. He saw nothing more. When he recovered
himself a little he noticed all the faithful rushing from the church.
The priest had left the altar. Julien started fairly slowly to follow
some women who were going away with loud screams. A woman who was
trying to get away more quickly than the others, pushed him roughly. He
fell. His feet got entangled with a chair, knocked over by the crowd;
when he got up, he felt his neck gripped. A gendarme, in full uniform,
was arresting him. Julien tried mechanically to have recourse to his
little pistol; but a second gendarme pinioned his arms.
He was taken to the prison. They went into a room where irons were put
on his hands. He was left alone. The door was doubly locked on him. All
this was done very quickly, and he scarcely appreciated it at all.
"Yes, upon my word, all is over," he said aloud as he recovered
himself. "Yes, the guillotine in a fortnight ... or killing myself
here."
His reasoning did not go any further. His head felt as though it had
been seized in some violent grip. He looked round to see if anyone was
holding him. After some moments he fell into a deep sleep.
Madame de Renal was not mortally wounded. The first bullet had pierced
her hat. The second had been fired as she was turning round. The
bullet had struck her on the shoulder, and, astonishing to relate,
had ricocheted from off the shoulder bone (which it had, however,
broken) against a gothic pillar, from which it had loosened an enormous
splinter of stone.
When, after a long and painful bandaging, the solemn surgeon said to
madame de Renal, "I answer for your life as I would for my own," she
was profoundly grieved.
She had been sincerely desirous of death for a long time. The letter
which she had written to M. de la Mole in accordance with the
injunctions of her present confessor, had proved the final blow to a
creature already weakened by an only too permanent unhappiness. This
unhappiness was caused by Julien's absence; but she, for her own part,
called it remorse. Her director, a young ecclesiastic, who was both
virtuous and enthusiastic, and had recently come to Dijon, made no
mistake as to its nature.
"Dying in this way, though not by my own hand, is very far from being
a sin," thought madame de Renal. "God will perhaps forgive me for
rejoicing over my death." She did not dare to add, "and dying by
Julien's hand puts the last touch on my happiness."
She had scarcely been rid of the presence of the surgeon and of all the
crowd of friends that had rushed to see her, than she called her maid,
Elisa. "The gaoler," she said to her with a violent blush, "is a cruel
man. He will doubtless ill-treat him, thinking to please me by doing
so.... I cannot bear that idea. Could you not go, as though on your own
account, and give the gaoler this little packet which contains some
louis. You will tell him that religion forbids him to treat him badly,
above all, he must not go and speak about the sending of this money."
It was this circumstance, which we have just mentioned, that Julien had
to thank for the humanity of the gaoler of Verrieres. It was still the
same M. Noiraud, that ideal official, whom he remembered as being so
finely alarmed by M. Appert's presence.
A judge appeared in the prison. "I occasioned death by premeditation,"
said Julien to him. "I bought the pistols and had them loaded at
so-and-so's, a gunsmith. Article 1342 of the penal code is clear. I
deserve death, and I expect it." Astonished at this kind of answer, the
judge started to multiply his questions, with a view of the accused
contradicting himself in his answers.
"Don't you see," said Julien to him with a smile, "that I am making
myself out as guilty as you can possibly desire? Go away, monsieur, you
will not fail to catch the quarry you are pursuing. You will have the
pleasure to condemn me. Spare me your presence."
"I have an irksome duty to perform," thought Julien. "I must write to
mademoiselle de la Mole:--"
"I have avenged myself," he said to her. "Unfortunately,
my name will appear in the papers, and I shall not be
able to escape from the world incognito. I shall die
in two months' time. My revenge was ghastly, like the
pain of being separated from you. From this moment I
forbid myself to write or pronounce your name. Never
speak of me even to my son; silence is the only way of
honouring me. To the ordinary commonplace man, I shall
represent a common assassin. Allow me the luxury of the
truth at this supreme moment; you will forget me. This
great catastrophe of which I advise you not to say a
single word to a single living person, will exhaust,
for several years to come, all that romantic and unduly
adventurous element which I have detected in your
character. You were intended by nature to live among the
heroes of the middle ages; exhibit their firm character.
Let what has to happen take place in secret and without
your being compromised. You will assume a false name,
and you will confide in no one. If you absolutely need a
friend's help, I bequeath the abbe Pirard to you.
"Do not talk to anyone else, particularly to the people
of your own class--the de Luz's, the Caylus's.
"A year after my death, marry M. de Croisenois; I
command you as your husband. Do not write to me at all,
I shall not answer. Though in my view, much less wicked
than Iago, I am going to say, like him: 'From this time
forth, I never will speack word.'[1]
"I shall never be seen to speak or write again. You will
have received my final words and my final expressions of
adoration.
"J. S."
It was only after he had despatched this letter and had recovered
himself a little, that Julien felt for the first time extremely
unhappy. Those momentous words, I shall die, meant the successive
tearing out of his heart of each individual hope and ambition.
Death, in itself, was not horrible in his eyes. His whole life had
been nothing but a long preparation for unhappiness, and he had
made a point of not losing sight of what is considered the greatest
unhappiness of all.
"Come then," he said to himself; "if I had to fight a duel in a couple
of months, with an expert duellist, should I be weak enough to think
about it incessantly with panic in my soul?"
He passed more than an hour in trying to analyze himself thoroughly on
this score.
When he saw clear in his own soul, and the truth appeared before his
eyes with as much definiteness as one of the pillars of his prison, he
thought about remorse.
"Why should I have any? I have been atrociously injured; I have
killed--I deserve death, but that is all. I die after having squared my
account with humanity. I do not leave any obligation unfulfilled. I owe
nothing to anybody; there is nothing shameful about my death, except
the instrument of it; that alone, it is true, is simply sufficient to
disgrace me in the eyes of the bourgeois of Verrieres; but from the
intellectual standpoint, what could be more contemptible than they? I
have one means of winning their consideration; by flinging pieces of
gold to the people as I go to the scaffold. If my memory is linked with
the idea of gold, they will always look upon it as resplendent."
After this chain of reasoning, which after a minute's reflection seemed
to him self-evident, Julien said to himself, "I have nothing left to do
in the world," and fell into a deep sleep.
About 9 o'clock in the evening the gaoler woke him up as he brought in
his supper.
"What are they saying in Verrieres?"
"M. Julien, the oath which I took before the crucifix in the 'Royal
Courtyard,' on the day when I was installed in my place, obliges me to
silence."
He was silent, but remained. Julien was amused by the sight of this
vulgar hypocrisy. I must make him, he thought, wait a long time for the
five francs which he wants to sell his conscience for.
When the gaoler saw him finish his meal without making any attempt to
corrupt him, he said in a soft and perfidious voice:
"The affection which I have for you, M. Julien, compels me to speak.
Although they say that it is contrary to the interests of justice,
because it may assist you in preparing your defence. M. Julien you are
a good fellow at heart, and you will be very glad to learn that madame
de Renal is better."
"What! she is not dead?" exclaimed Julien, beside himself.
"What, you know nothing?" said the gaoler, with a stupid air which soon
turned into exultant cupidity. "It would be very proper, monsieur, for
you to give something to the surgeon, who, so far as law and justice
go, ought not to have spoken. But in order to please you, monsieur, I
went to him, and he told me everything."
"Anyway, the wound is not mortal," said Julien to him impatiently, "you
answer for it on your life?"
The gaoler, who was a giant six feet tall, was frightened and retired
towards the door. Julien saw that he was adopting bad tactics for
getting at the truth. He sat down again and flung a napoleon to M.
Noiraud.
As the man's story proved to Julien more and more conclusively that
madame de Renal's wound was not mortal, he felt himself overcome by
tears. "Leave me," he said brusquely.
The gaoler obeyed. Scarcely had the door shut, than Julien exclaimed:
"Great God, she is not dead," and he fell on his knees, shedding hot
tears.
In this supreme moment he was a believer. What mattered the hypocrisies
of the priests? Could they abate one whit of the truth and sublimity of
the idea of God?
It was only then that Julien began to repent of the crime that he had
committed. By a coincidence, which prevented him falling into despair,
it was only at the present moment that the condition of physical
irritation and semi-madness, in which he had been plunged since his
departure from Paris for Verrieres came to an end.
His tears had a generous source. He had no doubt about the condemnation
which awaited him.
"So she will live," he said to himself. "She will live to forgive me
and love me."
Very late the next morning the gaoler woke him up and said, "You must
have a famous spirit, M. Julien. I have come in twice, but I did not
want to wake you up. Here are two bottles of excellent wine which our
cure, M. Maslon, has sent you."
"What, is that scoundrel still here?" said Julien.
"Yes, monsieur," said the gaoler, lowering his voice. "But do not talk
so loud, it may do you harm."
Julien laughed heartily.
"At the stage I have reached, my friend, you alone can do me harm in
the event of your ceasing to be kind and tender. You will be well
paid," said Julien, changing his tone and reverting to his imperious
manner. This manner was immediately justified by the gift of a piece of
money.
M. Noiraud related again, with the greatest detail, everything he
had learnt about madame de Renal, but he did not make any mention of
mademoiselle Elisa's visit.
The man was as base and servile as it was possible to be. An idea
crossed Julien's mind. "This kind of misshapen giant cannot earn more
than three or four hundred francs, for his prison is not at all full.
I can guarantee him ten thousand francs, if he will escape with me
to Switzerland. The difficulty will be in persuading him of my good
faith." The idea of the long conversation he would need to have with so
vile a person filled Julien with disgust. He thought of something else.
In the evening the time had passed. A post-chaise had come to pick him
up at midnight. He was very pleased with his travelling companions, the
gendarmes. When he arrived at the prison of Besancon in the morning
they were kind enough to place him in the upper storey of a Gothic
turret. He judged the architecture to be of the beginning of the
fourteenth century. He admired its fascinating grace and lightness.
Through a narrow space between two walls, beyond the deep court, there
opened a superb vista.
On the following day there was an interrogation, after which he was
left in peace for several days. His soul was calm. He found his affair
a perfectly simple one. "I meant to kill. I deserve to be killed."
His thoughts did not linger any further over this line of reasoning.
As for the sentence, the disagreeableness of appearing in public,
the defence, he considered all this as slight embarrassment, irksome
formalities, which it would be time enough to consider on the actual
day. The actual moment of death did not seize hold of his mind either.
"I will think about it after the sentence." Life was no longer boring,
he was envisaging everything from a new point of view, he had no longer
any ambition. He rarely thought about mademoiselle de la Mole. His
passion of remorse engrossed him a great deal, and often conjured up
the image of madame de Renal, particularly during the silence of the
night, which in this high turret was only disturbed by the song of the
osprey.
He thanked heaven that he had not inflicted a mortal wound.
"Astonishing," he said to himself, "I thought that she had destroyed my
future happiness for ever by her letter to M. de la Mole, and here am
I, less than a fortnight after the date of that letter, not giving a
single thought to all the things that engrossed me then. An income of
two or three thousand francs, on which to live quietly in a mountain
district, like Vergy.... I was happy then.... I did not realise my
happiness."
At other moments he would jump up from his chair. "If I had mortally
wounded madame de Renal, I would have killed myself.... I need to feel
certain of that so as not to horrify myself."
"Kill myself? That's the great question," he said to himself. "Oh,
those judges, those fiends of red tape, who would hang their best
citizen in order to win the cross.... At any rate, I should escape from
their control and from the bad French of their insults, which the local
paper will call eloquence."
"I still have five or six weeks, more or less to live.... Kill myself.
No, not for a minute," he said to himself after some days, "Napoleon
went on living."
"Besides, I find life pleasant, this place is quiet, I am not troubled
with bores," he added with a smile, and he began to make out a list of
the books which he wanted to order from Paris.
[1] Stendhal's bad spelling is here reproduced.
CHAPTER LXVII
A TURRET
The tomb of a friend.--_Sterne_.
He heard a loud noise in the corridor. It was not the time when the
gaoler usually came up to his prison. The osprey flew away with a
shriek. The door opened, and the venerable cure Chelan threw himself
into his arms. He was trembling all over and had his stick in his hands.
"Great God! Is it possible, my child--I ought to say monster?"
The good old man could not add a single word. Julien was afraid he
would fall down. He was obliged to lead him to a chair. The hand of
time lay heavy on this man who had once been so active. He seemed to
Julien the mere shadow of his former self.
When he had regained his breath, he said, "It was only the day before
yesterday that I received your letter from Strasbourg with your five
hundred francs for the poor of Verrieres. They brought it to me in
the mountains at Liveru where I am living in retirement with my
nephew Jean. Yesterday I learnt of the catastrophe.... Heavens, is it
possible?" And the old man left off weeping. He did not seem to have
any ideas left, but added mechanically, "You will have need of your
five hundred francs, I will bring them back to you."
"I need to see you, my father," exclaimed Julien, really touched. "I
have money, anyway."
But he could not obtain any coherent answer. From time to time, M.
Chelan shed some tears which coursed silently down his cheeks. He then
looked at Julien, and was quite dazed when he saw him kiss his hands
and carry them to his lips. That face which had once been so vivid,
and which had once portrayed with such vigour the most noble emotions
was now sunk in a perpetual apathy. A kind of peasant came soon to
fetch the old man. "You must not fatigue him," he said to Julien, who
understood that he was the nephew. This visit left Julien plunged in a
cruel unhappiness which found no vent in tears. Everything seemed to
him gloomy and disconsolate. He felt his heart frozen in his bosom.
This moment was the cruellest which he had experienced since the
crime. He had just seen death and seen it in all its ugliness. All his
illusions about greatness of soul and nobility of character had been
dissipated like a cloud before the hurricane.
This awful plight lasted several hours. After moral poisoning, physical
remedies and champagne are necessary. Julien would have considered
himself a coward to have resorted to them. "What a fool I am," he
exclaimed, towards the end of the horrible day that he had spent
entirely in walking up and down his narrow turret. "It's only, if I
had been going to die like anybody else, that the sight of that poor
old man would have had any right to have thrown me into this awful fit
of sadness: but a rapid death in the flower of my age simply puts me
beyond the reach of such awful senility."
In spite of all his argumentation, Julien felt as touched as any
weak-minded person would have been, and consequently felt unhappy
as the result of the visit. He no longer had any element of rugged
greatness, or any Roman virtue. Death appeared to him at a great height
and seemed a less easy proposition.
"This is what I shall take for my thermometer," he said to himself.
"To-night I am ten degrees below the courage requisite for
guillotine-point level. I had that courage this morning. Anyway, what
does it matter so long as it comes back to me at the necessary moment?"
This thermometer idea amused him and finally managed to distract him.
When he woke up the next day he was ashamed of the previous day. "My
happiness and peace of mind are at stake." He almost made up his mind
to write to the Procureur-General to request that no one should be
admitted to see him. "And how about Fouque," he thought? "If he takes
it upon himself to come to Besancon, his grief will be immense."
It had perhaps been two months since he had given Fouque a thought.
"I was a great fool at Strasbourg. My thoughts did not go beyond my
coat-collar. He was much engrossed by the memory of Fouque, which
left him more and more touched. He walked nervously about. Here I
am, clearly twenty degrees below death point.... If this weakness
increases, it will be better for me to kill myself. What joy for the
abbe Maslon, and the Valenods, if I die like an usher."
Fouque arrived. The good, simple man, was distracted by grief. His one
idea, so far as he had any at all, was to sell all he possessed in
order to bribe the gaoler and secure Julien's escape. He talked to him
at length of M. de Lavalette's escape.
"You pain me," Julien said to him. "M. de Lavalette was innocent--I
am guilty. Though you did not mean to, you made me think of the
difference...."
"But is it true? What? were you going to sell all you possessed?" said
Julien, suddenly becoming mistrustful and observant.
Fouque was delighted at seeing his friend answer his obsessing idea,
and detailed at length, and within a hundred francs, what he would get
for each of his properties.
"What a sublime effort for a small country land-owner," thought Julien.
"He is ready to sacrifice for me the fruits of all the economies, and
all the little semi-swindling tricks which I used to be ashamed of when
I saw him practice them."
"None of the handsome young people whom I saw in the Hotel de la Mole,
and who read Rene, would have any of his ridiculous weaknesses: but,
except those who are very young and who have also inherited riches
and are ignorant of the value of money, which of all those handsome
Parisians would be capable of such a sacrifice?"
All Fouque's mistakes in French and all his common gestures seemed to
disappear. He threw himself into his arms. Never have the provinces
in comparison with Paris received so fine a tribute. Fouque was so
delighted with the momentary enthusiasm which he read in his friend's
eyes that he took it for consent to the flight.
This view of the sublime recalled to Julien all the strength that the
apparition of M. Chelan had made him lose. He was still very young;
but in my view he was a fine specimen. Instead of his character passing
from tenderness to cunning, as is the case with the majority of men,
age would have given him that kindness of heart which is easily melted
... but what avail these vain prophecies.
The interrogations became more frequent in spite of all the efforts
of Julien, who always endeavoured by his answers to shorten the whole
matter.
"I killed, or at any rate, I wished to occasion death, and I did so
with premeditation," he would repeat every day. But the judge was
a pedant above everything. Julien's confessions had no effect in
curtailing the interrogations. The judge's conceit was wounded. Julien
did not know that they had wanted to transfer him into an awful cell,
and that it was only, thanks to Fouque's efforts, that he was allowed
to keep his pretty room at the top of a hundred and eighty steps.
M. the abbe de Frilair was one of the important customers who entrusted
Fouque with the purveying of their firewood. The good tradesmen managed
to reach the all powerful grand vicar. M. de Frilair informed him,
to his unspeakable delight, that he was so touched by Julien's good
qualities, and by the services which he had formerly rendered to the
seminary, that he intended to recommend him to the judges. Fouque
thought he saw a hope of saving his friend, and as he went out, bowing
down to the ground, requested M. the grand vicar, to distribute a sum
of ten louis in masses to entreat the acquittal of the accused.
Fouque was making a strange mistake. M. de Frilair was very far from
being a Valenod. He refused, and even tried to make the good peasant
understand that he would do better to keep his money. Seeing that it
was impossible to be clear without being indiscreet, he advised him to
give that sum as alms for the use of the poor prisoners, who, in point
of fact, were destitute of everything.
"This Julien is a singular person, his action is unintelligible,"
thought M. de Frilair, "and I ought to find nothing unintelligible.
Perhaps it will be possible to make a martyr of him.... In any case,
I shall get to the bottom of the matter, and shall perhaps find an
opportunity of putting fear into the heart of that madame de Renal
who has no respect for us, and at the bottom detests me.... Perhaps
I might be able to utilise all this as a means of a brilliant
reconciliation with M. de la Mole, who has a weakness for the little
seminarist."
The settlement of the lawsuit had been signed some weeks previously,
and the abbe Pirard had left Besancon after having duly mentioned
Julien's mysterious birth, on the very day when the unhappy man tried
to assassinate madame de Renal in the church of Verrieres.
There was only one disagreeable event between himself and his death
which Julien anticipated. He consulted Fouque concerning his idea
of writing to M. the Procureur-General asking to be exempt from all
visits. This horror at the sight of a father, above all at a moment
like this, deeply shocked the honest middle-class heart of the wood
merchant.
He thought he understood why so many people had a passionate hatred for
his friend. He concealed his feelings out of respect for misfortune.
"In any case," he answered coldly, "such an order for privacy would not
be applied to your father."
CHAPTER LXVIII
A POWERFUL MAN
But her proceedings are so mysterious and her figure is
so elegant! Who can she be?--_Schiller_.
The doors of the turret opened very early on the following day.
"Oh! good God," he thought, "here's my father! What an unpleasant
scene!"
At the same time a woman dressed like a peasant rushed into his arms.
He had difficulty in recognising her. It was mademoiselle de la Mole.
"You wicked man! Your letter only told me where you were. As for what
you call your crime, but which is really nothing more or less than a
noble vengeance, which shews me all the loftiness of the heart which
beats within your bosom, I only got to know of it at Verrieres."
In spite of all his prejudices against mademoiselle de la Mole,
prejudices moreover which he had not owned to himself quite frankly,
Julien found her extremely pretty. It was impossible not to recognise
both in what she had done and what she had said, a noble disinterested
feeling far above the level of anything that a petty vulgar soul would
have dared to do? He thought that he still loved a queen, and after a
few moments said to her with a remarkable nobility both of thought and
of elocution,
"I sketched out the future very clearly. After my death I intended to
remarry you to M. de Croisenois, who will officially of course then
marry a widow. The noble but slightly romantic soul of this charming
widow, who will have been brought back to the cult of vulgar prudence
by an astonishing and singular event which played in her life a part
as great as it was tragic, will deign to appreciate the very real
merit of the young marquis. You will resign yourself to be happy with
ordinary worldly happiness, prestige, riches, high rank. But, dear
Mathilde, if your arrival at Besancon is suspected, it will be a mortal
blow for M. de la Mole, and that is what I shall never forgive myself.
I have already caused him so much sorrow. The academician will say that
he has nursed a serpent in his bosom.
"I must confess that I little expected so much cold reason and so much
solicitude for the future," said mademoiselle de la Mole, slightly
annoyed. "My maid who is almost as prudent as you are, took a passport
for herself, and I posted here under the name of madam Michelet."
"And did madame Michelet find it so easy to get to see me?"
"Ah! you are still the same superior man whom I chose to favour. I
started by offering a hundred francs to one of the judge's secretaries,
who alleged at first that my admission into this turret was impossible.
But once he had got the money the worthy man kept me waiting, raised
objections, and I thought that he meant to rob me--" She stopped.
"Well?" said Julien.
"Do not be angry, my little Julien," she said, kissing him. "I was
obliged to tell my name to the secretary, who took me for a young
working girl from Paris in love with handsome Julien. As a matter of
fact those are his actual expressions. I swore to him, my dear, that I
was your wife, and I shall have a permit to see you every day."
"Nothing could be madder," thought Julien, "but I could not help it.
After all, M. de la Mole is so great a nobleman that public opinion
will manage to find an excuse for the young colonel who will marry
such a charming widow. My death will atone for everything;" and he
abandoned himself with delight to Mathilde's love. It was madness, it
was greatness of soul, it was the most remarkable thing possible. She
seriously suggested that she should kill herself with him.
After these first transports, when she had had her fill of the
happiness of seeing Julien, a keen curiosity suddenly invaded her soul.
She began to scrutinize her lover, and found him considerably above
the plane which she had anticipated. Boniface de La Mole seemed to be
brought to life again, but on a more heroic scale.
Mathilde saw the first advocates of the locality, and offended them by
offering gold too crudely, but they finished by accepting.
She promptly came to the conclusion that so far as dubious and far
reaching intrigues were concerned, everything depended at Besancon on
M. the abbe de Frilair.
She found at first overwhelming difficulties in obtaining an interview
with the all-powerful leader of the congregation under the obscure name
of madame Michelet. But the rumour of the beauty of a young dressmaker,
who was madly in love, and had come from Paris to Besancon to console
the young abbe Julien Sorel, spread over the town.
Mathilde walked about the Besancon streets alone: she hoped not to be
recognised. In any case, she thought it would be of some use to her
cause if she produced a great impression on the people. She thought, in
her madness, of making them rebel in order to save Julien as he walked
to his death. Mademoiselle de la Mole thought she was dressed simply
and in a way suitable to a woman in mourning, she was dressed in fact
in such a way as to attract every one's attention.
She was the object of everyone's notice at Besancon when she obtained
an audience of M. de Frilair after a week spent in soliciting it.
In spite of all her courage, the idea of an influential leader of the
congregation, and the idea of deep and calculating criminality, were so
associated with each other in her mind, that she trembled as she rang
the bell at the door of the bishop's palace. She could scarcely walk
when she had to go up the staircase, which led to the apartment of the
first grand Vicar. The solitude of the episcopal palace chilled her. "I
might sit down in an armchair, and the armchair might grip my arms: I
should then disappear. Whom could my maid ask for? The captain of the
gendarmerie will take care to do nothing. I am isolated in this great
town."
After her first look at the apartment, mademoiselle de la Mole felt
reassured. In the first place, the lackey who had opened the door to
her had on a very elegant livery. The salon in which she was asked to
wait displayed that refined and delicate luxury which differs so much
from crude magnificence, and which is only found in the best houses in
Paris. As soon as she noticed M. de Frilair coming towards her with
quite a paternal air, all her ideas of his criminality disappeared. She
did not even find on his handsome face the impress of that drastic and
somewhat savage courage which is so anti-pathetic to Paris society.
The half-smile which animated the features of the priest, who was
all-powerful at Besancon, betokened the well-bred man, the learned
prelate, the clever administrator. Mathilde felt herself at Paris.
It was the work of a few minutes for M. de Frilair to induce Mathilde
to confess to him that she was the daughter of his powerful opponent,
the marquis de la Mole.
"As a matter of fact, I am not Madame Michelet," she said, reassuming
all the haughtiness of her natural demeanour, "and this confession
costs me but little since I have come to consult you, monsieur, on the
possibility of procuring the escape of M. de la Vernaye. Moreover, he
is only guilty of a piece of folly; the woman whom he shot at is well;
and, in the second place, I can put down fifty-thousand francs straight
away for the purpose of bribing the officials, and pledge myself for
twice that sum. Finally, my gratitude and the gratitude of my family
will be ready to do absolutely anything for the man who has saved M. de
la Vernaye."
M. de Frilair seemed astonished at the name. Mathilde shewed him
several letters from the Minister of War, addressed to M. Julien Sorel
de la Vernaye.
"You see, monsieur, that my father took upon himself the responsibility
of his career. I married him secretly, my father was desirous that he
should be a superior officer before the notification of this marriage,
which, after all, is somewhat singular for a de la Mole."
Mathilde noticed that M. de Frilair's expression of goodwill and mild
cheerfulness was rapidly vanishing in proportion as he made certain
important discoveries. His face exhibited a subtlety tinged with deep
perfidiousness, the abbe had doubts, he was slowly re-reading the
official documents.
"What can I get out of these strange confidences?" he said to himself.
"Here I am suddenly thrown into intimate relations with a friend of
the celebrated marechale de Fervaques, who is the all-powerful niece
of my lord, bishop of ---- who can make one a bishop of France. What
I looked upon as an extremely distant possibility presents itself
unexpectedly. This may lead me to the goal of all my hopes."
Mathilde was at first alarmed by the sudden change in the expression
of this powerful man, with whom she was alone in a secluded room. "But
come," she said to herself soon afterwards. "Would it not have been
more unfortunate if I had made no impression at all on the cold egoism
of a priest who was already sated with power and enjoyment?"
Dazzled at the sight of this rapid and unexpected path of reaching the
episcopate which now disclosed itself to him, and astonished as he was
by Mathilde's genius, M. de Frilair ceased for a moment to be on his
guard. Mademoiselle de la Mole saw him almost at her feet, tingling
with ambition, and trembling nervously.
"Everything is cleared up," she thought. "Madame de Fervaques' friend
will find nothing impossible in this town." In spite of a sentiment
of still painful jealousy she had sufficient courage to explain that
Julien was the intimate friend of the marechale, and met my lord the
bishop of ---- nearly every day.
"If you were to draw by ballot four or five times in succession a
list of thirty-six jurymen from out the principal inhabitants of this
department," said the grand Vicar, emphasizing his words, and with a
hard, ambitious expression in his eyes, "I should not feel inclined to
congratulate myself, if I could not reckon on eight or ten friends who
would be the most intelligent of the lot in each list. I can always
manage in nearly every case to get more than a sufficient majority to
secure a condemnation, so you see, mademoiselle, how easy it is for me
to secure a conviction." The abbe stopped short as though astonished
by the sound of his own words; he was admitting things which are never
said to the profane. But he in his turn dumbfounded Mathilde when he
informed her that the special feature in Julien's strange adventure
which astonished and interested Besancon society, was that he had
formerly inspired Madame de Renal with a grand passion and reciprocated
it for a long time. M. de Frilair had no difficulty in perceiving the
extreme trouble which his story produced.
"I have my revenge," he thought. "After all it's a way of managing
this decided young person. I was afraid that I should not succeed." Her
distinguished and intractable appearance intensified in his eyes the
charm of the rare beauty whom he now saw practically entreating him. He
regained all his self-possession--and he did not hesitate to move the
dagger about in her heart.
"I should not be at all surprised," he said to her lightly, "if we
were to learn that it was owing to jealousy that M. Sorel fired two
pistol shots at the woman he once loved so much. Of course she must
have consoled herself and for some time she has been seeing extremely
frequently a certain abbe Marquinot of Dijon, a kind of Jansenist, and
as immoral as all Jansenists are."
M. de Frilair experienced the voluptuous pleasure of torturing at
his leisure the heart of this beautiful girl whose weakness he had
surprised.
"Why," he added, as he fixed his ardent eyes upon Mathilde, "should
M. Sorel have chosen the church, if it were not for the reason that
his rival was celebrating mass in it at that very moment? Everyone
attributes an infinite amount of intelligence and an even greater
amount of prudence to the fortunate man who is the object of your
interest. What would have been simpler than to hide himself in the
garden of M. de Renal which he knows so well. Once there he could put
the woman of whom he was jealous to death with the practical certainty
of being neither seen, caught, nor suspected."
This apparently sound train of reasoning eventually made Mathilde
loose all self-possession. Her haughty soul steeped in all that arid
prudence, which passes in high society for the true psychology of the
human heart, was not of the type to be at all quick in appreciating
that joy of scorning all prudence, which an ardent soul can find so
keen. In the high classes of Paris society in which Mathilde had lived,
it is only rarely that passion can divest itself of prudence, and
people always make a point of throwing themselves out of windows from
the fifth storey.
At last the abbe de Frilair was sure of his power over her. He gave
Mathilde to understand (and he was doubtless lying) that he could do
what he liked with the public official who was entrusted with the
conduct of Julien's prosecution. After the thirty-six jurymen for the
sessions had been chosen by ballot, he would approach at least thirty
jurymen directly and personally.
If M. de Frilair had not thought Mathilde so pretty, he would not have
spoken so clearly before the fifth or sixth interview.
CHAPTER LXIX
THE INTRIGUE
Castres 1676--A brother has just murdered his sister
in the house next to mine. This gentleman had already
been guilty of one murder. His father saved his life by
causing five-hundred crowns to be distributed among the
councillors.--_Locke: Journey in France_.
When she left the bishop's palace, Mathilde did not hesitate to
despatch a courier to madame de Fervaques. The fear of compromising
herself did not stop her for a moment. She entreated her rival to
obtain for M. de Frilair an autograph letter from the bishop of ----.
She went as far as to entreat her to come herself to Besancon with all
speed. This was an heroic act on the part of a proud and jealous soul.
Acting on Fouque's advice, she had had the discretion to refrain from
mentioning the steps she had taken for Julien. Her presence troubled
him enough without that. A better man when face to face with death than
he had ever been during his life, he had remorse not only towards M. de
la Mole, but also towards Mathilde.
"Come," he said to himself, "there are times when I feel absent-minded
and even bored by her society. She is ruining herself on my account,
and this is how I reward her. Am I really a scoundrel?" This question
would have bothered him but little in the days when he was ambitious.
In those days he looked upon failure as the only disgrace.
His moral discomfort when with Mathilde was proportionately emphasized
by the fact that he inspired her at this time with the maddest and most
extraordinary passion. She talked of nothing but the strange sacrifices
that she was ready to make in order to save him.
Exalted as she was by a sentiment on which she plumed herself, to the
complete subordination of her pride, she would have liked not to have
let a single minute of her life go by without filling it with some
extraordinary act. The strangest projects, and ones involving her in
the utmost danger, supplied the topics of her long interviews with
Julien. The well-paid gaolers allowed her to reign over the prison.
Mathilde's ideas were not limited by the sacrifice of her reputation.
She would have thought nothing of making her condition known to society
at large. Throwing herself on her knees before the king's carriage
as it galloped along, in order to ask for Julien's pardon, and thus
attracting the attention of the prince, at the risk of being crushed
a thousand times over, was one of the least fantastic dreams in which
this exalted and courageous imagination chose to indulge. She was
certain of being admitted into the reserved portion of the park of St.
Cloud, through those friends of hers who were employed at the king's
court.
Julien thought himself somewhat unworthy of so much devotion. As a
matter of fact, he was tired of heroism. A simple, naive, and almost
timid tenderness was what would have appealed to him, while Mathilde's
haughty soul, on the other hand, always required the idea of a public
and an audience.
In the midst of all her anguish and all her fears for the life of
that lover whom she was unwilling to survive, she felt a secret need
of astonishing the public by the extravagance of her love and the
sublimity of her actions.
Julien felt irritated at not finding himself touched by all this
heroism. What would he have felt if he had known of all the mad ideas
with which Mathilde overwhelmed the devoted but eminently logical and
limited spirit of the good Fouque?
He did not know what to find fault with in Mathilde's devotion. For
he, too, would have sacrificed all his fortune, and have exposed his
life to the greatest risks in order to save Julien. He was dumbfounded
by the quantity of gold which Mathilde flung away. During the first
days Fouque, who had all the provincial's respect for money, was much
impressed by the sums she spent in this way.
He at last discovered that mademoiselle de la Mole's projects
frequently varied, and he was greatly relieved at finding a word with
which to express his blame for a character whom he found so exhausting.
She was changeable. There is only a step from this epithet to that of
wrong-headed, the greatest term of opprobrium known to the provinces.
"It is singular," said Julien to himself, as Mathilde was going out
of his prison one day, "that I should be so insensible at being the
object of so keen a passion! And two months ago I adored her! I have,
of course, read that the approach of death makes one lose interest
in everything, but it is awful to feel oneself ungrateful, and not
to be able to change. Am I an egoist, then?" He addressed the most
humiliating reproaches to himself on this score.
Ambition was dead in his heart; another passion had arisen from its
ashes. He called it remorse at having assassinated madame de Renal.
As a matter of fact, he loved her to the point of distraction. He
experienced a singular happiness on these occasions when, being left
absolutely alone, and without being afraid of being interrupted, he
could surrender himself completely to the memory of the happy days
which he had once passed at Verrieres, or at Vergy. The slightest
incidents of these days, which had fleeted away only too rapidly,
possessed an irresistible freshness and charm. He never gave a thought
to his Paris successes; they bored him.
These moods, which became intensified with every succeeding day, were
partly guessed by the jealous Mathilde. She realised very clearly that
she had to struggle against his love of solitude. Sometimes, with
terror in her heart, she uttered madame de Renal's name.
She saw Julien quiver. Henceforth her passion had neither bounds nor
limit.
"If he dies, I will die after him," she said to herself in all good
faith. "What will the Paris salons say when they see a girl of my own
rank carry her adoration for a lover who is condemned to death to such
a pitch as this? For sentiments like these you must go back to the age
of the heroes. It was loves of this kind which thrilled the hearts of
the century of Charles IX. and Henri III."
In the midst of her keenest transports, when she was clasping Julien's
head against her heart, she would say to herself with horror, "What!
is this charming head doomed to fall? Well," she added, inflamed by
a not unhappy heroism, "these lips of mine, which are now pressing
against this pretty hair, will be icy cold less than twenty-four hours
afterwards."
Thoughts of the awful voluptuousness of such heroic moments gripped
her in a compelling embrace. The idea of suicide, absorbing enough
in itself, entered that haughty soul (to which, up to the present it
had been so utterly alien), and soon reigned over it with an absolute
dominion.
"No, the blood of my ancestors has not grown tepid in descending to
me," said Mathilde proudly to herself.
"I have a favour to ask of you," said her lover to her one day. "Put
your child out to nurse at Verrieres. Madame de Renal will look after
the nurse."
"Those words of yours are very harsh." And Mathilde paled.
"It is true, and I ask your pardon a thousand times," exclaimed Julien,
emerging from his reverie, and clasping her in his arms.
After having dried his tears, he reverted to his original idea, but
with greater tact. He had given a twist of melancholy philosophy to the
conversation. He talked of that future of his which was so soon going
to close. "One must admit, dear one, that passions are an accident in
life, but such accidents only occur in superior souls.... My son's
death would be in reality a happiness for your own proud family, and
all the servants will realize as much. Neglect will be the lot of that
child of shame and unhappiness. I hope that, at a time which I do not
wish to fix, but which nevertheless I am courageous enough to imagine,
you will obey my last advice: you will marry the marquis de Croisenois."
"What? Dishonoured?"
"Dishonour cannot attach to a name such as yours. You will be a widow,
and the widow of a madman--that is all. I will go further--my crime
will confer no dishonour, since it had no money motive. Perhaps when
the time comes for your marriage, some philosophic legislator will have
so far prevailed on the prejudice of his contemporaries as to have
secured the suppression of the death penalty. Then some friendly voice
will say, by way of giving an instance: 'Why, madame de la Mole's first
husband was a madman, but not a wicked man or a criminal. It was absurd
to have his head cut off.' So my memory will not be infamous in any
way--at least, after a certain time.... Your position in society, your
fortune, and, if you will allow me to say so, your genius, will make M.
de Croisenois, once he is your husband, play a part which he would have
never managed to secure unaided. He only possesses birth and bravery,
and those qualities alone, though they constituted an accomplished man
in 1729, are an anachronism a century later on, and only give rise to
unwarranted pretensions. You need other things if you are to place
yourself at the head of the youth of France."
"You will take all the help of your firm and enterprising character
to the political party which you will make your husband join. You may
be able to be a successor to the Chevreuses and the Longuevilles of
the Fronde--but then, dear one, the divine fire which animates you
at present will have grown a little tepid. Allow me to tell you," he
added, "after many other preparatory phrases, that in fifteen years'
time you will look upon the love you once had for me as a madness,
which though excusable, was a piece of madness all the same."
He stopped suddenly and became meditative. He found himself again
confronted with the idea which shocked Mathilde so much: "In fifteen
years, madame de Renal will adore my son and you will have forgotten
him." | Julien is imprisoned in Verrieres, unaware that Mme. de Renal has miraculously escaped death and that the kind treatment he receives in prison is due to her intervention. He writes his farewell to Mathilde, requesting that she never attempt to see him again. Julien is overjoyed to learn that Mme. de Renal is not dead. He has confessed numerous times to the public prosecutor who visits him, and he hopes, by this means, to simplify the procedure and to be left alone. He is moved to another prison in a gothic tower in Besancon. He begins to relive his past with Mme. de Renal and finds that there was happiness. He contemplates suicide, then rejects the idea. Julien receives the visits of Chelan and Fouque. Chelan disheartens him, weakening his courage. Fouque cheers him. The interrogations continue in spite of Julien's frank avowal of guilt. Fouque attempts to intervene by means of a visit to Frilair. The latter is increasingly intrigued by the mystery of the Sorel affair, and he will attempt to benefit from it. Julien hopes not to have to endure a visit from his father, and Fouque is horrified at this lack of filial love. Mathilde visits Julien disguised as Madame Michelet. She has made overtures everywhere to gain Julien's release. Of these attempts she tells him nothing. Julien finds her extremely attractive, and, out of respect and admiration, he abandons himself with ecstasy to her love. Mathilde has visited Frilair, leader of the Besancon Congregation, erstwhile enemy of her father. She discloses to Frilair enough information to arrive at a sort of bargain: She will exercise her influence in Paris to Frilair's advantage in exchange for Frilair's assurance that he will work for the acquittal of Julien. Mathilde has requested that Mme. de Fervaques use her influence with a bishop to negotiate with Frilair. Mathilde has bribed the guards to gain constant access to Julien. The latter reproaches himself for not appreciating Mathilde's superhuman efforts to save him or her passionate ecstasies. He proposes that she turn over their child to Mme. de Renal. Mathilde, offended at this suggestion, finds that she is increasingly obliged to fight against Julien's growing inclination for solitude and against an awakening of affection for Mme. de Renal. He returns to the subject of his child's future but approaches it more diplomatically. |
Candide, yet more moved with compassion than with horror, gave to this
shocking beggar the two florins which he had received from the honest
Anabaptist James. The spectre looked at him very earnestly, dropped a
few tears, and fell upon his neck. Candide recoiled in disgust.
"Alas!" said one wretch to the other, "do you no longer know your dear
Pangloss?"
"What do I hear? You, my dear master! you in this terrible plight! What
misfortune has happened to you? Why are you no longer in the most
magnificent of castles? What has become of Miss Cunegonde, the pearl of
girls, and nature's masterpiece?"
"I am so weak that I cannot stand," said Pangloss.
Upon which Candide carried him to the Anabaptist's stable, and gave him
a crust of bread. As soon as Pangloss had refreshed himself a little:
"Well," said Candide, "Cunegonde?"
"She is dead," replied the other.
Candide fainted at this word; his friend recalled his senses with a
little bad vinegar which he found by chance in the stable. Candide
reopened his eyes.
"Cunegonde is dead! Ah, best of worlds, where art thou? But of what
illness did she die? Was it not for grief, upon seeing her father kick
me out of his magnificent castle?"
"No," said Pangloss, "she was ripped open by the Bulgarian soldiers,
after having been violated by many; they broke the Baron's head for
attempting to defend her; my lady, her mother, was cut in pieces; my
poor pupil was served just in the same manner as his sister; and as for
the castle, they have not left one stone upon another, not a barn, nor a
sheep, nor a duck, nor a tree; but we have had our revenge, for the
Abares have done the very same thing to a neighbouring barony, which
belonged to a Bulgarian lord."
At this discourse Candide fainted again; but coming to himself, and
having said all that it became him to say, inquired into the cause and
effect, as well as into the _sufficient reason_ that had reduced
Pangloss to so miserable a plight.
"Alas!" said the other, "it was love; love, the comfort of the human
species, the preserver of the universe, the soul of all sensible beings,
love, tender love."
"Alas!" said Candide, "I know this love, that sovereign of hearts, that
soul of our souls; yet it never cost me more than a kiss and twenty
kicks on the backside. How could this beautiful cause produce in you an
effect so abominable?"
Pangloss made answer in these terms: "Oh, my dear Candide, you remember
Paquette, that pretty wench who waited on our noble Baroness; in her
arms I tasted the delights of paradise, which produced in me those hell
torments with which you see me devoured; she was infected with them, she
is perhaps dead of them. This present Paquette received of a learned
Grey Friar, who had traced it to its source; he had had it of an old
countess, who had received it from a cavalry captain, who owed it to a
marchioness, who took it from a page, who had received it from a Jesuit,
who when a novice had it in a direct line from one of the companions of
Christopher Columbus.[3] For my part I shall give it to nobody, I am
dying."
"Oh, Pangloss!" cried Candide, "what a strange genealogy! Is not the
Devil the original stock of it?"
"Not at all," replied this great man, "it was a thing unavoidable, a
necessary ingredient in the best of worlds; for if Columbus had not in
an island of America caught this disease, which contaminates the source
of life, frequently even hinders generation, and which is evidently
opposed to the great end of nature, we should have neither chocolate nor
cochineal. We are also to observe that upon our continent, this
distemper is like religious controversy, confined to a particular spot.
The Turks, the Indians, the Persians, the Chinese, the Siamese, the
Japanese, know nothing of it; but there is a sufficient reason for
believing that they will know it in their turn in a few centuries. In
the meantime, it has made marvellous progress among us, especially in
those great armies composed of honest well-disciplined hirelings, who
decide the destiny of states; for we may safely affirm that when an army
of thirty thousand men fights another of an equal number, there are
about twenty thousand of them p-x-d on each side."
"Well, this is wonderful!" said Candide, "but you must get cured."
"Alas! how can I?" said Pangloss, "I have not a farthing, my friend, and
all over the globe there is no letting of blood or taking a glister,
without paying, or somebody paying for you."
These last words determined Candide; he went and flung himself at the
feet of the charitable Anabaptist James, and gave him so touching a
picture of the state to which his friend was reduced, that the good man
did not scruple to take Dr. Pangloss into his house, and had him cured
at his expense. In the cure Pangloss lost only an eye and an ear. He
wrote well, and knew arithmetic perfectly. The Anabaptist James made him
his bookkeeper. At the end of two months, being obliged to go to Lisbon
about some mercantile affairs, he took the two philosophers with him in
his ship. Pangloss explained to him how everything was so constituted
that it could not be better. James was not of this opinion.
"It is more likely," said he, "mankind have a little corrupted nature,
for they were not born wolves, and they have become wolves; God has
given them neither cannon of four-and-twenty pounders, nor bayonets; and
yet they have made cannon and bayonets to destroy one another. Into this
account I might throw not only bankrupts, but Justice which seizes on
the effects of bankrupts to cheat the creditors."
"All this was indispensable," replied the one-eyed doctor, "for private
misfortunes make the general good, so that the more private misfortunes
there are the greater is the general good."
While he reasoned, the sky darkened, the winds blew from the four
quarters, and the ship was assailed by a most terrible tempest within
sight of the port of Lisbon. | Soon thereafter, Candide takes a walk through the town when he meets a "ghastly beggar" who reveals to his pupil that he is Pangloss. Candide is shocked and horrified to see his teacher in such a state, but immediately asks about his beloved Cunegonde. When Pangloss explains that she has been killed, Candide passes out. Upon awakening, he muses, "Ah, best of worlds, what's become of you now. Obviously, Candide's belief in Pangloss' optimistic philosophy is waning, as Voltaire continues his ruthless indictment of Leibniz, Pope and others. Pangloss, next, begins to explain the events, including the murder of Cunegonde, that occurred at the castle after Candide had been thrown out. He says that the beautiful Cunegonde was brutally and repeatedly raped by Bulgar soldiers who attacked the family fortress, finally killing both Cunegonde and the rest of her family before destroying the castle. Yet it seems the Abares were no less hostile to their enemies, as Pangloss notes their similar treatment of a nearby Bulgar castle. Hearing this, Candide attempts to understand such seemingly needless suffering by asking his teacher about the "cause and effect" and the "sufficient reason" for such tragedies, specifically his own sorry state. Pangloss masterfully crafts a brilliant explanation of his disease, which he explains was sexually transmitted from the servant girl, Paquette, to whom the reader may recall he gave "physics lessons" in the opening scene. The doctor gives a detailed, yet brief account of the STD's path, explaining how it transcended through a Franciscan, and Jesuit, and even through the men of Christopher Columbus himself, who received it from the New World natives. The devil, however, isn't at the root of such a mess, Pangloss asserts, because such suffering is only a small aspect of a larger good. For example, if Columbus had never sailed to America, chocolate wouldn't exist to tantalize the taste buds of cultured Europeans. Fortunately for Pangloss, Jacques, the "charitable anabaptist," pays to cure the teacher of his disease, though the philosopher loses one eye and one ear in the process. When Jacques confronts Pangloss' systemic philosophy, however, he responds, ". private misfortunes make for public welfare |
It was a Sunday evening in London, gloomy, close, and stale. Maddening
church bells of all degrees of dissonance, sharp and flat, cracked
and clear, fast and slow, made the brick-and-mortar echoes hideous.
Melancholy streets, in a penitential garb of soot, steeped the souls of
the people who were condemned to look at them out of windows, in dire
despondency. In every thoroughfare, up almost every alley, and down
almost every turning, some doleful bell was throbbing, jerking, tolling,
as if the Plague were in the city and the dead-carts were going round.
Everything was bolted and barred that could by possibility furnish
relief to an overworked people. No pictures, no unfamiliar animals, no
rare plants or flowers, no natural or artificial wonders of the ancient
world--all _taboo_ with that enlightened strictness, that the ugly South
Sea gods in the British Museum might have supposed themselves at home
again. Nothing to see but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to breathe
but streets, streets, streets. Nothing to change the brooding mind,
or raise it up. Nothing for the spent toiler to do, but to compare the
monotony of his seventh day with the monotony of his six days, think
what a weary life he led, and make the best of it--or the worst,
according to the probabilities.
At such a happy time, so propitious to the interests of religion and
morality, Mr Arthur Clennam, newly arrived from Marseilles by way of
Dover, and by Dover coach the Blue-eyed Maid, sat in the window of a
coffee-house on Ludgate Hill. Ten thousand responsible houses surrounded
him, frowning as heavily on the streets they composed, as if they were
every one inhabited by the ten young men of the Calender's story, who
blackened their faces and bemoaned their miseries every night. Fifty
thousand lairs surrounded him where people lived so unwholesomely that
fair water put into their crowded rooms on Saturday night, would be
corrupt on Sunday morning; albeit my lord, their county member, was
amazed that they failed to sleep in company with their butcher's meat.
Miles of close wells and pits of houses, where the inhabitants gasped
for air, stretched far away towards every point of the compass. Through
the heart of the town a deadly sewer ebbed and flowed, in the place of
a fine fresh river. What secular want could the million or so of
human beings whose daily labour, six days in the week, lay among these
Arcadian objects, from the sweet sameness of which they had no escape
between the cradle and the grave--what secular want could they possibly
have upon their seventh day? Clearly they could want nothing but a
stringent policeman.
Mr Arthur Clennam sat in the window of the coffee-house on Ludgate Hill,
counting one of the neighbouring bells, making sentences and burdens of
songs out of it in spite of himself, and wondering how many sick
people it might be the death of in the course of the year. As the hour
approached, its changes of measure made it more and more exasperating.
At the quarter, it went off into a condition of deadly-lively
importunity, urging the populace in a voluble manner to Come to church,
Come to church, Come to church! At the ten minutes, it became aware
that the congregation would be scanty, and slowly hammered out in low
spirits, They _won't_ come, they _won't_ come, they _won't_ come! At the
five minutes, it abandoned hope, and shook every house in the
neighbourhood for three hundred seconds, with one dismal swing per
second, as a groan of despair.
'Thank Heaven!' said Clennam, when the hour struck, and the bell
stopped.
But its sound had revived a long train of miserable Sundays, and the
procession would not stop with the bell, but continued to march on.
'Heaven forgive me,' said he, 'and those who trained me. How I have
hated this day!'
There was the dreary Sunday of his childhood, when he sat with his hands
before him, scared out of his senses by a horrible tract which commenced
business with the poor child by asking him in its title, why he was
going to Perdition?--a piece of curiosity that he really, in a frock and
drawers, was not in a condition to satisfy--and which, for the further
attraction of his infant mind, had a parenthesis in every other line
with some such hiccupping reference as 2 Ep. Thess. c. iii, v. 6 &
7. There was the sleepy Sunday of his boyhood, when, like a military
deserter, he was marched to chapel by a picquet of teachers three times
a day, morally handcuffed to another boy; and when he would willingly
have bartered two meals of indigestible sermon for another ounce or
two of inferior mutton at his scanty dinner in the flesh. There was the
interminable Sunday of his nonage; when his mother, stern of face and
unrelenting of heart, would sit all day behind a Bible--bound, like her
own construction of it, in the hardest, barest, and straitest boards,
with one dinted ornament on the cover like the drag of a chain, and a
wrathful sprinkling of red upon the edges of the leaves--as if it, of
all books! were a fortification against sweetness of temper, natural
affection, and gentle intercourse. There was the resentful Sunday of a
little later, when he sat down glowering and glooming through the tardy
length of the day, with a sullen sense of injury in his heart, and no
more real knowledge of the beneficent history of the New Testament than
if he had been bred among idolaters. There was a legion of Sundays,
all days of unserviceable bitterness and mortification, slowly passing
before him.
'Beg pardon, sir,' said a brisk waiter, rubbing the table. 'Wish see
bed-room?'
'Yes. I have just made up my mind to do it.'
'Chaymaid!' cried the waiter. 'Gelen box num seven wish see room!'
'Stay!' said Clennam, rousing himself. 'I was not thinking of what I
said; I answered mechanically. I am not going to sleep here. I am going
home.'
'Deed, sir? Chaymaid! Gelen box num seven, not go sleep here, gome.'
He sat in the same place as the day died, looking at the dull houses
opposite, and thinking, if the disembodied spirits of former inhabitants
were ever conscious of them, how they must pity themselves for their old
places of imprisonment. Sometimes a face would appear behind the dingy
glass of a window, and would fade away into the gloom as if it had seen
enough of life and had vanished out of it. Presently the rain began to
fall in slanting lines between him and those houses, and people began
to collect under cover of the public passage opposite, and to look out
hopelessly at the sky as the rain dropped thicker and faster. Then wet
umbrellas began to appear, draggled skirts, and mud. What the mud had
been doing with itself, or where it came from, who could say? But it
seemed to collect in a moment, as a crowd will, and in five minutes to
have splashed all the sons and daughters of Adam. The lamplighter was
going his rounds now; and as the fiery jets sprang up under his touch,
one might have fancied them astonished at being suffered to introduce
any show of brightness into such a dismal scene.
Mr Arthur Clennam took up his hat and buttoned his coat, and walked out.
In the country, the rain would have developed a thousand fresh scents,
and every drop would have had its bright association with some beautiful
form of growth or life. In the city, it developed only foul stale
smells, and was a sickly, lukewarm, dirt-stained, wretched addition to
the gutters.
He crossed by St Paul's and went down, at a long angle, almost to the
water's edge, through some of the crooked and descending streets which
lie (and lay more crookedly and closely then) between the river and
Cheapside. Passing, now the mouldy hall of some obsolete Worshipful
Company, now the illuminated windows of a Congregationless Church that
seemed to be waiting for some adventurous Belzoni to dig it out and
discover its history; passing silent warehouses and wharves, and here
and there a narrow alley leading to the river, where a wretched little
bill, FOUND DROWNED, was weeping on the wet wall; he came at last to the
house he sought. An old brick house, so dingy as to be all but black,
standing by itself within a gateway. Before it, a square court-yard
where a shrub or two and a patch of grass were as rank (which is saying
much) as the iron railings enclosing them were rusty; behind it,
a jumble of roots. It was a double house, with long, narrow,
heavily-framed windows. Many years ago, it had had it in its mind to
slide down sideways; it had been propped up, however, and was leaning on
some half-dozen gigantic crutches: which gymnasium for the neighbouring
cats, weather-stained, smoke-blackened, and overgrown with weeds,
appeared in these latter days to be no very sure reliance.
'Nothing changed,' said the traveller, stopping to look round. 'Dark and
miserable as ever. A light in my mother's window, which seems never to
have been extinguished since I came home twice a year from school, and
dragged my box over this pavement. Well, well, well!'
He went up to the door, which had a projecting canopy in carved work
of festooned jack-towels and children's heads with water on the brain,
designed after a once-popular monumental pattern, and knocked. A
shuffling step was soon heard on the stone floor of the hall, and the
door was opened by an old man, bent and dried, but with keen eyes.
He had a candle in his hand, and he held it up for a moment to assist
his keen eyes. 'Ah, Mr Arthur?' he said, without any emotion, 'you are
come at last? Step in.'
Mr Arthur stepped in and shut the door.
'Your figure is filled out, and set,' said the old man, turning to look
at him with the light raised again, and shaking his head; 'but you don't
come up to your father in my opinion. Nor yet your mother.'
'How is my mother?'
'She is as she always is now. Keeps her room when not actually
bedridden, and hasn't been out of it fifteen times in as many years,
Arthur.' They had walked into a spare, meagre dining-room. The old man
had put the candlestick upon the table, and, supporting his right elbow
with his left hand, was smoothing his leathern jaws while he looked at
the visitor. The visitor offered his hand. The old man took it coldly
enough, and seemed to prefer his jaws, to which he returned as soon as
he could.
'I doubt if your mother will approve of your coming home on the Sabbath,
Arthur,' he said, shaking his head warily.
'You wouldn't have me go away again?'
'Oh! I? I? I am not the master. It's not what _I_ would have. I have
stood between your father and mother for a number of years. I don't
pretend to stand between your mother and you.'
'Will you tell her that I have come home?'
'Yes, Arthur, yes. Oh, to be sure! I'll tell her that you have come
home. Please to wait here. You won't find the room changed.' He took
another candle from a cupboard, lighted it, left the first on the table,
and went upon his errand. He was a short, bald old man, in a
high-shouldered black coat and waistcoat, drab breeches, and long drab
gaiters. He might, from his dress, have been either clerk or servant,
and in fact had long been both. There was nothing about him in the way
of decoration but a watch, which was lowered into the depths of its
proper pocket by an old black ribbon, and had a tarnished copper key
moored above it, to show where it was sunk. His head was awry, and
he had a one-sided, crab-like way with him, as if his foundations had
yielded at about the same time as those of the house, and he ought to
have been propped up in a similar manner.
'How weak am I,' said Arthur Clennam, when he was gone, 'that I could
shed tears at this reception! I, who have never experienced anything
else; who have never expected anything else.'
He not only could, but did. It was the momentary yielding of a nature
that had been disappointed from the dawn of its perceptions, but had not
quite given up all its hopeful yearnings yet. He subdued it, took up the
candle, and examined the room. The old articles of furniture were in
their old places; the Plagues of Egypt, much the dimmer for the fly and
smoke plagues of London, were framed and glazed upon the walls. There
was the old cellaret with nothing in it, lined with lead, like a sort of
coffin in compartments; there was the old dark closet, also with nothing
in it, of which he had been many a time the sole contents, in days of
punishment, when he had regarded it as the veritable entrance to that
bourne to which the tract had found him galloping. There was the large,
hard-featured clock on the sideboard, which he used to see bending its
figured brows upon him with a savage joy when he was behind-hand with
his lessons, and which, when it was wound up once a week with an iron
handle, used to sound as if it were growling in ferocious anticipation
of the miseries into which it would bring him. But here was the old man
come back, saying, 'Arthur, I'll go before and light you.'
Arthur followed him up the staircase, which was panelled off into spaces
like so many mourning tablets, into a dim bed-chamber, the floor of
which had gradually so sunk and settled, that the fire-place was in a
dell. On a black bier-like sofa in this hollow, propped up behind with
one great angular black bolster like the block at a state execution in
the good old times, sat his mother in a widow's dress.
She and his father had been at variance from his earliest remembrance.
To sit speechless himself in the midst of rigid silence, glancing in
dread from the one averted face to the other, had been the peacefullest
occupation of his childhood. She gave him one glassy kiss, and four
stiff fingers muffled in worsted. This embrace concluded, he sat down on
the opposite side of her little table. There was a fire in the grate,
as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a kettle on
the hob, as there had been night and day for fifteen years. There was a
little mound of damped ashes on the top of the fire, and another little
mound swept together under the grate, as there had been night and day
for fifteen years. There was a smell of black dye in the airless room,
which the fire had been drawing out of the crape and stuff of the
widow's dress for fifteen months, and out of the bier-like sofa for
fifteen years.
'Mother, this is a change from your old active habits.'
'The world has narrowed to these dimensions, Arthur,' she replied,
glancing round the room. 'It is well for me that I never set my heart
upon its hollow vanities.'
The old influence of her presence and her stern strong voice, so
gathered about her son, that he felt conscious of a renewal of the timid
chill and reserve of his childhood.
'Do you never leave your room, mother?'
'What with my rheumatic affection, and what with its attendant debility
or nervous weakness--names are of no matter now--I have lost the use
of my limbs. I never leave my room. I have not been outside this door
for--tell him for how long,' she said, speaking over her shoulder.
'A dozen year next Christmas,' returned a cracked voice out of the
dimness behind.
'Is that Affery?' said Arthur, looking towards it.
The cracked voice replied that it was Affery: and an old woman came
forward into what doubtful light there was, and kissed her hand once;
then subsided again into the dimness.
'I am able,' said Mrs Clennam, with a slight motion of her
worsted-muffled right hand toward a chair on wheels, standing before a
tall writing cabinet close shut up, 'I am able to attend to my business
duties, and I am thankful for the privilege. It is a great privilege.
But no more of business on this day. It is a bad night, is it not?'
'Yes, mother.'
'Does it snow?'
'Snow, mother? And we only yet in September?'
'All seasons are alike to me,' she returned, with a grim kind of
luxuriousness. 'I know nothing of summer and winter, shut up here.
The Lord has been pleased to put me beyond all that.' With her cold grey
eyes and her cold grey hair, and her immovable face, as stiff as the
folds of her stony head-dress,--her being beyond the reach of the
seasons seemed but a fit sequence to her being beyond the reach of all
changing emotions.
On her little table lay two or three books, her handkerchief, a pair of
steel spectacles newly taken off, and an old-fashioned gold watch in a
heavy double case. Upon this last object her son's eyes and her own now
rested together.
'I see that you received the packet I sent you on my father's death,
safely, mother.'
'You see.'
'I never knew my father to show so much anxiety on any subject, as that
his watch should be sent straight to you.'
'I keep it here as a remembrance of your father.'
'It was not until the last, that he expressed the wish; when he could
only put his hand upon it, and very indistinctly say to me "your
mother." A moment before, I thought him wandering in his mind, as he
had been for many hours--I think he had no consciousness of pain in his
short illness--when I saw him turn himself in his bed and try to open
it.'
'Was your father, then, not wandering in his mind when he tried to open
it?'
'No. He was quite sensible at that time.'
Mrs Clennam shook her head; whether in dismissal of the deceased or
opposing herself to her son's opinion, was not clearly expressed.
'After my father's death I opened it myself, thinking there might be,
for anything I knew, some memorandum there. However, as I need not tell
you, mother, there was nothing but the old silk watch-paper worked in
beads, which you found (no doubt) in its place between the cases, where
I found and left it.'
Mrs Clennam signified assent; then added, 'No more of business on this
day,' and then added, 'Affery, it is nine o'clock.'
Upon this, the old woman cleared the little table, went out of the room,
and quickly returned with a tray on which was a dish of little rusks and
a small precise pat of butter, cool, symmetrical, white, and plump. The
old man who had been standing by the door in one attitude during the
whole interview, looking at the mother up-stairs as he had looked at the
son down-stairs, went out at the same time, and, after a longer absence,
returned with another tray on which was the greater part of a bottle
of port wine (which, to judge by his panting, he had brought from the
cellar), a lemon, a sugar-basin, and a spice box. With these materials
and the aid of the kettle, he filled a tumbler with a hot and
odorous mixture, measured out and compounded with as much nicety as a
physician's prescription. Into this mixture Mrs Clennam dipped certain
of the rusks, and ate them; while the old woman buttered certain other
of the rusks, which were to be eaten alone. When the invalid had eaten
all the rusks and drunk all the mixture, the two trays were removed;
and the books and the candle, watch, handkerchief, and spectacles were
replaced upon the table. She then put on the spectacles and read certain
passages aloud from a book--sternly, fiercely, wrathfully--praying that
her enemies (she made them by her tone and manner expressly hers) might
be put to the edge of the sword, consumed by fire, smitten by plagues
and leprosy, that their bones might be ground to dust, and that they
might be utterly exterminated. As she read on, years seemed to fall
away from her son like the imaginings of a dream, and all the old dark
horrors of his usual preparation for the sleep of an innocent child to
overshadow him.
She shut the book and remained for a little time with her face shaded by
her hand. So did the old man, otherwise still unchanged in attitude; so,
probably, did the old woman in her dimmer part of the room. Then the
sick woman was ready for bed.
'Good night, Arthur. Affery will see to your accommodation. Only touch
me, for my hand is tender.' He touched the worsted muffling of her
hand--that was nothing; if his mother had been sheathed in brass there
would have been no new barrier between them--and followed the old man
and woman down-stairs.
The latter asked him, when they were alone together among the heavy
shadows of the dining-room, would he have some supper?
'No, Affery, no supper.'
'You shall if you like,' said Affery. 'There's her tomorrow's partridge
in the larder--her first this year; say the word and I'll cook it.'
No, he had not long dined, and could eat nothing.
'Have something to drink, then,' said Affery; 'you shall have some of
her bottle of port, if you like. I'll tell Jeremiah that you ordered me
to bring it you.'
No; nor would he have that, either.
'It's no reason, Arthur,' said the old woman, bending over him to
whisper, 'that because I am afeared of my life of 'em, you should be.
You've got half the property, haven't you?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Well then, don't you be cowed. You're clever, Arthur, an't you?'
He nodded, as she seemed to expect an answer in the affirmative.
'Then stand up against them! She's awful clever, and none but a clever
one durst say a word to her. _He's_ a clever one--oh, he's a clever
one!--and he gives it her when he has a mind to't, he does!'
'Your husband does?'
'Does? It makes me shake from head to foot, to hear him give it her. My
husband, Jeremiah Flintwinch, can conquer even your mother. What can he
be but a clever one to do that!'
His shuffling footstep coming towards them caused her to retreat to the
other end of the room. Though a tall, hard-favoured, sinewy old woman,
who in her youth might have enlisted in the Foot Guards without much
fear of discovery, she collapsed before the little keen-eyed crab-like
old man.
'Now, Affery,' said he, 'now, woman, what are you doing? Can't you find
Master Arthur something or another to pick at?'
Master Arthur repeated his recent refusal to pick at anything.
'Very well, then,' said the old man; 'make his bed. Stir yourself.' His
neck was so twisted that the knotted ends of his white cravat usually
dangled under one ear; his natural acerbity and energy, always
contending with a second nature of habitual repression, gave his
features a swollen and suffused look; and altogether, he had a weird
appearance of having hanged himself at one time or other, and of having
gone about ever since, halter and all, exactly as some timely hand had
cut him down.
'You'll have bitter words together to-morrow, Arthur; you and your
mother,' said Jeremiah. 'Your having given up the business on your
father's death--which she suspects, though we have left it to you to
tell her--won't go off smoothly.'
'I have given up everything in life for the business, and the time came
for me to give up that.'
'Good!' cried Jeremiah, evidently meaning Bad. 'Very good! only don't
expect me to stand between your mother and you, Arthur. I stood between
your mother and your father, fending off this, and fending off that, and
getting crushed and pounded betwixt em; and I've done with such work.'
'You will never be asked to begin it again for me, Jeremiah.'
'Good. I'm glad to hear it; because I should have had to decline it, if
I had been. That's enough--as your mother says--and more than enough of
such matters on a Sabbath night. Affery, woman, have you found what you
want yet?'
She had been collecting sheets and blankets from a press, and hastened
to gather them up, and to reply, 'Yes, Jeremiah.' Arthur Clennam helped
her by carrying the load himself, wished the old man good night, and
went up-stairs with her to the top of the house.
They mounted up and up, through the musty smell of an old close house,
little used, to a large garret bed-room. Meagre and spare, like all the
other rooms, it was even uglier and grimmer than the rest, by being the
place of banishment for the worn-out furniture. Its movables were ugly
old chairs with worn-out seats, and ugly old chairs without any seats;
a threadbare patternless carpet, a maimed table, a crippled wardrobe,
a lean set of fire-irons like the skeleton of a set deceased, a
washing-stand that looked as if it had stood for ages in a hail of
dirty soapsuds, and a bedstead with four bare atomies of posts, each
terminating in a spike, as if for the dismal accommodation of lodgers
who might prefer to impale themselves. Arthur opened the long low
window, and looked out upon the old blasted and blackened forest of
chimneys, and the old red glare in the sky, which had seemed to him once
upon a time but a nightly reflection of the fiery environment that was
presented to his childish fancy in all directions, let it look where it
would.
He drew in his head again, sat down at the bedside, and looked on at
Affery Flintwinch making the bed.
'Affery, you were not married when I went away.'
She screwed her mouth into the form of saying 'No,' shook her head, and
proceeded to get a pillow into its case.
'How did it happen?'
'Why, Jeremiah, o' course,' said Affery, with an end of the pillow-case
between her teeth.
'Of course he proposed it, but how did it all come about? I should have
thought that neither of you would have married; least of all should I
have thought of your marrying each other.'
'No more should I,' said Mrs Flintwinch, tying the pillow tightly in its
case.
'That's what I mean. When did you begin to think otherwise?'
'Never begun to think otherwise at all,' said Mrs Flintwinch.
Seeing, as she patted the pillow into its place on the bolster, that he
was still looking at her as if waiting for the rest of her reply,
she gave it a great poke in the middle, and asked, 'How could I help
myself?'
'How could you help yourself from being married!'
'O' course,' said Mrs Flintwinch. 'It was no doing o' mine. I'd never
thought of it. I'd got something to do, without thinking, indeed! She
kept me to it (as well as he) when she could go about, and she could go
about then.'
'Well?'
'Well?' echoed Mrs Flintwinch. 'That's what I said myself. Well! What's
the use of considering? If them two clever ones have made up their minds
to it, what's left for _me_ to do? Nothing.'
'Was it my mother's project, then?'
'The Lord bless you, Arthur, and forgive me the wish!' cried Affery,
speaking always in a low tone. 'If they hadn't been both of a mind in
it, how could it ever have been? Jeremiah never courted me; t'ant likely
that he would, after living in the house with me and ordering me
about for as many years as he'd done. He said to me one day, he said,
"Affery," he said, "now I am going to tell you something. What do you
think of the name of Flintwinch?" "What do I think of it?" I says.
"Yes," he said, "because you're going to take it," he said. "Take it?" I
says. "Jere-_mi_-ah?" Oh! he's a clever one!'
Mrs Flintwinch went on to spread the upper sheet over the bed, and the
blanket over that, and the counterpane over that, as if she had quite
concluded her story.
'Well?' said Arthur again.
'Well?' echoed Mrs Flintwinch again. 'How could I help myself? He said
to me, "Affery, you and me must be married, and I'll tell you why. She's
failing in health, and she'll want pretty constant attendance up in
her room, and we shall have to be much with her, and there'll be nobody
about now but ourselves when we're away from her, and altogether it will
be more convenient. She's of my opinion," he said, "so if you'll put
your bonnet on next Monday morning at eight, we'll get it over."' Mrs
Flintwinch tucked up the bed.
'Well?'
'Well?' repeated Mrs Flintwinch, 'I think so! I sits me down and says
it. Well!--Jeremiah then says to me, "As to banns, next Sunday being the
third time of asking (for I've put 'em up a fortnight), is my reason for
naming Monday. She'll speak to you about it herself, and now she'll find
you prepared, Affery." That same day she spoke to me, and she said, "So,
Affery, I understand that you and Jeremiah are going to be married. I
am glad of it, and so are you, with reason. It is a very good thing for
you, and very welcome under the circumstances to me. He is a sensible
man, and a trustworthy man, and a persevering man, and a pious man."
What could I say when it had come to that? Why, if it had been--a
smothering instead of a wedding,' Mrs Flintwinch cast about in her mind
with great pains for this form of expression, 'I couldn't have said a
word upon it, against them two clever ones.'
'In good faith, I believe so.'
'And so you may, Arthur.'
'Affery, what girl was that in my mother's room just now?'
'Girl?' said Mrs Flintwinch in a rather sharp key.
'It was a girl, surely, whom I saw near you--almost hidden in the dark
corner?'
'Oh! She? Little Dorrit? _She_'s nothing; she's a whim of--hers.' It was a
peculiarity of Affery Flintwinch that she never spoke of Mrs Clennam
by name. 'But there's another sort of girls than that about. Have you
forgot your old sweetheart? Long and long ago, I'll be bound.'
'I suffered enough from my mother's separating us, to remember her.
I recollect her very well.'
'Have you got another?'
'No.'
'Here's news for you, then. She's well to do now, and a widow. And if
you like to have her, why you can.'
'And how do you know that, Affery?'
'Them two clever ones have been speaking about it.--There's Jeremiah on
the stairs!' She was gone in a moment.
Mrs Flintwinch had introduced into the web that his mind was busily
weaving, in that old workshop where the loom of his youth had stood, the
last thread wanting to the pattern. The airy folly of a boy's love had
found its way even into that house, and he had been as wretched under
its hopelessness as if the house had been a castle of romance. Little
more than a week ago at Marseilles, the face of the pretty girl from
whom he had parted with regret, had had an unusual interest for him, and
a tender hold upon him, because of some resemblance, real or imagined,
to this first face that had soared out of his gloomy life into the
bright glories of fancy. He leaned upon the sill of the long low window,
and looking out upon the blackened forest of chimneys again, began to
dream; for it had been the uniform tendency of this man's life--so much
was wanting in it to think about, so much that might have been better
directed and happier to speculate upon--to make him a dreamer, after
all. | Arthur gets to London on Sunday. The narrator has a little aside to talk about how dumb it is that everything is closed on Sundays, the one day of the week that laborers have off. So anyway. Arthur sits at an inn thinking back on his miserable childhood. His mom was a crazy religious nutcase, and she and his dad were constantly fighting. Also, he went to some hardcore fundamentalist school. He decides not to stay at the inn but to go home. Home is a miserable falling-down wreck of a place. It's also where the Clennams' lending and financial services business is. Flintwinch, the old, nasty servant, answers the door, totally not excited to see Arthur. Flintwinch tells Arthur that Mrs. Clennam is now an invalid who hasn't left her room in fifteen years. And she is still a horrible, horrible, horrible old woman. Mrs. Clennam couldn't care less that Arthur is back. She seems weirdly proud of being kind of a quadriplegic. She asks if it's snowing outside, and Arthur is all, "Um, it's September." She says haughtily that she's forgotten all about the seasons. OK, wacko. Arthur reminds his mom about the watch his dad sent her with his final words on the back. She eats dinner, then reads a section from the Bible that is all about smiting enemies as violently as possible. Affery, the elderly maid, takes Arthur to his room. There, Affery tells Arthur how while he was gone Mrs. Clennam and Flintwinch decided he would marry her . Affery is totally terrified of both of them and repeats over and over how she clearly had no choice but to do whatever they told her. She does seem kind of hopeful that Arthur will stand up to them, since he owns half the business. Arthur asks about the tiny girl he saw in his mom's room doing embroidery, and Affery tells him that that's Little Dorrit, who is "nothing; a whim" of Mrs. Clennam . Flintwinch comes and tells Arthur that he knows he wants out of the firm, and that his mom is going to be totally mad about it. Honestly, though, we're not sure his mom is ever not mad, so, not a big deal there. Just before he goes to sleep, Affery tells Arthur that his old girlfriend, who he left behind when he went to China, is now a rich widow and can be his for the asking. Arthur falls asleep dreaming of her pretty face. |
"Be gay securely;
Dispel, my fair, with smiles, the tim'rous clouds,
That hang on thy clear brow."
_Death of Agrippina._
The sudden and almost magical change, from the stirring incidents of the
combat to the stillness that now reigned around him, acted on the heated
imagination of Heyward like some exciting dream. While all the images
and events he had witnessed remained deeply impressed on his memory, he
felt a difficulty in persuading himself of their truth. Still ignorant
of the fate of those who had trusted to the aid of the swift current, he
at first listened intently to any signal, or sounds of alarm, which
might announce the good or evil fortune of their hazardous undertaking.
His attention was, however, bestowed in vain; for, with the
disappearance of Uncas, every sign of the adventurers had been lost,
leaving him in total uncertainty of their fate.
In a moment of such painful doubt, Duncan did not hesitate to look about
him, without consulting that protection from the rocks which just before
had been so necessary to his safety. Every effort, however, to detect
the least evidence of the approach of their hidden enemies, was as
fruitless as the inquiry after his late companions. The wooded banks of
the rivers seemed again deserted by everything possessing animal life.
The uproar which had so lately echoed through the vaults of the forest
was gone, leaving the rush of the waters to swell and sink on the
currents of the air, in the unmingled sweetness of nature. A fish-hawk,
which, secure on the topmost branches of a dead pine, had been a distant
spectator of the fray, now stooped from his high and ragged perch, and
soared, in wide sweeps, above his prey; while a jay, whose noisy voice
had been stilled by the hoarser cries of the savages, ventured again to
open his discordant throat, as though once more in undisturbed
possession of his wild domains. Duncan caught from these natural
accompaniments of the solitary scene a glimmering of hope; and he began
to rally his faculties to renewed exertions, with something like a
reviving confidence of success.
"The Hurons are not to be seen," he said, addressing David, who had by
no means recovered from the effects of the stunning blow he had
received; "let us conceal ourselves in the cavern, and trust the rest to
Providence."
"I remember to have united with two comely maidens, in lifting up our
voices in praise and thanksgiving," returned the bewildered
singing-master; "since which time I have been visited by a heavy
judgment for my sins. I have been mocked with the likeness of sleep,
while sounds of discord have rent my ears, such as might manifest the
fulness of time, and that nature had forgotten her harmony."
"Poor fellow! thine own period was, in truth, near its accomplishment!
But arouse, and come with me; I will lead you where all other sounds but
those of your own psalmody shall be excluded."
"There is melody in the fall of the cataract, and the rushing of many
waters is sweet to the senses!" said David, pressing his hand confusedly
on his brow. "Is not the air yet filled with shrieks and cries, as
though the departed spirits of the damned--"
"Not now, not now," interrupted the impatient Heyward, "they have
ceased, and they who raised them, I trust in God, they are gone too!
everything but the water is still and at peace; in, then, where you may
create those sounds you love so well to hear."
David smiled sadly, though not without a momentary gleam of pleasure, at
this allusion to his beloved vocation. He no longer hesitated to be led
to a spot which promised such unalloyed gratification to his wearied
senses; and, leaning on the arm of his companion, he entered the narrow
mouth of the cave. Duncan seized a pile of the sassafras, which he drew
before the passage, studiously concealing every appearance of an
aperture. Within this fragile barrier he arranged the blankets abandoned
by the foresters, darkening the inner extremity of the cavern, while its
outer received a chastened light from the narrow ravine, through which
one arm of the river rushed, to form the junction with its sister
branch, a few rods below.
"I like not that principle of the natives, which teaches them to submit
without a struggle, in emergencies that appear desperate," he said,
while busied in this employment; "our own maxim, which says, 'while life
remains there is hope,' is more consoling, and better suited to a
soldier's temperament. To you, Cora, I will urge no words of idle
encouragement; your own fortitude and undisturbed reason will teach you
all that may become your sex; but cannot we dry the tears of that
trembling weeper on your bosom?"
"I am calmer, Duncan," said Alice, raising herself from the arms of her
sister, and forcing an appearance of composure through her tears; "much
calmer, now. Surely, in this hidden spot we are safe, we are secret,
free from injury; we will hope everything from those generous men who
have risked so much already in our behalf."
"Now does our gentle Alice speak like a daughter of Munro!" said
Heyward, pausing to press her hand as he passed towards the outer
entrance of the cavern. "With two such examples of courage before him, a
man would be ashamed to prove other than a hero." He then seated himself
in the centre of the cavern, grasping his remaining pistol with a hand
convulsively clenched, while his contracted and frowning eye announced
the sullen desperation of his purpose. "The Hurons, if they come, may
not gain our position so easily as they think," he lowly muttered; and
dropping his head back against the rock, he seemed to await the result
in patience, though his gaze was unceasingly bent on the open avenue to
their place of retreat.
With the last sound of his voice, a deep, a long, and almost breathless
silence succeeded. The fresh air of the morning had penetrated the
recess, and its influence was gradually felt on the spirits of its
inmates. As minute after minute passed by, leaving them in undisturbed
security, the insinuating feeling of hope was gradually gaining
possession of every bosom, though each one felt reluctant to give
utterance to expectations that the next moment might so fearfully
destroy.
David alone formed an exception to these varying emotions. A gleam of
light from the opening crossed his wan countenance, and fell upon the
pages of the little volume, whose leaves he was again occupied in
turning, as if searching for some song more fitted to their condition
than any that had yet met his eye. He was, most probably, acting all
this time under a confused recollection of the promised consolation of
Duncan. At length, it would seem, his patient industry found its reward;
for, without explanation or apology, he pronounced aloud the words "Isle
of Wight," drew a long, sweet sound from his pitch-pipe, and then ran
through the preliminary modulations of the air, whose name he had just
mentioned with the sweeter tones of his own musical voice.
"May not this prove dangerous?" asked Cora, glancing her dark eye at
Major Heyward.
"Poor fellow! his voice is too feeble to be heard amid the din of the
falls," was the answer; "besides, the cavern will prove his friend. Let
him indulge his passion, since it may be done without hazard."
"Isle of Wight!" repeated David, looking about him with that dignity
with which he had long been wont to silence the whispering echoes of his
school; "'tis a brave tune, and set to solemn words; let it be sung with
meet respect!"
After allowing a moment of stillness, to enforce his discipline, the
voice of the singer was heard, in low, murmuring syllables, gradually
stealing on the ear, until it filled the narrow vault with sounds
rendered trebly thrilling by the feeble and tremulous utterance produced
by his debility. The melody, which no weakness could destroy, gradually
wrought its sweet influence on the senses of those who heard it. It even
prevailed over the miserable travesty of the song of David which the
singer had selected from a volume of similar effusions, and caused the
sense to be forgotten in the insinuating harmony of the sounds. Alice
unconsciously dried her tears, and bent her melting eyes on the pallid
features of Gamut with an expression of chastened delight that she
neither affected nor wished to conceal. Cora bestowed an approving smile
on the pious efforts of the namesake of the Jewish prince, and Heyward
soon turned his steady, stern look from the outlet of the cavern, to
fasten it, with a milder character, on the face of David, or to meet the
wandering beams which at moments strayed from the humid eyes of Alice.
The open sympathy of the listeners stirred the spirit of the votary of
music, whose voice regained its richness and volume, without losing that
touching softness which proved its secret charm. Exerting his renovated
powers to their utmost, he was yet filling the arches of the cave with
long and full tones, when a yell burst into the air without, that
instantly stilled his pious strains, choking his voice suddenly, as
though his heart had literally bounded into the passage of his throat.
"We are lost!" exclaimed Alice, throwing herself into the arms of Cora.
"Not yet, not yet," returned the agitated but undaunted Heyward; "the
sound came from the centre of the island, and it has been produced by
the sight of their dead companions. We are not yet discovered, and there
is still hope."
Faint and almost despairing as was the prospect of escape, the words of
Duncan were not thrown away, for it awakened the powers of the sisters
in such a manner that they awaited the result in silence. A second yell
soon followed the first, when a rush of voices was heard pouring down
the island, from its upper to its lower extremity, until they reached
the naked rock above the caverns, where, after a shout of savage
triumph, the air continued full of horrible cries and screams, such as
man alone can utter, and he only when in a state of the fiercest
barbarity.
The sounds quickly spread around them in every direction. Some called to
their fellows from the water's edge, and were answered from the heights
above. Cries were heard in the startling vicinity of the chasm between
the two caves, which mingled with hoarser yells that arose out of the
abyss of the deep ravine. In short, so rapidly had the savage sounds
diffused themselves over the barren rock, that it was not difficult for
the anxious listeners to imagine they could be heard beneath, as in
truth they were above and on every side of them.
In the midst of this tumult, a triumphant yell was raised within a few
yards of the hidden entrance to the cave. Heyward abandoned every hope,
with the belief it was the signal that they were discovered. Again the
impression passed away, as he heard the voices collect near the spot
where the white man had so reluctantly abandoned his rifle. Amid the
jargon of the Indian dialects that he now plainly heard, it was easy to
distinguish not only words, but sentences, in the _patois_ of the
Canadas. A burst of voices had shouted simultaneously, "La Longue
Carabine!" causing the opposite woods to re-echo with a name which,
Heyward well remembered, had been given by his enemies to a celebrated
hunter and scout of the English camp, and who, he now learnt for the
first time, had been his late companion.
"La Longue Carabine! La Longue Carabine!" passed from mouth to mouth,
until the whole band appeared to be collected around a trophy which
would seem to announce the death of its formidable owner. After a
vociferous consultation, which was, at times, deafened by bursts of
savage joy, they again separated, filling the air with the name of a
foe, whose body, Heyward could collect from their expressions, they
hoped to find concealed in some crevice of the island.
"Now," he whispered to the trembling sisters, "now is the moment of
uncertainty! if our place of retreat escape this scrutiny, we are still
safe! In every event, we are assured, by what has fallen from our
enemies, that our friends have escaped, and in two short hours we may
look for succor from Webb."
There were now a few minutes of fearful stillness, during which Heyward
well knew that the savages conducted their search with greater vigilance
and method. More than once he could distinguish their footsteps, as they
brushed the sassafras, causing the faded leaves to rustle, and the
branches to snap. At length, the pile yielded a little, a corner of the
blanket fell, and a faint ray of light gleamed into the inner part of
the cave. Cora folded Alice to her bosom in agony, and Duncan sprang to
his feet. A shout was at that moment heard, as if issuing from the
centre of the rock, announcing that the neighboring cavern had at length
been entered. In a minute, the number and loudness of the voices
indicated that the whole party was collected in and around that secret
place.
As the inner passages to the two caves were so close to each other,
Duncan, believing that escape was no longer possible, passed David and
the sisters, to place himself between the latter and the first onset of
the terrible meeting. Grown desperate by his situation, he drew nigh the
slight barrier which separated him only by a few feet from his
relentless pursuers, and placing his face to the casual opening, he even
looked out, with a sort of desperate indifference, on their movements.
Within reach of his arm was the brawny shoulder of a gigantic Indian,
whose deep and authoritative voice appeared to give directions to the
proceedings of his fellows. Beyond him again, Duncan could look into the
vault opposite, which was filled with savages, upturning and rifling the
humble furniture of the scout. The wound of David had dyed the leaves of
sassafras with a color that the natives well knew was anticipating the
season. Over this sign of their success, they set up a howl, like an
opening from so many hounds who had recovered a lost trail. After this
yell of victory, they tore up the fragrant bed of the cavern, and bore
the branches into the chasm, scattering the boughs, as if they suspected
them of concealing the person of the man they had so long hated and
feared. One fierce and wild-looking warrior approached the chief
bearing a load of the brush, and pointing, exultingly, to the deep red
stains with which it was sprinkled, uttered his joy in Indian yells,
whose meaning Heyward was only enabled to comprehend by the frequent
repetition of the name of "La Longue Carabine!" When his triumph had
ceased, he cast the brush on the slight heap that Duncan had made before
the entrance of the second cavern, and closed the view. His example was
followed by others, who, as they drew the branches from the cave of the
scout, threw them into one pile, adding, unconsciously, to the security
of those they sought. The very slightness of the defence was its chief
merit, for no one thought of disturbing a mass of brush, which all of
them believed, in that moment of hurry and confusion, had been
accidentally raised by the hands of their own party.
As the blankets yielded before the outward pressure, and the branches
settled in the fissure of the rock by their own weight, forming a
compact body, Duncan once more breathed freely. With a light step, and
lighter heart, he returned to the centre of the cave, and took the place
he had left, where he could command a view of the opening next the
river. While he was in the act of making this movement, the Indians, as
if changing their purpose by a common impulse, broke away from the
cavern in a body, and were heard rushing up the island again, towards
the point whence they had originally descended. Here another wailing cry
betrayed that they were again collected around the bodies of their dead
comrades.
Duncan now ventured to look at his companions; for, during the most
critical moments of their danger, he had been apprehensive that the
anxiety of his countenance might communicate some additional alarm to
those who were so little able to sustain it.
"They are gone, Cora!" he whispered; "Alice, they are returned whence
they came, and we are saved! To Heaven, that has alone delivered us from
the grasp of so merciless an enemy, be all the praise!"
"Then to Heaven will I return my thanks!" exclaimed the younger sister,
rising from the encircling arms of Cora, and casting herself with
enthusiastic gratitude on the naked rock; "to that Heaven who has spared
the tears of a gray-headed father; has saved the lives of those I so
much love--"
Both Heyward, and the more tempered Cora, witnessed the act of
involuntary emotion with powerful sympathy, the former secretly
believing that piety had never worn a form so lovely as it had now
assumed in the youthful person of Alice. Her eyes radiant with the glow
of grateful feelings; the flush of her beauty was again seated on her
cheeks, and her whole soul seemed ready and anxious to pour out its
thanksgivings, through the medium of her eloquent features. But when her
lips moved, the words they should have uttered appeared frozen by some
new and sudden chill. Her bloom gave place to the paleness of death; her
soft and melting eyes grew hard, and seemed contracting with horror;
while those hands which she had raised, clasped in each other, towards
heaven, dropped in horizontal lines before her, the fingers pointed
forward in convulsed motion. Heyward turned, the instant she gave a
direction to his suspicions, and, peering just above the ledge which
formed the threshold of the open outlet of the cavern, he beheld the
malignant, fierce, and savage features of Le Renard Subtil.
In that moment of surprise, the self-possession of Heyward did not
desert him. He observed by the vacant expression of the Indian's
countenance, that his eye, accustomed to the open air, had not yet been
able to penetrate the dusky light which pervaded the depth of the
cavern. He had even thought of retreating beyond a curvature in the
natural wall, which might still conceal him and his companions, when, by
the sudden gleam of intelligence that shot across the features of the
savage, he saw it was too late, and that they were betrayed.
The look of exultation and brutal triumph which announced this terrible
truth was irresistibly irritating. Forgetful of everything but the
impulses of his hot blood, Duncan levelled his pistol and fired. The
report of the weapon made the cavern bellow like an eruption from a
volcano; and when the smoke it vomited had been driven away before the
current of air which issued from the ravine, the place so lately
occupied by the features of his treacherous guide was vacant. Rushing to
the outlet, Heyward caught a glimpse of his dark figure, stealing around
a low and narrow ledge, which soon hid him entirely from sight.
Among the savages, a frightful stillness succeeded the explosion, which
had just been heard bursting from the bowels of the rock. But when Le
Renard raised his voice in a long and intelligible whoop, it was
answered by a spontaneous yell from the mouth of every Indian within
hearing of the sound. The clamorous noises again rushed down the
island; and before Duncan had time to recover from the shock, his feeble
barrier of brush was scattered to the winds, the cavern was entered at
both its extremities, and he and his companions were dragged from their
shelter and borne into the day, where they stood surrounded by the whole
band of the triumphant Hurons. | Heyward, Cora, Alice, and the wounded Gamut huddle together in the deepest part of the cave, awaiting their capture. Outside, Indian voices shout, "La Longue Carabine. a name Heyward recognizes. He realizes that Hawkeye is the famous hunter and scout called La Longue Carabine, celebrated throughout the English army. The Indians enter the cavern, but they do not see the group hidden behind a blanket. The Indians express outrage at the discovery of their dead allies and frustration that they do not see comparable numbers of dead enemies. The English party begins to think they will escape, when suddenly Magua discovers them. Heyward tries to shoot Magua, but he misses. As a result of this failed assassination, the whites become prisoners, dragged outside by the Hurons |
During the early part of the winter the family had had money enough to
live and a little over to pay their debts with; but when the earnings of
Jurgis fell from nine or ten dollars a week to five or six, there was
no longer anything to spare. The winter went, and the spring came, and
found them still living thus from hand to mouth, hanging on day by day,
with literally not a month's wages between them and starvation. Marija
was in despair, for there was still no word about the reopening of the
canning factory, and her savings were almost entirely gone. She had had
to give up all idea of marrying then; the family could not get along
without her--though for that matter she was likely soon to become a
burden even upon them, for when her money was all gone, they would have
to pay back what they owed her in board. So Jurgis and Ona and Teta
Elzbieta would hold anxious conferences until late at night, trying to
figure how they could manage this too without starving.
Such were the cruel terms upon which their life was possible, that they
might never have nor expect a single instant's respite from worry, a
single instant in which they were not haunted by the thought of money.
They would no sooner escape, as by a miracle, from one difficulty,
than a new one would come into view. In addition to all their physical
hardships, there was thus a constant strain upon their minds; they were
harried all day and nearly all night by worry and fear. This was in
truth not living; it was scarcely even existing, and they felt that it
was too little for the price they paid. They were willing to work all
the time; and when people did their best, ought they not to be able to
keep alive?
There seemed never to be an end to the things they had to buy and to the
unforeseen contingencies. Once their water pipes froze and burst; and
when, in their ignorance, they thawed them out, they had a terrifying
flood in their house. It happened while the men were away, and poor
Elzbieta rushed out into the street screaming for help, for she did
not even know whether the flood could be stopped, or whether they were
ruined for life. It was nearly as bad as the latter, they found in
the end, for the plumber charged them seventy-five cents an hour, and
seventy-five cents for another man who had stood and watched him, and
included all the time the two had been going and coming, and also a
charge for all sorts of material and extras. And then again, when
they went to pay their January's installment on the house, the agent
terrified them by asking them if they had had the insurance attended
to yet. In answer to their inquiry he showed them a clause in the deed
which provided that they were to keep the house insured for one thousand
dollars, as soon as the present policy ran out, which would happen in
a few days. Poor Elzbieta, upon whom again fell the blow, demanded how
much it would cost them. Seven dollars, the man said; and that night
came Jurgis, grim and determined, requesting that the agent would be
good enough to inform him, once for all, as to all the expenses they
were liable for. The deed was signed now, he said, with sarcasm proper
to the new way of life he had learned--the deed was signed, and so the
agent had no longer anything to gain by keeping quiet. And Jurgis looked
the fellow squarely in the eye, and so the fellow wasted no time in
conventional protests, but read him the deed. They would have to renew
the insurance every year; they would have to pay the taxes, about ten
dollars a year; they would have to pay the water tax, about six dollars
a year--(Jurgis silently resolved to shut off the hydrant). This,
besides the interest and the monthly installments, would be all--unless
by chance the city should happen to decide to put in a sewer or to lay
a sidewalk. Yes, said the agent, they would have to have these, whether
they wanted them or not, if the city said so. The sewer would cost them
about twenty-two dollars, and the sidewalk fifteen if it were wood,
twenty-five if it were cement.
So Jurgis went home again; it was a relief to know the worst, at any
rate, so that he could no more be surprised by fresh demands. He saw
now how they had been plundered; but they were in for it, there was
no turning back. They could only go on and make the fight and win--for
defeat was a thing that could not even be thought of.
When the springtime came, they were delivered from the dreadful cold,
and that was a great deal; but in addition they had counted on the money
they would not have to pay for coal--and it was just at this time that
Marija's board began to fail. Then, too, the warm weather brought trials
of its own; each season had its trials, as they found. In the spring
there were cold rains, that turned the streets into canals and bogs; the
mud would be so deep that wagons would sink up to the hubs, so that half
a dozen horses could not move them. Then, of course, it was impossible
for any one to get to work with dry feet; and this was bad for men that
were poorly clad and shod, and still worse for women and children. Later
came midsummer, with the stifling heat, when the dingy killing beds of
Durham's became a very purgatory; one time, in a single day, three men
fell dead from sunstroke. All day long the rivers of hot blood poured
forth, until, with the sun beating down, and the air motionless,
the stench was enough to knock a man over; all the old smells of a
generation would be drawn out by this heat--for there was never any
washing of the walls and rafters and pillars, and they were caked with
the filth of a lifetime. The men who worked on the killing beds would
come to reek with foulness, so that you could smell one of them fifty
feet away; there was simply no such thing as keeping decent, the most
careful man gave it up in the end, and wallowed in uncleanness. There
was not even a place where a man could wash his hands, and the men ate
as much raw blood as food at dinnertime. When they were at work they
could not even wipe off their faces--they were as helpless as newly born
babes in that respect; and it may seem like a small matter, but when the
sweat began to run down their necks and tickle them, or a fly to bother
them, it was a torture like being burned alive. Whether it was the
slaughterhouses or the dumps that were responsible, one could not say,
but with the hot weather there descended upon Packingtown a veritable
Egyptian plague of flies; there could be no describing this--the houses
would be black with them. There was no escaping; you might provide all
your doors and windows with screens, but their buzzing outside would be
like the swarming of bees, and whenever you opened the door they would
rush in as if a storm of wind were driving them.
Perhaps the summertime suggests to you thoughts of the country, visions
of green fields and mountains and sparkling lakes. It had no such
suggestion for the people in the yards. The great packing machine ground
on remorselessly, without thinking of green fields; and the men and
women and children who were part of it never saw any green thing, not
even a flower. Four or five miles to the east of them lay the blue
waters of Lake Michigan; but for all the good it did them it might have
been as far away as the Pacific Ocean. They had only Sundays, and
then they were too tired to walk. They were tied to the great packing
machine, and tied to it for life. The managers and superintendents and
clerks of Packingtown were all recruited from another class, and never
from the workers; they scorned the workers, the very meanest of them. A
poor devil of a bookkeeper who had been working in Durham's for twenty
years at a salary of six dollars a week, and might work there for twenty
more and do no better, would yet consider himself a gentleman, as far
removed as the poles from the most skilled worker on the killing beds;
he would dress differently, and live in another part of the town, and
come to work at a different hour of the day, and in every way make sure
that he never rubbed elbows with a laboring man. Perhaps this was due to
the repulsiveness of the work; at any rate, the people who worked with
their hands were a class apart, and were made to feel it.
In the late spring the canning factory started up again, and so once
more Marija was heard to sing, and the love-music of Tamoszius took on
a less melancholy tone. It was not for long, however; for a month or two
later a dreadful calamity fell upon Marija. Just one year and three days
after she had begun work as a can-painter, she lost her job.
It was a long story. Marija insisted that it was because of her activity
in the union. The packers, of course, had spies in all the unions, and
in addition they made a practice of buying up a certain number of the
union officials, as many as they thought they needed. So every week they
received reports as to what was going on, and often they knew things
before the members of the union knew them. Any one who was considered
to be dangerous by them would find that he was not a favorite with
his boss; and Marija had been a great hand for going after the foreign
people and preaching to them. However that might be, the known facts
were that a few weeks before the factory closed, Marija had been cheated
out of her pay for three hundred cans. The girls worked at a long table,
and behind them walked a woman with pencil and notebook, keeping count
of the number they finished. This woman was, of course, only human, and
sometimes made mistakes; when this happened, there was no redress--if
on Saturday you got less money than you had earned, you had to make the
best of it. But Marija did not understand this, and made a disturbance.
Marija's disturbances did not mean anything, and while she had known
only Lithuanian and Polish, they had done no harm, for people only
laughed at her and made her cry. But now Marija was able to call names
in English, and so she got the woman who made the mistake to disliking
her. Probably, as Marija claimed, she made mistakes on purpose after
that; at any rate, she made them, and the third time it happened Marija
went on the warpath and took the matter first to the forelady, and
when she got no satisfaction there, to the superintendent. This was
unheard-of presumption, but the superintendent said he would see about
it, which Marija took to mean that she was going to get her money; after
waiting three days, she went to see the superintendent again. This time
the man frowned, and said that he had not had time to attend to it; and
when Marija, against the advice and warning of every one, tried it once
more, he ordered her back to her work in a passion. Just how things
happened after that Marija was not sure, but that afternoon the forelady
told her that her services would not be any longer required. Poor Marija
could not have been more dumfounded had the woman knocked her over the
head; at first she could not believe what she heard, and then she grew
furious and swore that she would come anyway, that her place belonged
to her. In the end she sat down in the middle of the floor and wept and
wailed.
It was a cruel lesson; but then Marija was headstrong--she should have
listened to those who had had experience. The next time she would know
her place, as the forelady expressed it; and so Marija went out, and the
family faced the problem of an existence again.
It was especially hard this time, for Ona was to be confined before
long, and Jurgis was trying hard to save up money for this. He had
heard dreadful stories of the midwives, who grow as thick as fleas
in Packingtown; and he had made up his mind that Ona must have a
man-doctor. Jurgis could be very obstinate when he wanted to, and he
was in this case, much to the dismay of the women, who felt that a
man-doctor was an impropriety, and that the matter really belonged to
them. The cheapest doctor they could find would charge them fifteen
dollars, and perhaps more when the bill came in; and here was Jurgis,
declaring that he would pay it, even if he had to stop eating in the
meantime!
Marija had only about twenty-five dollars left. Day after day she
wandered about the yards begging a job, but this time without hope of
finding it. Marija could do the work of an able-bodied man, when she
was cheerful, but discouragement wore her out easily, and she would come
home at night a pitiable object. She learned her lesson this time, poor
creature; she learned it ten times over. All the family learned it along
with her--that when you have once got a job in Packingtown, you hang on
to it, come what will.
Four weeks Marija hunted, and half of a fifth week. Of course she
stopped paying her dues to the union. She lost all interest in the
union, and cursed herself for a fool that she had ever been dragged
into one. She had about made up her mind that she was a lost soul,
when somebody told her of an opening, and she went and got a place as
a "beef-trimmer." She got this because the boss saw that she had the
muscles of a man, and so he discharged a man and put Marija to do his
work, paying her a little more than half what he had been paying before.
When she first came to Packingtown, Marija would have scorned such work
as this. She was in another canning factory, and her work was to trim
the meat of those diseased cattle that Jurgis had been told about not
long before. She was shut up in one of the rooms where the people seldom
saw the daylight; beneath her were the chilling rooms, where the meat
was frozen, and above her were the cooking rooms; and so she stood on an
ice-cold floor, while her head was often so hot that she could scarcely
breathe. Trimming beef off the bones by the hundred-weight, while
standing up from early morning till late at night, with heavy boots on
and the floor always damp and full of puddles, liable to be thrown out
of work indefinitely because of a slackening in the trade, liable again
to be kept overtime in rush seasons, and be worked till she trembled
in every nerve and lost her grip on her slimy knife, and gave herself
a poisoned wound--that was the new life that unfolded itself before
Marija. But because Marija was a human horse she merely laughed and went
at it; it would enable her to pay her board again, and keep the family
going. And as for Tamoszius--well, they had waited a long time, and they
could wait a little longer. They could not possibly get along upon his
wages alone, and the family could not live without hers. He could come
and visit her, and sit in the kitchen and hold her hand, and he must
manage to be content with that. But day by day the music of Tamoszius'
violin became more passionate and heartbreaking; and Marija would sit
with her hands clasped and her cheeks wet and all her body a-tremble,
hearing in the wailing melodies the voices of the unborn generations
which cried out in her for life.
Marija's lesson came just in time to save Ona from a similar fate.
Ona, too, was dissatisfied with her place, and had far more reason than
Marija. She did not tell half of her story at home, because she saw it
was a torment to Jurgis, and she was afraid of what he might do. For
a long time Ona had seen that Miss Henderson, the forelady in her
department, did not like her. At first she thought it was the old-time
mistake she had made in asking for a holiday to get married. Then she
concluded it must be because she did not give the forelady a present
occasionally--she was the kind that took presents from the girls, Ona
learned, and made all sorts of discriminations in favor of those who
gave them. In the end, however, Ona discovered that it was even worse
than that. Miss Henderson was a newcomer, and it was some time before
rumor made her out; but finally it transpired that she was a kept woman,
the former mistress of the superintendent of a department in the same
building. He had put her there to keep her quiet, it seemed--and that
not altogether with success, for once or twice they had been heard
quarreling. She had the temper of a hyena, and soon the place she ran
was a witch's caldron. There were some of the girls who were of her own
sort, who were willing to toady to her and flatter her; and these would
carry tales about the rest, and so the furies were unchained in the
place. Worse than this, the woman lived in a bawdy-house downtown, with
a coarse, red-faced Irishman named Connor, who was the boss of the
loading-gang outside, and would make free with the girls as they went
to and from their work. In the slack seasons some of them would go with
Miss Henderson to this house downtown--in fact, it would not be too much
to say that she managed her department at Brown's in conjunction with
it. Sometimes women from the house would be given places alongside of
decent girls, and after other decent girls had been turned off to make
room for them. When you worked in this woman's department the house
downtown was never out of your thoughts all day--there were always
whiffs of it to be caught, like the odor of the Packingtown rendering
plants at night, when the wind shifted suddenly. There would be stories
about it going the rounds; the girls opposite you would be telling them
and winking at you. In such a place Ona would not have stayed a day, but
for starvation; and, as it was, she was never sure that she could
stay the next day. She understood now that the real reason that Miss
Henderson hated her was that she was a decent married girl; and she knew
that the talebearers and the toadies hated her for the same reason, and
were doing their best to make her life miserable.
But there was no place a girl could go in Packingtown, if she was
particular about things of this sort; there was no place in it where
a prostitute could not get along better than a decent girl. Here was a
population, low-class and mostly foreign, hanging always on the verge of
starvation, and dependent for its opportunities of life upon the whim of
men every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old-time slave drivers;
under such circumstances immorality was exactly as inevitable, and as
prevalent, as it was under the system of chattel slavery. Things that
were quite unspeakable went on there in the packing houses all the time,
and were taken for granted by everybody; only they did not show, as in
the old slavery times, because there was no difference in color between
master and slave.
One morning Ona stayed home, and Jurgis had the man-doctor, according
to his whim, and she was safely delivered of a fine baby. It was an
enormous big boy, and Ona was such a tiny creature herself, that it
seemed quite incredible. Jurgis would stand and gaze at the stranger by
the hour, unable to believe that it had really happened.
The coming of this boy was a decisive event with Jurgis. It made him
irrevocably a family man; it killed the last lingering impulse that he
might have had to go out in the evenings and sit and talk with the men
in the saloons. There was nothing he cared for now so much as to sit
and look at the baby. This was very curious, for Jurgis had never been
interested in babies before. But then, this was a very unusual sort of a
baby. He had the brightest little black eyes, and little black ringlets
all over his head; he was the living image of his father, everybody
said--and Jurgis found this a fascinating circumstance. It was
sufficiently perplexing that this tiny mite of life should have come
into the world at all in the manner that it had; that it should have
come with a comical imitation of its father's nose was simply uncanny.
Perhaps, Jurgis thought, this was intended to signify that it was his
baby; that it was his and Ona's, to care for all its life. Jurgis had
never possessed anything nearly so interesting--a baby was, when you
came to think about it, assuredly a marvelous possession. It would grow
up to be a man, a human soul, with a personality all its own, a will of
its own! Such thoughts would keep haunting Jurgis, filling him with
all sorts of strange and almost painful excitements. He was wonderfully
proud of little Antanas; he was curious about all the details of
him--the washing and the dressing and the eating and the sleeping of
him, and asked all sorts of absurd questions. It took him quite a
while to get over his alarm at the incredible shortness of the little
creature's legs.
Jurgis had, alas, very little time to see his baby; he never felt the
chains about him more than just then. When he came home at night, the
baby would be asleep, and it would be the merest chance if he awoke
before Jurgis had to go to sleep himself. Then in the morning there was
no time to look at him, so really the only chance the father had was on
Sundays. This was more cruel yet for Ona, who ought to have stayed
home and nursed him, the doctor said, for her own health as well as the
baby's; but Ona had to go to work, and leave him for Teta Elzbieta
to feed upon the pale blue poison that was called milk at the corner
grocery. Ona's confinement lost her only a week's wages--she would go to
the factory the second Monday, and the best that Jurgis could persuade
her was to ride in the car, and let him run along behind and help her to
Brown's when she alighted. After that it would be all right, said Ona,
it was no strain sitting still sewing hams all day; and if she waited
longer she might find that her dreadful forelady had put some one
else in her place. That would be a greater calamity than ever now, Ona
continued, on account of the baby. They would all have to work harder
now on his account. It was such a responsibility--they must not have the
baby grow up to suffer as they had. And this indeed had been the first
thing that Jurgis had thought of himself--he had clenched his hands and
braced himself anew for the struggle, for the sake of that tiny mite of
human possibility.
And so Ona went back to Brown's and saved her place and a week's wages;
and so she gave herself some one of the thousand ailments that women
group under the title of "womb trouble," and was never again a well
person as long as she lived. It is difficult to convey in words all that
this meant to Ona; it seemed such a slight offense, and the punishment
was so out of all proportion, that neither she nor any one else ever
connected the two. "Womb trouble" to Ona did not mean a specialist's
diagnosis, and a course of treatment, and perhaps an operation or two;
it meant simply headaches and pains in the back, and depression and
heartsickness, and neuralgia when she had to go to work in the rain. The
great majority of the women who worked in Packingtown suffered in the
same way, and from the same cause, so it was not deemed a thing to see
the doctor about; instead Ona would try patent medicines, one after
another, as her friends told her about them. As these all contained
alcohol, or some other stimulant, she found that they all did her good
while she took them; and so she was always chasing the phantom of good
health, and losing it because she was too poor to continue. | The winter turns into spring, but the family does not find their economic situation any better than before. Marija still waits to hear of the re-opening of her canning factory, and she uses all but $25 of her savings. The pipes in the house burst, and the family has to pay an enormous sum for a plumber. When the family goes to pay their rent, the agent tells them that they must procure a new insurance policy on the house. Jurgis has a confrontational meeting with the man. He makes the agent clearly spell out all the costs of the house, and the sums are much larger than the family had originally thought. The spring weather brings its own trouble. There are cold rains that turn the streets to mud, and when the spring turns into summer, there are swarms of flies because of the garbage dumps. The killing-beds become unbearably hot and the men could never wash themselves of the uncleanness of the place. In the hot sun, "all the old smells of a generation would be drawn out by this heat--for there was never any washing of the walls and rafter and pillars, and they were caked with the filth of a lifetime. Marija's canning factory job hires again in the springtime, but in only a few weeks Marija loses her job. Because she was such a vocal member of the union, her forelady does not care for her and shorts her pay. Marija takes her complaints all the way to the supervisor, who becomes upset that he is bothered by a laborer. Marija is told to leave her job and not come back. It is an especially hard lesson for the family to learn this time because Ona is now pregnant and Jurgis insists that she get a "man-doctor" which costs much more than a mid-wife does. He is determined to pay for the better care, "even if he had to stop eating in the meantime. After four and a half weeks, Marija gets another job in one of the packing plants, taking the place of a man so that the foreman only has to pay her half of the wages. She is a "beef-trimmer" which means she stands in a room with no light, all day, and trims meat off bones. Though she is glad to be able to pay her board once again, she and Tamoszius despair over their inability to marry. Often, while Tamoszius plays sad music on his violin, Marija weeps over "the voices of the unborn generations which cried out in her for life. Ona has her own difficulties with her work. Her forelady, Miss Henderson, does not like Ona because she is "a decent married girl. Miss Henderson was given her position because of an affair she carries on with one of the other foremen. She also runs a brothel at which some of the girls from the packing plant work. Though Ona is disgusted by such places, she knows that for many of the women in Packingtown there is "no place a girl could go. where a prostitute could not get along better than a decent girl. Packingtown is a colony of poor, starving immigrants, all under the "whim of men every bit as brutal and unscrupulous as the old-time slave-drivers. Ona gives birth to a baby boy. The baby looks just like Jurgis, and Jurgis is fascinated by the new life he has created. He has little time to see his child, however, because he must work all the time to support the family. Both Ona and Jurgis decide that the baby must grow up to be more prosperous than they had been in their lives. Ona must also go back to work only a week after giving birth. This quick return to strenuous labor causes her to have "womb-trouble," which all the women of Packingtown suffer. She suffers pain in her body all day long, and only alcohol based "medicines" which give her the "phantom of good heath" give her any temporary relief |
ACT II. SCENE I.
Rome. A public place
Enter MENENIUS, with the two Tribunes of the people, SICINIUS and
BRUTUS
MENENIUS. The augurer tells me we shall have news tonight.
BRUTUS. Good or bad?
MENENIUS. Not according to the prayer of the people, for they
love
not Marcius.
SICINIUS. Nature teaches beasts to know their friends.
MENENIUS. Pray you, who does the wolf love?
SICINIUS. The lamb.
MENENIUS. Ay, to devour him, as the hungry plebeians would the
noble Marcius.
BRUTUS. He's a lamb indeed, that baas like a bear.
MENENIUS. He's a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb. You two
are
old men; tell me one thing that I shall ask you.
BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, sir.
MENENIUS. In what enormity is Marcius poor in that you two have
not
in abundance?
BRUTUS. He's poor in no one fault, but stor'd with all.
SICINIUS. Especially in pride.
BRUTUS. And topping all others in boasting.
MENENIUS. This is strange now. Do you two know how you are
censured
here in the city- I mean of us o' th' right-hand file? Do
you?
BOTH TRIBUNES. Why, how are we censur'd?
MENENIUS. Because you talk of pride now- will you not be angry?
BOTH TRIBUNES. Well, well, sir, well.
MENENIUS. Why, 'tis no great matter; for a very little thief of
occasion will rob you of a great deal of patience. Give your
dispositions the reins, and be angry at your pleasures- at
the
least, if you take it as a pleasure to you in being so. You
blame
Marcius for being proud?
BRUTUS. We do it not alone, sir.
MENENIUS. I know you can do very little alone; for your helps
are
many, or else your actions would grow wondrous single: your
abilities are too infant-like for doing much alone. You talk
of
pride. O that you could turn your eyes toward the napes of
your
necks, and make but an interior survey of your good selves! O
that you could!
BOTH TRIBUNES. What then, sir?
MENENIUS. Why, then you should discover a brace of unmeriting,
proud, violent, testy magistrates-alias fools- as any in
Rome.
SICINIUS. Menenius, you are known well enough too.
MENENIUS. I am known to be a humorous patrician, and one that
loves
a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying Tiber in't;
said to
be something imperfect in favouring the first complaint,
hasty
and tinder-like upon too trivial motion; one that converses
more
with the buttock of the night than with the forehead of the
morning. What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my
breath.
Meeting two such wealsmen as you are- I cannot call you
Lycurguses- if the drink you give me touch my palate
adversely, I
make a crooked face at it. I cannot say your worships have
deliver'd the matter well, when I find the ass in compound
with
the major part of your syllables; and though I must be
content to
bear with those that say you are reverend grave men, yet they
lie
deadly that tell you you have good faces. If you see this in
the
map of my microcosm, follows it that I am known well enough
too?
What harm can your bisson conspectuities glean out of this
character, if I be known well enough too?
BRUTUS. Come, sir, come, we know you well enough.
MENENIUS. You know neither me, yourselves, nor any thing. You
are
ambitious for poor knaves' caps and legs; you wear out a good
wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause between an orange-wife
and
a fosset-seller, and then rejourn the controversy of
threepence
to a second day of audience. When you are hearing a matter
between party and party, if you chance to be pinch'd with the
colic, you make faces like mummers, set up the bloody flag
against all patience, and, in roaring for a chamber-pot,
dismiss
the controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing.
All
the peace you make in their cause is calling both the parties
knaves. You are a pair of strange ones.
BRUTUS. Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter
giber
for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.
MENENIUS. Our very priests must become mockers, if they shall
encounter such ridiculous subjects as you are. When you speak
best unto the purpose, it is not worth the wagging of your
beards; and your beards deserve not so honourable a grave as
to
stuff a botcher's cushion or to be entomb'd in an ass's
pack-saddle. Yet you must be saying Marcius is proud; who, in
a
cheap estimation, is worth all your predecessors since
Deucalion;
though peradventure some of the best of 'em were hereditary
hangmen. God-den to your worships. More of your conversation
would infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly
plebeians. I will be bold to take my leave of you.
[BRUTUS and SICINIUS go aside]
Enter VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA, and VALERIA
How now, my as fair as noble ladies- and the moon, were she
earthly, no nobler- whither do you follow your eyes so fast?
VOLUMNIA. Honourable Menenius, my boy Marcius approaches; for
the
love of Juno, let's go.
MENENIUS. Ha! Marcius coming home?
VOLUMNIA. Ay, worthy Menenius, and with most prosperous
approbation.
MENENIUS. Take my cap, Jupiter, and I thank thee. Hoo!
Marcius coming home!
VOLUMNIA, VIRGILIA. Nay, 'tis true.
VOLUMNIA. Look, here's a letter from him; the state hath
another,
his wife another; and I think there's one at home for you.
MENENIUS. I will make my very house reel to-night. A letter for
me?
VIRGILIA. Yes, certain, there's a letter for you; I saw't.
MENENIUS. A letter for me! It gives me an estate of seven
years'
health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician. The
most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic and,
to
this preservative, of no better report than a horse-drench.
Is he
not wounded? He was wont to come home wounded.
VIRGILIA. O, no, no, no.
VOLUMNIA. O, he is wounded, I thank the gods for't.
MENENIUS. So do I too, if it be not too much. Brings a victory
in
his pocket? The wounds become him.
VOLUMNIA. On's brows, Menenius, he comes the third time home
with
the oaken garland.
MENENIUS. Has he disciplin'd Aufidius soundly?
VOLUMNIA. Titus Lartius writes they fought together, but
Aufidius
got off.
MENENIUS. And 'twas time for him too, I'll warrant him that; an
he
had stay'd by him, I would not have been so fidius'd for all
the
chests in Corioli and the gold that's in them. Is the Senate
possess'd of this?
VOLUMNIA. Good ladies, let's go. Yes, yes, yes: the Senate has
letters from the general, wherein he gives my son the whole
name
of the war; he hath in this action outdone his former deeds
doubly.
VALERIA. In troth, there's wondrous things spoke of him.
MENENIUS. Wondrous! Ay, I warrant you, and not without his true
purchasing.
VIRGILIA. The gods grant them true!
VOLUMNIA. True! pow, waw.
MENENIUS. True! I'll be sworn they are true. Where is he
wounded?
[To the TRIBUNES] God save your good worships! Marcius is
coming
home; he has more cause to be proud. Where is he wounded?
VOLUMNIA. I' th' shoulder and i' th' left arm; there will be
large
cicatrices to show the people when he shall stand for his
place.
He received in the repulse of Tarquin seven hurts i' th'
body.
MENENIUS. One i' th' neck and two i' th' thigh- there's nine
that I
know.
VOLUMNIA. He had before this last expedition twenty-five wounds
upon him.
MENENIUS. Now it's twenty-seven; every gash was an enemy's
grave.
[A shout and flourish] Hark! the trumpets.
VOLUMNIA. These are the ushers of Marcius. Before him he
carries
noise, and behind him he leaves tears;
Death, that dark spirit, in's nervy arm doth lie,
Which, being advanc'd, declines, and then men die.
A sennet. Trumpets sound. Enter COMINIUS the
GENERAL, and TITUS LARTIUS; between them,
CORIOLANUS, crown'd with an oaken garland; with
CAPTAINS and soldiers and a HERALD
HERALD. Know, Rome, that all alone Marcius did fight
Within Corioli gates, where he hath won,
With fame, a name to Caius Marcius; these
In honour follows Coriolanus.
Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus! [Flourish]
ALL. Welcome to Rome, renowned Coriolanus!
CORIOLANUS. No more of this, it does offend my heart.
Pray now, no more.
COMINIUS. Look, sir, your mother!
CORIOLANUS. O,
You have, I know, petition'd all the gods
For my prosperity! [Kneels]
VOLUMNIA. Nay, my good soldier, up;
My gentle Marcius, worthy Caius, and
By deed-achieving honour newly nam'd-
What is it? Coriolanus must I call thee?
But, O, thy wife!
CORIOLANUS. My gracious silence, hail!
Wouldst thou have laugh'd had I come coffin'd home,
That weep'st to see me triumph? Ah, my dear,
Such eyes the widows in Corioli wear,
And mothers that lack sons.
MENENIUS. Now the gods crown thee!
CORIOLANUS. And live you yet? [To VALERIA] O my sweet lady,
pardon.
VOLUMNIA. I know not where to turn.
O, welcome home! And welcome, General.
And y'are welcome all.
MENENIUS. A hundred thousand welcomes. I could weep
And I could laugh; I am light and heavy. Welcome!
A curse begin at very root on's heart
That is not glad to see thee! You are three
That Rome should dote on; yet, by the faith of men,
We have some old crab trees here at home that will not
Be grafted to your relish. Yet welcome, warriors.
We call a nettle but a nettle, and
The faults of fools but folly.
COMINIUS. Ever right.
CORIOLANUS. Menenius ever, ever.
HERALD. Give way there, and go on.
CORIOLANUS. [To his wife and mother] Your hand, and yours.
Ere in our own house I do shade my head,
The good patricians must be visited;
From whom I have receiv'd not only greetings,
But with them change of honours.
VOLUMNIA. I have lived
To see inherited my very wishes,
And the buildings of my fancy; only
There's one thing wanting, which I doubt not but
Our Rome will cast upon thee.
CORIOLANUS. Know, good mother,
I had rather be their servant in my way
Than sway with them in theirs.
COMINIUS. On, to the Capitol.
[Flourish. Cornets. Exeunt in state, as before]
BRUTUS and SICINIUS come forward
BRUTUS. All tongues speak of him and the bleared sights
Are spectacled to see him. Your prattling nurse
Into a rapture lets her baby cry
While she chats him; the kitchen malkin pins
Her richest lockram 'bout her reechy neck,
Clamb'ring the walls to eye him; stalls, bulks, windows,
Are smother'd up, leads fill'd and ridges hors'd
With variable complexions, all agreeing
In earnestness to see him. Seld-shown flamens
Do press among the popular throngs and puff
To win a vulgar station; our veil'd dames
Commit the war of white and damask in
Their nicely gawded cheeks to th' wanton spoil
Of Phoebus' burning kisses. Such a pother,
As if that whatsoever god who leads him
Were slily crept into his human powers,
And gave him graceful posture.
SICINIUS. On the sudden
I warrant him consul.
BRUTUS. Then our office may
During his power go sleep.
SICINIUS. He cannot temp'rately transport his honours
From where he should begin and end, but will
Lose those he hath won.
BRUTUS. In that there's comfort.
SICINIUS. Doubt not
The commoners, for whom we stand, but they
Upon their ancient malice will forget
With the least cause these his new honours; which
That he will give them make our as little question
As he is proud to do't.
BRUTUS. I heard him swear,
Were he to stand for consul, never would he
Appear i' th' market-place, nor on him put
The napless vesture of humility;
Nor, showing, as the manner is, his wounds
To th' people, beg their stinking breaths.
SICINIUS. 'Tis right.
BRUTUS. It was his word. O, he would miss it rather
Than carry it but by the suit of the gentry to him
And the desire of the nobles.
SICINIUS. I wish no better
Than have him hold that purpose, and to put it
In execution.
BRUTUS. 'Tis most like he will.
SICINIUS. It shall be to him then as our good wills:
A sure destruction.
BRUTUS. So it must fall out
To him or our authorities. For an end,
We must suggest the people in what hatred
He still hath held them; that to's power he would
Have made them mules, silenc'd their pleaders, and
Dispropertied their freedoms; holding them
In human action and capacity
Of no more soul nor fitness for the world
Than camels in their war, who have their provand
Only for bearing burdens, and sore blows
For sinking under them.
SICINIUS. This, as you say, suggested
At some time when his soaring insolence
Shall touch the people- which time shall not want,
If he be put upon't, and that's as easy
As to set dogs on sheep- will be his fire
To kindle their dry stubble; and their blaze
Shall darken him for ever.
Enter A MESSENGER
BRUTUS. What's the matter?
MESSENGER. You are sent for to the Capitol. 'Tis thought
That Marcius shall be consul.
I have seen the dumb men throng to see him and
The blind to hear him speak; matrons flung gloves,
Ladies and maids their scarfs and handkerchers,
Upon him as he pass'd; the nobles bended
As to Jove's statue, and the commons made
A shower and thunder with their caps and shouts.
I never saw the like.
BRUTUS. Let's to the Capitol,
And carry with us ears and eyes for th' time,
But hearts for the event.
SICINIUS. Have with you. Exeunt
SCENE II.
Rome. The Capitol
Enter two OFFICERS, to lay cushions, as it were in the Capitol
FIRST OFFICER. Come, come, they are almost here. How many stand
for
consulships?
SECOND OFFICER. Three, they say; but 'tis thought of every one
Coriolanus will carry it.
FIRST OFFICER. That's a brave fellow; but he's vengeance proud
and
loves not the common people.
SECOND OFFICER. Faith, there have been many great men that have
flatter'd the people, who ne'er loved them; and there be many
that they have loved, they know not wherefore; so that, if
they
love they know not why, they hate upon no better a ground.
Therefore, for Coriolanus neither to care whether they love
or
hate him manifests the true knowledge he has in their
disposition, and out of his noble carelessness lets them
plainly
see't.
FIRST OFFICER. If he did not care whether he had their love or
no,
he waved indifferently 'twixt doing them neither good nor
harm;
but he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can
render it him, and leaves nothing undone that may fully
discover
him their opposite. Now to seem to affect the malice and
displeasure of the people is as bad as that which he
dislikes- to
flatter them for their love.
SECOND OFFICER. He hath deserved worthily of his country; and
his
ascent is not by such easy degrees as those who, having been
supple and courteous to the people, bonneted, without any
further
deed to have them at all, into their estimation and report;
but
he hath so planted his honours in their eyes and his actions
in
their hearts that for their tongues to be silent and not
confess
so much were a kind of ingrateful injury; to report otherwise
were a malice that, giving itself the lie, would pluck
reproof
and rebuke from every ear that heard it.
FIRST OFFICER. No more of him; he's a worthy man. Make way,
they
are coming.
A sennet. Enter the PATRICIANS and the TRIBUNES
OF THE PEOPLE, LICTORS before them; CORIOLANUS,
MENENIUS, COMINIUS the Consul. SICINIUS and
BRUTUS take their places by themselves.
CORIOLANUS stands
MENENIUS. Having determin'd of the Volsces, and
To send for Titus Lartius, it remains,
As the main point of this our after-meeting,
To gratify his noble service that
Hath thus stood for his country. Therefore please you,
Most reverend and grave elders, to desire
The present consul and last general
In our well-found successes to report
A little of that worthy work perform'd
By Caius Marcius Coriolanus; whom
We met here both to thank and to remember
With honours like himself. [CORIOLANUS sits]
FIRST SENATOR. Speak, good Cominius.
Leave nothing out for length, and make us think
Rather our state's defective for requital
Than we to stretch it out. Masters o' th' people,
We do request your kindest ears; and, after,
Your loving motion toward the common body,
To yield what passes here.
SICINIUS. We are convented
Upon a pleasing treaty, and have hearts
Inclinable to honour and advance
The theme of our assembly.
BRUTUS. Which the rather
We shall be bless'd to do, if he remember
A kinder value of the people than
He hath hereto priz'd them at.
MENENIUS. That's off, that's off;
I would you rather had been silent. Please you
To hear Cominius speak?
BRUTUS. Most willingly.
But yet my caution was more pertinent
Than the rebuke you give it.
MENENIUS. He loves your people;
But tie him not to be their bedfellow.
Worthy Cominius, speak.
[CORIOLANUS rises, and offers to go away]
Nay, keep your place.
FIRST SENATOR. Sit, Coriolanus, never shame to hear
What you have nobly done.
CORIOLANUS. Your Honours' pardon.
I had rather have my wounds to heal again
Than hear say how I got them.
BRUTUS. Sir, I hope
My words disbench'd you not.
CORIOLANUS. No, sir; yet oft,
When blows have made me stay, I fled from words.
You sooth'd not, therefore hurt not. But your people,
I love them as they weigh-
MENENIUS. Pray now, sit down.
CORIOLANUS. I had rather have one scratch my head i' th' sun
When the alarum were struck than idly sit
To hear my nothings monster'd. Exit
MENENIUS. Masters of the people,
Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter-
That's thousand to one good one- when you now see
He had rather venture all his limbs for honour
Than one on's ears to hear it? Proceed, Cominius.
COMINIUS. I shall lack voice; the deeds of Coriolanus
Should not be utter'd feebly. It is held
That valour is the chiefest virtue and
Most dignifies the haver. If it be,
The man I speak of cannot in the world
Be singly counterpois'd. At sixteen years,
When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought
Beyond the mark of others; our then Dictator,
Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight
When with his Amazonian chin he drove
The bristled lips before him; he bestrid
An o'erpress'd Roman and i' th' consul's view
Slew three opposers; Tarquin's self he met,
And struck him on his knee. In that day's feats,
When he might act the woman in the scene,
He prov'd best man i' th' field, and for his meed
Was brow-bound with the oak. His pupil age
Man-ent'red thus, he waxed like a sea,
And in the brunt of seventeen battles since
He lurch'd all swords of the garland. For this last,
Before and in Corioli, let me say
I cannot speak him home. He stopp'd the fliers,
And by his rare example made the coward
Turn terror into sport; as weeds before
A vessel under sail, so men obey'd
And fell below his stem. His sword, death's stamp,
Where it did mark, it took; from face to foot
He was a thing of blood, whose every motion
Was tim'd with dying cries. Alone he ent'red
The mortal gate of th' city, which he painted
With shunless destiny; aidless came off,
And with a sudden re-enforcement struck
Corioli like a planet. Now all's his.
When by and by the din of war 'gan pierce
His ready sense, then straight his doubled spirit
Re-quick'ned what in flesh was fatigate,
And to the battle came he; where he did
Run reeking o'er the lives of men, as if
'Twere a perpetual spoil; and till we call'd
Both field and city ours he never stood
To ease his breast with panting.
MENENIUS. Worthy man!
FIRST SENATOR. He cannot but with measure fit the honours
Which we devise him.
COMINIUS. Our spoils he kick'd at,
And look'd upon things precious as they were
The common muck of the world. He covets less
Than misery itself would give, rewards
His deeds with doing them, and is content
To spend the time to end it.
MENENIUS. He's right noble;
Let him be call'd for.
FIRST SENATOR. Call Coriolanus.
OFFICER. He doth appear.
Re-enter CORIOLANUS
MENENIUS. The Senate, Coriolanus, are well pleas'd
To make thee consul.
CORIOLANUS. I do owe them still
My life and services.
MENENIUS. It then remains
That you do speak to the people.
CORIOLANUS. I do beseech you
Let me o'erleap that custom; for I cannot
Put on the gown, stand naked, and entreat them
For my wounds' sake to give their suffrage. Please you
That I may pass this doing.
SICINIUS. Sir, the people
Must have their voices; neither will they bate
One jot of ceremony.
MENENIUS. Put them not to't.
Pray you go fit you to the custom, and
Take to you, as your predecessors have,
Your honour with your form.
CORIOLANUS. It is a part
That I shall blush in acting, and might well
Be taken from the people.
BRUTUS. Mark you that?
CORIOLANUS. To brag unto them 'Thus I did, and thus!'
Show them th' unaching scars which I should hide,
As if I had receiv'd them for the hire
Of their breath only!
MENENIUS. Do not stand upon't.
We recommend to you, Tribunes of the People,
Our purpose to them; and to our noble consul
Wish we all joy and honour.
SENATORS. To Coriolanus come all joy and honour!
[Flourish. Cornets. Then exeunt all
but SICINIUS and BRUTUS]
BRUTUS. You see how he intends to use the people.
SICINIUS. May they perceive's intent! He will require them
As if he did contemn what he requested
Should be in them to give.
BRUTUS. Come, we'll inform them
Of our proceedings here. On th' market-place
I know they do attend us. Exeunt | In Rome, Brutus and Sicinius converse with Menenius as they await news from the battlefield. The two tribunes criticize Caius Martius, calling him overly proud and an enemy to the common people of Rome; in reply, Menenius tells them that they should look to their own faults before they criticize others, since they are "unmeriting, proud, violent, testy, magistrates, alias fools, as any in Rome ." While he attacks them, Brutus and Sicinius point out that he is hardly a perfect public servant either; indeed, he is better known as a wit and a gossip than as a great politician. The two tribunes stand aside as Volumnia, Virgilia, and Valeria arrive with news of Martius' victory. While Volumnia describes the wounds her son received in this campaign, Menenius gives thanks, both that his friend is alive and that Rome is victorious over the Volscians. Surrounded by his soldiers, Martius--now Coriolanus--enters Rome and greets his wife and mother. Then, accompanied by Cominius, Titus Lartius, and Menenius, he makes his way to the Capitol to greet the Senate. Left alone, Brutus and Sicinius worry that Coriolanus will be made consul in gratitude for his victories; they fear that, once in power, he will eliminate their office. However, they comfort themselves with the knowledge that the proud general is unlikely to go out in the marketplace and gain the votes of the common people-- votes that he must have in order to be consul. Indeed, his contempt for the lower classes will likely destroy the popularity that his battlefield exploits have won him. With these thoughts in mind, the two tribunes make their way to the Capitol, where two officers are setting down cushions for the Senators and discussing the likelihood of Coriolanus becoming consul. The Senators come in and seat themselves, and Cominius rises to recount Coriolanus's exploits against the Volscians; the subject of his praise, embarrassed by the adulation, leaves the chamber while Cominius describes the battle and Coriolanus's great feats. Amazed by the account of his valor, the Senators recall the war hero and declare that they are eager to make him consul. They advise him to dress himself in the toga of candidacy and go at once to the marketplace, where he must describe his exploits and show his scars to the people and thereby gain their votes. Coriolanus begs to be allowed to avoid this custom, since he finds the entire practice demeaning, but they insist that he must do it. Observing his reluctance and disdain for the common people, Brutus and Sicinius plot to stir up resentment against him. |
Rome. An Apartment in CAESAR'S House.
[Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, LEPIDUS, and Attendants.]
CAESAR.
You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate
Our great competitor. From Alexandria
This is the news:--he fishes, drinks, and wastes
The lamps of night in revel: is not more manlike
Than Cleopatra;, nor the queen of Ptolemy
More womanly than he: hardly gave audience, or
Vouchsaf'd to think he had partners: you shall find there
A man who is the abstract of all faults
That all men follow.
LEPIDUS.
I must not think there are
Evils enow to darken all his goodness:
His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,
More fiery by night's blackness; hereditary
Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change
Than what he chooses.
CAESAR.
You are too indulgent. Let's grant it is not
Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy;
To give a kingdom for a mirth; to sit
And keep the turn of tippling with a slave;
To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
With knaves that smell of sweat: say this becomes him,--
As his composure must be rare indeed
Whom these things cannot blemish,--yet must Antony
No way excuse his foils when we do bear
So great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd
His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
Call on him for't: but to confound such time
That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud
As his own state and ours,--'tis to be chid
As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,
Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
And so rebel to judgment.
[Enter a Messenger.]
LEPIDUS.
Here's more news.
MESSENGER.
Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,
Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report
How 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea;
And it appears he is belov'd of those
That only have fear'd Caesar: to the ports
The discontents repair, and men's reports
Give him much wrong'd.
CAESAR.
I should have known no less:
It hath been taught us from the primal state
That he which is was wish'd until he were;
And the ebb'd man, ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love,
Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,
Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
To rot itself with motion.
MESSENGER.
Caesar, I bring thee word
Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,
Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound
With keels of every kind: many hot inroads
They make in Italy; the borders maritime
Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt:
No vessel can peep forth but 'tis as soon
Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more
Than could his war resisted.
CAESAR.
Antony,
Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st
Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,
Though daintily brought up, with patience more
Than savages could suffer: thou didst drink
The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle
Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign
The roughest berry on the rudest hedge;
Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,
The barks of trees thou browsed'st; on the Alps
It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,
Which some did die to look on: and all this,--
It wounds thine honour that I speak it now,--
Was borne so like a soldier that thy cheek
So much as lank'd not.
LEPIDUS.
'Tis pity of him.
CAESAR.
Let his shames quickly
Drive him to Rome; 'tis time we twain
Did show ourselves i' thefield; and to that end
Assemble we immediate council: Pompey
Thrives in our idleness.
LEPIDUS.
To-morrow, Caesar,
I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly
Both what by sea and land I can be able
To front this present time.
CAESAR.
Till which encounter
It is my business too. Farewell.
LEPIDUS.
Farewell, my lord: what you shall know meantime
Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
To let me be partaker.
CAESAR.
Doubt not, sir;
I knew it for my bond.
[Exeunt.] | Caesar's house, in Rome. Octavius and Lepidus, followed by their train, discuss Antony. While Lepidus is inclined to defend Antony, Octavius condemns Antony's neglect of his duties. A messenger brings news that Sextus Pompeius' power by sea grows only greater. Lepidus and Octavius go their separate ways, to evaluate their capabilities before meeting tomorrow to discuss how to battle Pompey |
Had there been in White Fang's nature any possibility, no matter how
remote, of his ever coming to fraternise with his kind, such possibility
was irretrievably destroyed when he was made leader of the sled-team. For
now the dogs hated him--hated him for the extra meat bestowed upon him by
Mit-sah; hated him for all the real and fancied favours he received;
hated him for that he fled always at the head of the team, his waving
brush of a tail and his perpetually retreating hind-quarters for ever
maddening their eyes.
And White Fang just as bitterly hated them back. Being sled-leader was
anything but gratifying to him. To be compelled to run away before the
yelling pack, every dog of which, for three years, he had thrashed and
mastered, was almost more than he could endure. But endure it he must,
or perish, and the life that was in him had no desire to perish out. The
moment Mit-sah gave his order for the start, that moment the whole team,
with eager, savage cries, sprang forward at White Fang.
There was no defence for him. If he turned upon them, Mit-sah would
throw the stinging lash of the whip into his face. Only remained to him
to run away. He could not encounter that howling horde with his tail and
hind-quarters. These were scarcely fit weapons with which to meet the
many merciless fangs. So run away he did, violating his own nature and
pride with every leap he made, and leaping all day long.
One cannot violate the promptings of one's nature without having that
nature recoil upon itself. Such a recoil is like that of a hair, made to
grow out from the body, turning unnaturally upon the direction of its
growth and growing into the body--a rankling, festering thing of hurt.
And so with White Fang. Every urge of his being impelled him to spring
upon the pack that cried at his heels, but it was the will of the gods
that this should not be; and behind the will, to enforce it, was the whip
of cariboo-gut with its biting thirty-foot lash. So White Fang could
only eat his heart in bitterness and develop a hatred and malice
commensurate with the ferocity and indomitability of his nature.
If ever a creature was the enemy of its kind, White Fang was that
creature. He asked no quarter, gave none. He was continually marred and
scarred by the teeth of the pack, and as continually he left his own
marks upon the pack. Unlike most leaders, who, when camp was made and
the dogs were unhitched, huddled near to the gods for protection, White
Fang disdained such protection. He walked boldly about the camp,
inflicting punishment in the night for what he had suffered in the day.
In the time before he was made leader of the team, the pack had learned
to get out of his way. But now it was different. Excited by the day-
long pursuit of him, swayed subconsciously by the insistent iteration on
their brains of the sight of him fleeing away, mastered by the feeling of
mastery enjoyed all day, the dogs could not bring themselves to give way
to him. When he appeared amongst them, there was always a squabble. His
progress was marked by snarl and snap and growl. The very atmosphere he
breathed was surcharged with hatred and malice, and this but served to
increase the hatred and malice within him.
When Mit-sah cried out his command for the team to stop, White Fang
obeyed. At first this caused trouble for the other dogs. All of them
would spring upon the hated leader only to find the tables turned. Behind
him would be Mit-sah, the great whip singing in his hand. So the dogs
came to understand that when the team stopped by order, White Fang was to
be let alone. But when White Fang stopped without orders, then it was
allowed them to spring upon him and destroy him if they could. After
several experiences, White Fang never stopped without orders. He learned
quickly. It was in the nature of things, that he must learn quickly if
he were to survive the unusually severe conditions under which life was
vouchsafed him.
But the dogs could never learn the lesson to leave him alone in camp.
Each day, pursuing him and crying defiance at him, the lesson of the
previous night was erased, and that night would have to be learned over
again, to be as immediately forgotten. Besides, there was a greater
consistence in their dislike of him. They sensed between themselves and
him a difference of kind--cause sufficient in itself for hostility. Like
him, they were domesticated wolves. But they had been domesticated for
generations. Much of the Wild had been lost, so that to them the Wild
was the unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing and ever warring. But
to him, in appearance and action and impulse, still clung the Wild. He
symbolised it, was its personification: so that when they showed their
teeth to him they were defending themselves against the powers of
destruction that lurked in the shadows of the forest and in the dark
beyond the camp-fire.
But there was one lesson the dogs did learn, and that was to keep
together. White Fang was too terrible for any of them to face single-
handed. They met him with the mass-formation, otherwise he would have
killed them, one by one, in a night. As it was, he never had a chance to
kill them. He might roll a dog off its feet, but the pack would be upon
him before he could follow up and deliver the deadly throat-stroke. At
the first hint of conflict, the whole team drew together and faced him.
The dogs had quarrels among themselves, but these were forgotten when
trouble was brewing with White Fang.
On the other hand, try as they would, they could not kill White Fang. He
was too quick for them, too formidable, too wise. He avoided tight
places and always backed out of it when they bade fair to surround him.
While, as for getting him off his feet, there was no dog among them
capable of doing the trick. His feet clung to the earth with the same
tenacity that he clung to life. For that matter, life and footing were
synonymous in this unending warfare with the pack, and none knew it
better than White Fang.
So he became the enemy of his kind, domesticated wolves that they were,
softened by the fires of man, weakened in the sheltering shadow of man's
strength. White Fang was bitter and implacable. The clay of him was so
moulded. He declared a vendetta against all dogs. And so terribly did
he live this vendetta that Grey Beaver, fierce savage himself, could not
but marvel at White Fang's ferocity. Never, he swore, had there been the
like of this animal; and the Indians in strange villages swore likewise
when they considered the tale of his killings amongst their dogs.
When White Fang was nearly five years old, Grey Beaver took him on
another great journey, and long remembered was the havoc he worked
amongst the dogs of the many villages along the Mackenzie, across the
Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon. He revelled in the
vengeance he wreaked upon his kind. They were ordinary, unsuspecting
dogs. They were not prepared for his swiftness and directness, for his
attack without warning. They did not know him for what he was, a
lightning-flash of slaughter. They bristled up to him, stiff-legged and
challenging, while he, wasting no time on elaborate preliminaries,
snapping into action like a steel spring, was at their throats and
destroying them before they knew what was happening and while they were
yet in the throes of surprise.
He became an adept at fighting. He economised. He never wasted his
strength, never tussled. He was in too quickly for that, and, if he
missed, was out again too quickly. The dislike of the wolf for close
quarters was his to an unusual degree. He could not endure a prolonged
contact with another body. It smacked of danger. It made him frantic.
He must be away, free, on his own legs, touching no living thing. It was
the Wild still clinging to him, asserting itself through him. This
feeling had been accentuated by the Ishmaelite life he had led from his
puppyhood. Danger lurked in contacts. It was the trap, ever the trap,
the fear of it lurking deep in the life of him, woven into the fibre of
him.
In consequence, the strange dogs he encountered had no chance against
him. He eluded their fangs. He got them, or got away, himself untouched
in either event. In the natural course of things there were exceptions
to this. There were times when several dogs, pitching on to him,
punished him before he could get away; and there were times when a single
dog scored deeply on him. But these were accidents. In the main, so
efficient a fighter had he become, he went his way unscathed.
Another advantage he possessed was that of correctly judging time and
distance. Not that he did this consciously, however. He did not
calculate such things. It was all automatic. His eyes saw correctly,
and the nerves carried the vision correctly to his brain. The parts of
him were better adjusted than those of the average dog. They worked
together more smoothly and steadily. His was a better, far better,
nervous, mental, and muscular co-ordination. When his eyes conveyed to
his brain the moving image of an action, his brain without conscious
effort, knew the space that limited that action and the time required for
its completion. Thus, he could avoid the leap of another dog, or the
drive of its fangs, and at the same moment could seize the infinitesimal
fraction of time in which to deliver his own attack. Body and brain, his
was a more perfected mechanism. Not that he was to be praised for it.
Nature had been more generous to him than to the average animal, that was
all.
It was in the summer that White Fang arrived at Fort Yukon. Grey Beaver
had crossed the great watershed between Mackenzie and the Yukon in the
late winter, and spent the spring in hunting among the western outlying
spurs of the Rockies. Then, after the break-up of the ice on the
Porcupine, he had built a canoe and paddled down that stream to where it
effected its junction with the Yukon just under the Arctic circle. Here
stood the old Hudson's Bay Company fort; and here were many Indians, much
food, and unprecedented excitement. It was the summer of 1898, and
thousands of gold-hunters were going up the Yukon to Dawson and the
Klondike. Still hundreds of miles from their goal, nevertheless many of
them had been on the way for a year, and the least any of them had
travelled to get that far was five thousand miles, while some had come
from the other side of the world.
Here Grey Beaver stopped. A whisper of the gold-rush had reached his
ears, and he had come with several bales of furs, and another of gut-sewn
mittens and moccasins. He would not have ventured so long a trip had he
not expected generous profits. But what he had expected was nothing to
what he realised. His wildest dreams had not exceeded a hundred per
cent. profit; he made a thousand per cent. And like a true Indian, he
settled down to trade carefully and slowly, even if it took all summer
and the rest of the winter to dispose of his goods.
It was at Fort Yukon that White Fang saw his first white men. As
compared with the Indians he had known, they were to him another race of
beings, a race of superior gods. They impressed him as possessing
superior power, and it is on power that godhead rests. White Fang did
not reason it out, did not in his mind make the sharp generalisation that
the white gods were more powerful. It was a feeling, nothing more, and
yet none the less potent. As, in his puppyhood, the looming bulks of the
tepees, man-reared, had affected him as manifestations of power, so was
he affected now by the houses and the huge fort all of massive logs. Here
was power. Those white gods were strong. They possessed greater mastery
over matter than the gods he had known, most powerful among which was
Grey Beaver. And yet Grey Beaver was as a child-god among these white-
skinned ones.
To be sure, White Fang only felt these things. He was not conscious of
them. Yet it is upon feeling, more often than thinking, that animals
act; and every act White Fang now performed was based upon the feeling
that the white men were the superior gods. In the first place he was
very suspicious of them. There was no telling what unknown terrors were
theirs, what unknown hurts they could administer. He was curious to
observe them, fearful of being noticed by them. For the first few hours
he was content with slinking around and watching them from a safe
distance. Then he saw that no harm befell the dogs that were near to
them, and he came in closer.
In turn he was an object of great curiosity to them. His wolfish
appearance caught their eyes at once, and they pointed him out to one
another. This act of pointing put White Fang on his guard, and when they
tried to approach him he showed his teeth and backed away. Not one
succeeded in laying a hand on him, and it was well that they did not.
White Fang soon learned that very few of these gods--not more than a
dozen--lived at this place. Every two or three days a steamer (another
and colossal manifestation of power) came into the bank and stopped for
several hours. The white men came from off these steamers and went away
on them again. There seemed untold numbers of these white men. In the
first day or so, he saw more of them than he had seen Indians in all his
life; and as the days went by they continued to come up the river, stop,
and then go on up the river out of sight.
But if the white gods were all-powerful, their dogs did not amount to
much. This White Fang quickly discovered by mixing with those that came
ashore with their masters. They were irregular shapes and sizes. Some
were short-legged--too short; others were long-legged--too long. They
had hair instead of fur, and a few had very little hair at that. And
none of them knew how to fight.
As an enemy of his kind, it was in White Fang's province to fight with
them. This he did, and he quickly achieved for them a mighty contempt.
They were soft and helpless, made much noise, and floundered around
clumsily trying to accomplish by main strength what he accomplished by
dexterity and cunning. They rushed bellowing at him. He sprang to the
side. They did not know what had become of him; and in that moment he
struck them on the shoulder, rolling them off their feet and delivering
his stroke at the throat.
Sometimes this stroke was successful, and a stricken dog rolled in the
dirt, to be pounced upon and torn to pieces by the pack of Indian dogs
that waited. White Fang was wise. He had long since learned that the
gods were made angry when their dogs were killed. The white men were no
exception to this. So he was content, when he had overthrown and slashed
wide the throat of one of their dogs, to drop back and let the pack go in
and do the cruel finishing work. It was then that the white men rushed
in, visiting their wrath heavily on the pack, while White Fang went free.
He would stand off at a little distance and look on, while stones, clubs,
axes, and all sorts of weapons fell upon his fellows. White Fang was
very wise.
But his fellows grew wise in their own way; and in this White Fang grew
wise with them. They learned that it was when a steamer first tied to
the bank that they had their fun. After the first two or three strange
dogs had been downed and destroyed, the white men hustled their own
animals back on board and wreaked savage vengeance on the offenders. One
white man, having seen his dog, a setter, torn to pieces before his eyes,
drew a revolver. He fired rapidly, six times, and six of the pack lay
dead or dying--another manifestation of power that sank deep into White
Fang's consciousness.
White Fang enjoyed it all. He did not love his kind, and he was shrewd
enough to escape hurt himself. At first, the killing of the white men's
dogs had been a diversion. After a time it became his occupation. There
was no work for him to do. Grey Beaver was busy trading and getting
wealthy. So White Fang hung around the landing with the disreputable
gang of Indian dogs, waiting for steamers. With the arrival of a steamer
the fun began. After a few minutes, by the time the white men had got
over their surprise, the gang scattered. The fun was over until the next
steamer should arrive.
But it can scarcely be said that White Fang was a member of the gang. He
did not mingle with it, but remained aloof, always himself, and was even
feared by it. It is true, he worked with it. He picked the quarrel with
the strange dog while the gang waited. And when he had overthrown the
strange dog the gang went in to finish it. But it is equally true that
he then withdrew, leaving the gang to receive the punishment of the
outraged gods.
It did not require much exertion to pick these quarrels. All he had to
do, when the strange dogs came ashore, was to show himself. When they
saw him they rushed for him. It was their instinct. He was the Wild--the
unknown, the terrible, the ever-menacing, the thing that prowled in the
darkness around the fires of the primeval world when they, cowering close
to the fires, were reshaping their instincts, learning to fear the Wild
out of which they had come, and which they had deserted and betrayed.
Generation by generation, down all the generations, had this fear of the
Wild been stamped into their natures. For centuries the Wild had stood
for terror and destruction. And during all this time free licence had
been theirs, from their masters, to kill the things of the Wild. In
doing this they had protected both themselves and the gods whose
companionship they shared.
And so, fresh from the soft southern world, these dogs, trotting down the
gang-plank and out upon the Yukon shore had but to see White Fang to
experience the irresistible impulse to rush upon him and destroy him.
They might be town-reared dogs, but the instinctive fear of the Wild was
theirs just the same. Not alone with their own eyes did they see the
wolfish creature in the clear light of day, standing before them. They
saw him with the eyes of their ancestors, and by their inherited memory
they knew White Fang for the wolf, and they remembered the ancient feud.
All of which served to make White Fang's days enjoyable. If the sight of
him drove these strange dogs upon him, so much the better for him, so
much the worse for them. They looked upon him as legitimate prey, and as
legitimate prey he looked upon them.
Not for nothing had he first seen the light of day in a lonely lair and
fought his first fights with the ptarmigan, the weasel, and the lynx. And
not for nothing had his puppyhood been made bitter by the persecution of
Lip-lip and the whole puppy pack. It might have been otherwise, and he
would then have been otherwise. Had Lip-lip not existed, he would have
passed his puppyhood with the other puppies and grown up more doglike and
with more liking for dogs. Had Grey Beaver possessed the plummet of
affection and love, he might have sounded the deeps of White Fang's
nature and brought up to the surface all manner of kindly qualities. But
these things had not been so. The clay of White Fang had been moulded
until he became what he was, morose and lonely, unloving and ferocious,
the enemy of all his kind. | White Fang is now the leader of the team, positioned at the longest end of the rope. He is not allowed to stop without orders. If he does so, the other dogs are permitted to attack him. The other dogs are jealous of his position and rage against White Fang, even when they are free; as expected, Mit-sah predictably bestows meat on White Fang in front of the others, making matters worse. The other dogs always band together because they fear that White Fang will attack them if they are alone. The wolf hates the other dogs equally. When White Fang is nearly five years old, Gray Beaver takes him on another journey along the Mackenzie, across the Rockies, and down the Porcupine to the Yukon. White Fang attacks the dogs in these places, too. His advantage as an attacker lies in the fact that he can judge time and distance correctly. White Fangs sled crosses the water-shed between the Mackenzie River and the Yukon in the late winter, and the spring is spent hunting in the Rockies. He later paddles down the stream to its junction with the Yukon under the Arctic Circle. Here stands the Old Hudsons Bay Company Fort. It is the summer of 1898, and the gold seekers are going up the Yukon to Dawson and Klondike. Gray Beaver profits tremendously through his trade of fur, gut-sewn mittens, and moccasins. At Fort Yukon, White Fang encounters his first white man. He is suspicious of their dogs, and fights them regularly. He realizes, however, that when he kills the dogs, the gods get angry at this. He cleverly launches a fatal attack on a dog and leaves it behind for the dogs to rip him apart. Upon seeing this, one man fires six shots and kills six dogs in the pack. White Fang walks freely away. |
On a healthy autumn day, the Marshalsea prisoner, weak but otherwise
restored, sat listening to a voice that read to him. On a healthy autumn
day; when the golden fields had been reaped and ploughed again, when the
summer fruits had ripened and waned, when the green perspectives of hops
had been laid low by the busy pickers, when the apples clustering in the
orchards were russet, and the berries of the mountain ash were crimson
among the yellowing foliage. Already in the woods, glimpses of the hardy
winter that was coming were to be caught through unaccustomed openings
among the boughs where the prospect shone defined and clear, free from
the bloom of the drowsy summer weather, which had rested on it as the
bloom lies on the plum. So, from the seashore the ocean was no longer to
be seen lying asleep in the heat, but its thousand sparkling eyes were
open, and its whole breadth was in joyful animation, from the cool sand
on the beach to the little sails on the horizon, drifting away like
autumn-tinted leaves that had drifted from the trees.
Changeless and barren, looking ignorantly at all the seasons with its
fixed, pinched face of poverty and care, the prison had not a touch of
any of these beauties on it. Blossom what would, its bricks and bars
bore uniformly the same dead crop. Yet Clennam, listening to the voice
as it read to him, heard in it all that great Nature was doing, heard in
it all the soothing songs she sings to man. At no Mother's knee but hers
had he ever dwelt in his youth on hopeful promises, on playful fancies,
on the harvests of tenderness and humility that lie hidden in the
early-fostered seeds of the imagination; on the oaks of retreat from
blighting winds, that have the germs of their strong roots in nursery
acorns. But, in the tones of the voice that read to him, there were
memories of an old feeling of such things, and echoes of every merciful
and loving whisper that had ever stolen to him in his life.
When the voice stopped, he put his hand over his eyes, murmuring that
the light was strong upon them.
Little Dorrit put the book by, and presently arose quietly to shade
the window. Maggy sat at her needlework in her old place. The light
softened, Little Dorrit brought her chair closer to his side.
'This will soon be over now, dear Mr Clennam. Not only are Mr Doyce's
letters to you so full of friendship and encouragement, but Mr Rugg says
his letters to him are so full of help, and that everybody (now a little
anger is past) is so considerate, and speaks so well of you, that it
will soon be over now.'
'Dear girl. Dear heart. Good angel!'
'You praise me far too much. And yet it is such an exquisite pleasure
to me to hear you speak so feelingly, and to--and to see,' said Little
Dorrit, raising her eyes to his, 'how deeply you mean it, that I cannot
say Don't.'
He lifted her hand to his lips.
'You have been here many, many times, when I have not seen you, Little
Dorrit?'
'Yes, I have been here sometimes when I have not come into the room.'
'Very often?'
'Rather often,' said Little Dorrit, timidly.
'Every day?'
'I think,' said Little Dorrit, after hesitating, 'that I have been here
at least twice every day.'
He might have released the little light hand after fervently kissing it
again; but that, with a very gentle lingering where it was, it seemed to
court being retained. He took it in both of his, and it lay softly on his
breast.
'Dear Little Dorrit, it is not my imprisonment only that will soon be
over. This sacrifice of you must be ended. We must learn to part again,
and to take our different ways so wide asunder. You have not forgotten
what we said together, when you came back?'
'O no, I have not forgotten it. But something has been--You feel quite
strong to-day, don't you?'
'Quite strong.'
The hand he held crept up a little nearer his face.
'Do you feel quite strong enough to know what a great fortune I have
got?'
'I shall be very glad to be told. No fortune can be too great or good
for Little Dorrit.'
'I have been anxiously waiting to tell you. I have been longing and
longing to tell you. You are sure you will not take it?'
'Never!'
'You are quite sure you will not take half of it?'
'Never, dear Little Dorrit!'
As she looked at him silently, there was something in her affectionate
face that he did not quite comprehend: something that could have broken
into tears in a moment, and yet that was happy and proud.
'You will be sorry to hear what I have to tell you about Fanny. Poor
Fanny has lost everything. She has nothing left but her husband's
income. All that papa gave her when she married was lost as your money
was lost. It was in the same hands, and it is all gone.'
Arthur was more shocked than surprised to hear it. 'I had hoped it might
not be so bad,' he said: 'but I had feared a heavy loss there, knowing
the connection between her husband and the defaulter.'
'Yes. It is all gone. I am very sorry for Fanny; very, very, very sorry
for poor Fanny. My poor brother too!'
'Had _he_ property in the same hands?'
'Yes! And it's all gone.--How much do you think my own great fortune
is?'
As Arthur looked at her inquiringly, with a new apprehension on him,
she withdrew her hand, and laid her face down on the spot where it had
rested.
'I have nothing in the world. I am as poor as when I lived here. When
papa came over to England, he confided everything he had to the same
hands, and it is all swept away. O my dearest and best, are you quite
sure you will not share my fortune with me now?'
Locked in his arms, held to his heart, with his manly tears upon her own
cheek, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its
fellow-hand.
'Never to part, my dearest Arthur; never any more, until the last!
I never was rich before, I never was proud before, I never was happy
before, I am rich in being taken by you, I am proud in having been
resigned by you, I am happy in being with you in this prison, as I
should be happy in coming back to it with you, if it should be the will
of GOD, and comforting and serving you with all my love and truth. I am
yours anywhere, everywhere! I love you dearly! I would rather pass my
life here with you, and go out daily, working for our bread, than I
would have the greatest fortune that ever was told, and be the greatest
lady that ever was honoured. O, if poor papa may only know how blest at
last my heart is, in this room where he suffered for so many years!'
Maggy had of course been staring from the first, and had of course been
crying her eyes out long before this. Maggy was now so overjoyed that,
after hugging her little mother with all her might, she went down-stairs
like a clog-hornpipe to find somebody or other to whom to impart her
gladness. Whom should Maggy meet but Flora and Mr F.'s Aunt opportunely
coming in? And whom else, as a consequence of that meeting, should
Little Dorrit find waiting for herself, when, a good two or three hours
afterwards, she went out?
Flora's eyes were a little red, and she seemed rather out of spirits.
Mr F.'s Aunt was so stiffened that she had the appearance of being past
bending by any means short of powerful mechanical pressure. Her bonnet
was cocked up behind in a terrific manner; and her stony reticule was as
rigid as if it had been petrified by the Gorgon's head, and had got it
at that moment inside. With these imposing attributes, Mr F.'s Aunt,
publicly seated on the steps of the Marshal's official residence, had
been for the two or three hours in question a great boon to the younger
inhabitants of the Borough, whose sallies of humour she had considerably
flushed herself by resenting at the point of her umbrella, from time to
time.
'Painfully aware, Miss Dorrit, I am sure,' said Flora, 'that to propose
an adjournment to any place to one so far removed by fortune and so
courted and caressed by the best society must ever appear intruding
even if not a pie-shop far below your present sphere and a back-parlour
though a civil man but if for the sake of Arthur--cannot overcome it
more improper now than ever late Doyce and Clennam--one last remark I
might wish to make one last explanation I might wish to offer perhaps
your good nature might excuse under pretence of three kidney ones the
humble place of conversation.'
Rightly interpreting this rather obscure speech, Little Dorrit returned
that she was quite at Flora's disposition. Flora accordingly led the
way across the road to the pie-shop in question: Mr F.'s Aunt stalking
across in the rear, and putting herself in the way of being run over,
with a perseverance worthy of a better cause.
When the 'three kidney ones,' which were to be a blind to the
conversation, were set before them on three little tin platters, each
kidney one ornamented with a hole at the top, into which the civil man
poured hot gravy out of a spouted can as if he were feeding three lamps,
Flora took out her pocket-handkerchief.
'If Fancy's fair dreams,' she began, 'have ever pictured that when
Arthur--cannot overcome it pray excuse me--was restored to freedom even
a pie as far from flaky as the present and so deficient in kidney as to
be in that respect like a minced nutmeg might not prove unacceptable if
offered by the hand of true regard such visions have for ever fled
and all is cancelled but being aware that tender relations are in
contemplation beg to state that I heartily wish well to both and find
no fault with either not the least, it may be withering to know that ere
the hand of Time had made me much less slim than formerly and dreadfully
red on the slightest exertion particularly after eating I well know when
it takes the form of a rash, it might have been and was not through the
interruption of parents and mental torpor succeeded until the mysterious
clue was held by Mr F. still I would not be ungenerous to either and I
heartily wish well to both.'
Little Dorrit took her hand, and thanked her for all her old kindness.
'Call it not kindness,' returned Flora, giving her an honest kiss, 'for
you always were the best and dearest little thing that ever was if I
may take the liberty and even in a money point of view a saving being
Conscience itself though I must add much more agreeable than mine ever
was to me for though not I hope more burdened than other people's yet
I have always found it far readier to make one uncomfortable than
comfortable and evidently taking a greater pleasure in doing it but I am
wandering, one hope I wish to express ere yet the closing scene draws
in and it is that I do trust for the sake of old times and old sincerity
that Arthur will know that I didn't desert him in his misfortunes but
that I came backwards and forwards constantly to ask if I could do
anything for him and that I sat in the pie-shop where they very civilly
fetched something warm in a tumbler from the hotel and really very nice
hours after hours to keep him company over the way without his knowing
it.'
Flora really had tears in her eyes now, and they showed her to great
advantage.
'Over and above which,' said Flora, 'I earnestly beg you as the dearest
thing that ever was if you'll still excuse the familiarity from one who
moves in very different circles to let Arthur understand that I don't
know after all whether it wasn't all nonsense between us though pleasant
at the time and trying too and certainly Mr F. did work a change and
the spell being broken nothing could be expected to take place without
weaving it afresh which various circumstances have combined to prevent
of which perhaps not the least powerful was that it was not to be, I
am not prepared to say that if it had been agreeable to Arthur and had
brought itself about naturally in the first instance I should not have
been very glad being of a lively disposition and moped at home where
papa undoubtedly is the most aggravating of his sex and not improved
since having been cut down by the hand of the Incendiary into something
of which I never saw the counterpart in all my life but jealousy is not
my character nor ill-will though many faults.'
Without having been able closely to follow Mrs Finching through this
labyrinth, Little Dorrit understood its purpose, and cordially accepted
the trust.
'The withered chaplet my dear,' said Flora, with great enjoyment, 'is
then perished the column is crumbled and the pyramid is standing upside
down upon its what's-his-name call it not giddiness call it not weakness
call it not folly I must now retire into privacy and look upon the ashes
of departed joys no more but taking a further liberty of paying for the
pastry which has formed the humble pretext of our interview will for
ever say Adieu!'
Mr F.'s Aunt, who had eaten her pie with great solemnity, and who had
been elaborating some grievous scheme of injury in her mind since her
first assumption of that public position on the Marshal's steps, took
the present opportunity of addressing the following Sibyllic apostrophe
to the relict of her late nephew.
'Bring him for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!'
Flora tried in vain to soothe the excellent woman by explaining that
they were going home to dinner. Mr F.'s Aunt persisted in replying,
'Bring him for'ard and I'll chuck him out o' winder!' Having reiterated
this demand an immense number of times, with a sustained glare of
defiance at Little Dorrit, Mr F.'s Aunt folded her arms, and sat down in
the corner of the pie-shop parlour; steadfastly refusing to budge until
such time as 'he' should have been 'brought for'ard,' and the chucking
portion of his destiny accomplished.
In this condition of things, Flora confided to Little Dorrit that she
had not seen Mr F.'s Aunt so full of life and character for weeks; that
she would find it necessary to remain there 'hours perhaps,' until the
inexorable old lady could be softened; and that she could manage her
best alone. They parted, therefore, in the friendliest manner, and with
the kindest feeling on both sides.
Mr F.'s Aunt holding out like a grim fortress, and Flora becoming in
need of refreshment, a messenger was despatched to the hotel for the
tumbler already glanced at, which was afterwards replenished. With the
aid of its content, a newspaper, and some skimming of the cream of the
pie-stock, Flora got through the remainder of the day in perfect good
humour; though occasionally embarrassed by the consequences of an
idle rumour which circulated among the credulous infants of the
neighbourhood, to the effect that an old lady had sold herself to the
pie-shop to be made up, and was then sitting in the pie-shop parlour,
declining to complete her contract. This attracted so many young persons
of both sexes, and, when the shades of evening began to fall, occasioned
so much interruption to the business, that the merchant became very
pressing in his proposals that Mr F.'s Aunt should be removed. A
conveyance was accordingly brought to the door, which, by the joint
efforts of the merchant and Flora, this remarkable woman was at last
induced to enter; though not without even then putting her head out of
the window, and demanding to have him 'brought for'ard' for the purpose
originally mentioned. As she was observed at this time to direct baleful
glances towards the Marshalsea, it has been supposed that this admirably
consistent female intended by 'him,' Arthur Clennam. This, however, is
mere speculation; who the person was, who, for the satisfaction of Mr
F.'s Aunt's mind, ought to have been brought forward and never was
brought forward, will never be positively known.
The autumn days went on, and Little Dorrit never came to the Marshalsea
now and went away without seeing him. No, no, no.
One morning, as Arthur listened for the light feet that every morning
ascended winged to his heart, bringing the heavenly brightness of a new
love into the room where the old love had wrought so hard and been so
true; one morning, as he listened, he heard her coming, not alone.
'Dear Arthur,' said her delighted voice outside the door, 'I have some
one here. May I bring some one in?'
He had thought from the tread there were two with her. He answered
'Yes,' and she came in with Mr Meagles. Sun-browned and jolly Mr
Meagles looked, and he opened his arms and folded Arthur in them, like a
sun-browned and jolly father.
'Now I am all right,' said Mr Meagles, after a minute or so. 'Now it's
over. Arthur, my dear fellow, confess at once that you expected me
before.'
'I did,' said Arthur; 'but Amy told me--'
'Little Dorrit. Never any other name.' (It was she who whispered it.)
'--But my Little Dorrit told me that, without asking for any further
explanation, I was not to expect you until I saw you.'
'And now you see me, my boy,' said Mr Meagles, shaking him by the hand
stoutly; 'and now you shall have any explanation and every explanation.
The fact is, I _was_ here--came straight to you from the Allongers
and Marshongers, or I should be ashamed to look you in the face this
day,--but you were not in company trim at the moment, and I had to start
off again to catch Doyce.'
'Poor Doyce!' sighed Arthur.
'Don't call him names that he don't deserve,' said Mr Meagles. '_He's_
not poor; _he's_ doing well enough. Doyce is a wonderful fellow over
there. I assure you he is making out his case like a house a-fire. He
has fallen on his legs, has Dan. Where they don't want things done and
find a man to do 'em, that man's off his legs; but where they do want
things done and find a man to do 'em, that man's on his legs. You won't
have occasion to trouble the Circumlocution Office any more. Let me tell
you, Dan has done without 'em!'
'What a load you take from my mind!' cried Arthur. 'What happiness you
give me!'
'Happiness?' retorted Mr Meagles. 'Don't talk about happiness till you
see Dan. I assure you Dan is directing works and executing labours over
yonder, that it would make your hair stand on end to look at. He's no
public offender, bless you, now! He's medalled and ribboned, and starred
and crossed, and I don't-know-what all'd, like a born nobleman. But we
mustn't talk about that over here.'
'Why not?'
'Oh, egad!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head very seriously, 'he must
hide all those things under lock and key when he comes over here. They
won't do over here. In that particular, Britannia is a Britannia in the
Manger--won't give her children such distinctions herself, and won't
allow them to be seen when they are given by other countries. No, no,
Dan!' said Mr Meagles, shaking his head again. 'That won't do here!'
'If you had brought me (except for Doyce's sake) twice what I have
lost,' cried Arthur, 'you would not have given me the pleasure that you
give me in this news.'
'Why, of course, of course,' assented Mr Meagles. 'Of course I know
that, my good fellow, and therefore I come out with it in the first
burst. Now, to go back, about catching Doyce. I caught Doyce. Ran
against him among a lot of those dirty brown dogs in women's nightcaps a
great deal too big for 'em, calling themselves Arabs and all sorts of
incoherent races. _You_ know 'em! Well! He was coming straight to me,
and I was going to him, and so we came back together.'
'Doyce in England!' exclaimed Arthur.
'There!' said Mr Meagles, throwing open his arms. 'I am the worst man
in the world to manage a thing of this sort. I don't know what I should
have done if I had been in the diplomatic line--right, perhaps! The long
and short of it is, Arthur, we have both been in England this fortnight.
And if you go on to ask where Doyce is at the present moment, why, my
plain answer is--here he is! And now I can breathe again at last!'
Doyce darted in from behind the door, caught Arthur by both hands, and
said the rest for himself.
'There are only three branches of my subject, my dear Clennam,' said
Doyce, proceeding to mould them severally, with his plastic thumb, on
the palm of his hand, 'and they're soon disposed of. First, not a word
more from you about the past. There was an error in your calculations.
I know what that is. It affects the whole machine, and failure is the
consequence. You will profit by the failure, and will avoid it another
time. I have done a similar thing myself, in construction, often. Every
failure teaches a man something, if he will learn; and you are too
sensible a man not to learn from this failure. So much for firstly.
Secondly. I was sorry you should have taken it so heavily to heart, and
reproached yourself so severely; I was travelling home night and day
to put matters right, with the assistance of our friend, when I fell in
with our friend as he has informed you. Thirdly. We two agreed, that,
after what you had undergone, after your distress of mind, and after
your illness, it would be a pleasant surprise if we could so far keep
quiet as to get things perfectly arranged without your knowledge, and
then come and say that all the affairs were smooth, that everything was
right, that the business stood in greater want of you than ever it did,
and that a new and prosperous career was opened before you and me as
partners. That's thirdly. But you know we always make an allowance for
friction, and so I have reserved space to close in. My dear Clennam,
I thoroughly confide in you; you have it in your power to be quite as
useful to me as I have, or have had, it in my power to be useful to you;
your old place awaits you, and wants you very much; there is nothing to
detain you here one half-hour longer.'
There was silence, which was not broken until Arthur had stood for some
time at the window with his back towards them, and until his little wife
that was to be had gone to him and stayed by him.
'I made a remark a little while ago,' said Daniel Doyce then, 'which I
am inclined to think was an incorrect one. I said there was nothing
to detain you here, Clennam, half an hour longer. Am I mistaken in
supposing that you would rather not leave here till to-morrow morning?
Do I know, without being very wise, where you would like to go, direct
from these walls and from this room?'
'You do,' returned Arthur. 'It has been our cherished purpose.'
'Very well!' said Doyce. 'Then, if this young lady will do me the honour
of regarding me for four-and-twenty hours in the light of a father, and
will take a ride with me now towards Saint Paul's Churchyard, I dare say
I know what we want to get there.'
Little Dorrit and he went out together soon afterwards, and Mr Meagles
lingered behind to say a word to his friend.
'I think, Arthur, you will not want Mother and me in the morning and
we will keep away. It might set Mother thinking about Pet; she's a
soft-hearted woman. She's best at the Cottage, and I'll stay there and
keep her company.'
With that they parted for the time. And the day ended, and the night
ended, and the morning came, and Little Dorrit, simply dressed as usual
and having no one with her but Maggy, came into the prison with the
sunshine. The poor room was a happy room that morning. Where in the
world was there a room so full of quiet joy!
'My dear love,' said Arthur. 'Why does Maggy light the fire? We shall be
gone directly.'
'I asked her to do it. I have taken such an odd fancy. I want you to
burn something for me.'
'What?'
'Only this folded paper. If you will put it in the fire with your own
hand, just as it is, my fancy will be gratified.'
'Superstitious, darling Little Dorrit? Is it a charm?'
'It is anything you like best, my own,' she answered, laughing with
glistening eyes and standing on tiptoe to kiss him, 'if you will only
humour me when the fire burns up.'
So they stood before the fire, waiting: Clennam with his arm about her
waist, and the fire shining, as fire in that same place had often shone,
in Little Dorrit's eyes. 'Is it bright enough now?' said Arthur. 'Quite
bright enough now,' said Little Dorrit. 'Does the charm want any words
to be said?' asked Arthur, as he held the paper over the flame. 'You can
say (if you don't mind) "I love you!"' answered Little Dorrit. So he said
it, and the paper burned away.
They passed very quietly along the yard; for no one was there, though
many heads were stealthily peeping from the windows. Only one face,
familiar of old, was in the Lodge. When they had both accosted it, and
spoken many kind words, Little Dorrit turned back one last time with her
hand stretched out, saying, 'Good-bye, good John! I hope you will live
very happy, dear!'
Then they went up the steps of the neighbouring Saint George's Church,
and went up to the altar, where Daniel Doyce was waiting in his paternal
character. And there was Little Dorrit's old friend who had given her
the Burial Register for a pillow; full of admiration that she should
come back to them to be married, after all.
And they were married with the sun shining on them through the painted
figure of Our Saviour on the window. And they went into the very room
where Little Dorrit had slumbered after her party, to sign the Marriage
Register. And there, Mr Pancks, (destined to be chief clerk to Doyce and
Clennam, and afterwards partner in the house), sinking the Incendiary
in the peaceful friend, looked in at the door to see it done, with Flora
gallantly supported on one arm and Maggy on the other, and a back-ground
of John Chivery and father and other turnkeys who had run round for the
moment, deserting the parent Marshalsea for its happy child. Nor had
Flora the least signs of seclusion upon her, notwithstanding her recent
declaration; but, on the contrary, was wonderfully smart, and enjoyed
the ceremonies mightily, though in a fluttered way.
Little Dorrit's old friend held the inkstand as she signed her name, and
the clerk paused in taking off the good clergyman's surplice, and all
the witnesses looked on with special interest. 'For, you see,' said
Little Dorrit's old friend, 'this young lady is one of our curiosities,
and has come now to the third volume of our Registers. Her birth is in
what I call the first volume; she lay asleep, on this very floor,
with her pretty head on what I call the second volume; and she's now
a-writing her little name as a bride in what I call the third volume.'
They all gave place when the signing was done, and Little Dorrit and her
husband walked out of the church alone. They paused for a moment on the
steps of the portico, looking at the fresh perspective of the street in
the autumn morning sun's bright rays, and then went down.
Went down into a modest life of usefulness and happiness. Went down
to give a mother's care, in the fulness of time, to Fanny's neglected
children no less than to their own, and to leave that lady going into
Society for ever and a day. Went down to give a tender nurse and friend
to Tip for some few years, who was never vexed by the great exactions he
made of her in return for the riches he might have given her if he had
ever had them, and who lovingly closed his eyes upon the Marshalsea
and all its blighted fruits. They went quietly down into the roaring
streets, inseparable and blessed; and as they passed along in sunshine
and shade, the noisy and the eager, and the arrogant and the froward and
the vain, fretted and chafed, and made their usual uproar. | Amy takes care of Arthur, who is slowly recovering from his illness in jail. She keeps playfully offering him half of her fortune. He says no every time. Finally she asks him if he wants to know how much her fortune actually is. Ready? It's... nothing at all. Dorrit had given all his money to Merdle to invest, so there is nothing left. Arthur laughs and agrees now to share half of her fortune. She makes a nice little speech half-proposing to him and half-accepting a marriage proposal. At that moment Flora and Mr. F's Aunt come up the stairs. Amy tells them the good news that they are engaged. Flora asks Amy to go with her to a nearby cafe, where Flora makes a long flowery, nonsensical speech basically wishing them well and saying no hard feelings. Mr. F's Aunt, meanwhile, demands that Arthur be brought "for'ard, and I'll chuck him out o' winder!" . In a little while, Meagles comes to visit Arthur in jail for the first time. Meagles has news that Doyce is doing swimmingly in Russia. They love him over there and are psyched to have all of his inventions. They've given him medals and titles and honors, and he's made a heap of money. Then Meagles says, actually, here he is! Doyce is not at all mad at Arthur and says that mistakes are part of the learning process. Also, Meagles and Doyce tell Amy and Arthur that everything has been taken care of and that Arthur is free to go. He can have his old job back at Doyce & Clennam and everything will be just fine. Arthur and Amy decide to leave the next day, because first they want to... get married! The next morning Amy brings Arthur a piece of paper to burn in the fire before they go to church. Arthur doesn't know what it is, but we can assume that it's the codicil to the will that leaves Amy all that money. She decides to tell him about his own family when the time comes, but not about the money. They go to the same church where Amy spent the night with Maggy way back at the beginning of the book. They get married. And then they live quietly and peacefully ever after. |
Scena Tertia.
Enter Marshall, and Aumerle.
Mar. My L[ord]. Aumerle, is Harry Herford arm'd
Aum. Yea, at all points, and longs to enter in
Mar. The Duke of Norfolke, sprightfully and bold,
Stayes but the summons of the Appealants Trumpet
Au. Why then the Champions, are prepar'd, and stay
For nothing but his Maiesties approach.
Flourish.
Enter King, Gaunt, Bushy, Bagot, Greene, & others: Then
Mowbray in Armor,
and Harrold.
Rich. Marshall, demand of yonder Champion
The cause of his arriuall heere in Armes,
Aske him his name, and orderly proceed
To sweare him in the iustice of his cause
Mar. In Gods name, and the Kings say who y art,
And why thou com'st thus knightly clad in Armes?
Against what man thou com'st, and what's thy quarrell,
Speake truly on thy knighthood, and thine oath,
As so defend thee heauen, and thy valour
Mow. My name is Tho[mas]. Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,
Who hither comes engaged by my oath
(Which heauen defend a knight should violate)
Both to defend my loyalty and truth,
To God, my King, and his succeeding issue,
Against the Duke of Herford, that appeales me:
And by the grace of God, and this mine arme,
To proue him (in defending of my selfe)
A Traitor to my God, my King, and me,
And as I truly fight, defend me heauen.
Tucket. Enter Hereford, and Harold.
Rich. Marshall: Aske yonder Knight in Armes,
Both who he is, and why he commeth hither,
Thus placed in habiliments of warre:
And formerly according to our Law
Depose him in the iustice of his cause
Mar. What is thy name? and wherfore comst y hither
Before King Richard in his Royall Lists?
Against whom com'st thou? and what's thy quarrell?
Speake like a true Knight, so defend thee heauen
Bul. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,
Am I: who ready heere do stand in Armes,
To proue by heauens grace, and my bodies valour,
In Lists, on Thomas Mowbray Duke of Norfolke,
That he's a Traitor foule, and dangerous,
To God of heauen, King Richard, and to me,
And as I truly fight, defend me heauen
Mar. On paine of death, no person be so bold,
Or daring hardie as to touch the Listes,
Except the Marshall, and such Officers
Appointed to direct these faire designes
Bul. Lord Marshall, let me kisse my Soueraigns hand,
And bow my knee before his Maiestie:
For Mowbray and my selfe are like two men,
That vow a long and weary pilgrimage,
Then let vs take a ceremonious leaue
And louing farwell of our seuerall friends
Mar. The Appealant in all duty greets your Highnes,
And craues to kisse your hand, and take his leaue
Rich. We will descend, and fold him in our armes.
Cosin of Herford, as thy cause is iust,
So be thy fortune in this Royall fight:
Farewell, my blood, which if to day thou shead,
Lament we may, but not reuenge thee dead
Bull. Oh let no noble eye prophane a teare
For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbrayes speare:
As confident, as is the Falcons flight
Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.
My louing Lord, I take my leaue of you,
Of you (my Noble Cosin) Lord Aumerle;
Not sicke, although I haue to do with death,
But lustie, yong, and cheerely drawing breath.
Loe, as at English Feasts, so I regreete
The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.
Oh thou the earthy author of my blood,
Whose youthfull spirit in me regenerate,
Doth with a two-fold rigor lift mee vp
To reach at victory aboue my head,
Adde proofe vnto mine Armour with thy prayres,
And with thy blessings steele my Lances point,
That it may enter Mowbrayes waxen Coate,
And furnish new the name of Iohn a Gaunt,
Euen in the lusty hauiour of his sonne
Gaunt. Heauen in thy good cause make thee prosp'rous
Be swift like lightning in the execution,
And let thy blowes doubly redoubled,
Fall like amazing thunder on the Caske
Of thy amaz'd pernicious enemy.
Rouze vp thy youthfull blood, be valiant, and liue
Bul. Mine innocence, and S[aint]. George to thriue
Mow. How euer heauen or fortune cast my lot,
There liues, or dies, true to Kings Richards Throne,
A loyall, iust, and vpright Gentleman:
Neuer did Captiue with a freer heart,
Cast off his chaines of bondage, and embrace
His golden vncontroul'd enfranchisement,
More then my dancing soule doth celebrate
This Feast of Battell, with mine Aduersarie.
Most mighty Liege, and my companion Peeres,
Take from my mouth, the wish of happy yeares,
As gentle, and as iocond, as to iest,
Go I to fight: Truth, hath a quiet brest
Rich. Farewell, my Lord, securely I espy
Vertue with Valour, couched in thine eye:
Order the triall Marshall, and begin
Mar. Harrie of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,
Receiue thy Launce, and heauen defend thy right
Bul. Strong as a towre in hope, I cry Amen
Mar. Go beare this Lance to Thomas D[uke]. of Norfolke
1.Har. Harry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derbie,
Stands heere for God, his Soueraigne, and himselfe,
On paine to be found false, and recreant,
To proue the Duke of Norfolke, Thomas Mowbray,
A Traitor to his God, his King, and him,
And dares him to set forwards to the fight
2.Har. Here standeth Tho[mas]: Mowbray Duke of Norfolk
On paine to be found false and recreant,
Both to defend himselfe, and to approue
Henry of Herford, Lancaster, and Derby,
To God, his Soueraigne, and to him disloyall:
Couragiously, and with a free desire
Attending but the signall to begin.
A charge sounded
Mar. Sound Trumpets, and set forward Combatants:
Stay, the King hath throwne his Warder downe
Rich. Let them lay by their Helmets & their Speares,
And both returne backe to their Chaires againe:
Withdraw with vs, and let the Trumpets sound,
While we returne these Dukes what we decree.
A long Flourish.
Draw neere and list
What with our Councell we haue done.
For that our kingdomes earth should not be soyld
With that deere blood which it hath fostered,
And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect
Of ciuill wounds plowgh'd vp with neighbors swords,
Which so rouz'd vp with boystrous vntun'd drummes,
With harsh resounding Trumpets dreadfull bray,
And grating shocke of wrathfull yron Armes,
Might from our quiet Confines fright faire peace,
And make vs wade euen in our kindreds blood:
Therefore, we banish you our Territories.
You Cosin Herford, vpon paine of death,
Till twice fiue Summers haue enrich'd our fields,
Shall not regreet our faire dominions,
But treade the stranger pathes of banishment
Bul. Your will be done: This must my comfort be,
That Sun that warmes you heere, shall shine on me:
And those his golden beames to you heere lent,
Shall point on me, and gild my banishment
Rich. Norfolke: for thee remaines a heauier dombe,
Which I with some vnwillingnesse pronounce,
The slye slow houres shall not determinate
The datelesse limit of thy deere exile:
The hopelesse word, of Neuer to returne,
Breath I against thee, vpon paine of life
Mow. A heauy sentence, my most Soueraigne Liege,
And all vnlook'd for from your Highnesse mouth:
A deerer merit, not so deepe a maime,
As to be cast forth in the common ayre
Haue I deserued at your Highnesse hands.
The Language I haue learn'd these forty yeares
(My natiue English) now I must forgo,
And now my tongues vse is to me no more,
Then an vnstringed Vyall, or a Harpe,
Or like a cunning Instrument cas'd vp,
Or being open, put into his hands
That knowes no touch to tune the harmony.
Within my mouth you haue engaol'd my tongue,
Doubly percullist with my teeth and lippes,
And dull, vnfeeling, barren ignorance,
Is made my Gaoler to attend on me:
I am too old to fawne vpon a Nurse,
Too farre in yeeres to be a pupill now:
What is thy sentence then, but speechlesse death,
Which robs my tongue from breathing natiue breath?
Rich. It boots thee not to be compassionate,
After our sentence, plaining comes too late
Mow. Then thus I turne me from my countries light
To dwell in solemne shades of endlesse night
Ric. Returne againe, and take an oath with thee,
Lay on our Royall sword, your banisht hands;
Sweare by the duty that you owe to heauen
(Our part therein we banish with your selues)
To keepe the Oath that we administer:
You neuer shall (so helpe you Truth, and Heauen)
Embrace each others loue in banishment,
Nor euer looke vpon each others face,
Nor euer write, regreete, or reconcile
This lowring tempest of your home-bred hate,
Nor euer by aduised purpose meete,
To plot, contriue, or complot any ill,
'Gainst Vs, our State, our Subiects, or our Land
Bull. I sweare
Mow. And I, to keepe all this
Bul. Norfolke, so fare, as to mine enemie,
By this time (had the King permitted vs)
One of our soules had wandred in the ayre,
Banish'd this fraile sepulchre of our flesh,
As now our flesh is banish'd from this Land.
Confesse thy Treasons, ere thou flye this Realme,
Since thou hast farre to go, beare not along
The clogging burthen of a guilty soule
Mow. No Bullingbroke: If euer I were Traitor,
My name be blotted from the booke of Life,
And I from heauen banish'd, as from hence:
But what thou art, heauen, thou, and I do know,
And all too soone (I feare) the King shall rue.
Farewell (my Liege) now no way can I stray,
Saue backe to England, all the worlds my way.
Enter.
Rich. Vncle, euen in the glasses of thine eyes
I see thy greeued heart: thy sad aspect,
Hath from the number of his banish'd yeares
Pluck'd foure away: Six frozen Winters spent,
Returne with welcome home, from banishment
Bul. How long a time lyes in one little word:
Foure lagging Winters, and foure wanton springs
End in a word, such is the breath of Kings
Gaunt. I thanke my Liege, that in regard of me
He shortens foure yeares of my sonnes exile:
But little vantage shall I reape thereby.
For ere the sixe yeares that he hath to spend
Can change their Moones, and bring their times about,
My oyle-dride Lampe, and time-bewasted light
Shall be extinct with age, and endlesse night:
My inch of Taper, will be burnt, and done,
And blindfold death, not let me see my sonne
Rich. Why Vncle, thou hast many yeeres to liue
Gaunt. But not a minute (King) that thou canst giue;
Shorten my dayes thou canst with sudden sorow,
And plucke nights from me, but not lend a morrow:
Thou canst helpe time to furrow me with age,
But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage:
Thy word is currant with him, for my death,
But dead, thy kingdome cannot buy my breath
Ric. Thy sonne is banish'd vpon good aduice,
Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gaue,
Why at our Iustice seem'st thou then to lowre?
Gau. Things sweet to tast, proue in digestion sowre:
You vrg'd me as a Iudge, but I had rather
You would haue bid me argue like a Father.
Alas, I look'd when some of you should say,
I was too strict to make mine owne away:
But you gaue leaue to my vnwilling tong,
Against my will, to do my selfe this wrong
Rich. Cosine farewell: and Vncle bid him so:
Six yeares we banish him, and he shall go.
Enter.
Flourish.
Au. Cosine farewell: what presence must not know
From where you do remaine, let paper show
Mar. My Lord, no leaue take I, for I will ride
As farre as land will let me, by your side
Gaunt. Oh to what purpose dost thou hord thy words,
That thou returnst no greeting to thy friends?
Bull. I haue too few to take my leaue of you,
When the tongues office should be prodigall,
To breath th' abundant dolour of the heart
Gau. Thy greefe is but thy absence for a time
Bull. Ioy absent, greefe is present for that time
Gau. What is sixe Winters, they are quickely gone?
Bul. To men in ioy, but greefe makes one houre ten
Gau. Call it a trauell that thou tak'st for pleasure
Bul. My heart will sigh, when I miscall it so,
Which findes it an inforced Pilgrimage
Gau. The sullen passage of thy weary steppes
Esteeme a soyle, wherein thou art to set
The precious Iewell of thy home returne
Bul. Oh who can hold a fire in his hand
By thinking on the frostie Caucasus?
Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite,
By bare imagination of a Feast?
Or Wallow naked in December snow
By thinking on fantasticke summers heate?
Oh no, the apprehension of the good
Giues but the greater feeling to the worse:
Fell sorrowes tooth, doth euer ranckle more
Then when it bites, but lanceth not the sore
Gau. Come, come (my son) Ile bring thee on thy way
Had I thy youth, and cause, I would not stay
Bul. Then Englands ground farewell: sweet soil adieu,
My Mother, and my Nurse, which beares me yet:
Where ere I wander, boast of this I can,
Though banish'd, yet a true-borne Englishman. | At Coventry, Mowbray and Bolingbroke appear for their trial by combat. It is a ceremonial occasion, and each combatant follows the rules in declaring who they are and affirming the justness of their cause. Gaunt gives Bolingbroke his encouragement. But just as the combat is about to begin, Richard halts it. He gives several reasons. He does not want blood to be shed; he believes mutual ambition and rivalry stirred the two combatants to arms; and their conflict might stir up a wider conflict in English society. He banishes Bolingbroke from England for ten years, and Mowbray for life. They must agree never to meet or communicate with each other, or plot against the king or England. Both men reluctantly swear that they accept these conditions. Bolingbroke demands that Mowbray confess his treason before he departs, but Mowbray refuses. After Mowbray departs, Richard, on seeing the grief of Gaunt for his son, reduces Bolingbroke's exile to six years. Gaunt says that is of little use to him, since he is old and will not live six years. Richard claims that his actions are just and points out that Gaunt was a party to the verdict. Gaunt replies that at Richard's urging he acted like a judge rather than a father, and he wanted to avoid being accused of bias. He was secretly hoping that others at the meeting would tell him he was being too strict, but they did not. Therefore he found himself appearing to support something he did not really want. After the king exits, Gaunt tries to cheer up his downcast son, but without much success. |
I returned to my good grandmother's house. She had an interview with Mr.
Sands. When she asked him why he could not have left her one ewe
lamb,--whether there were not plenty of slaves who did not care about
character,--he made no answer, but he spoke kind and encouraging words. He
promised to care for my child, and to buy me, be the conditions what they
might.
I had not seen Dr. Flint for five days. I had never seen him since I made
the avowal to him. He talked of the disgrace I had brought on myself; how I
had sinned against my master, and mortified my old grandmother. He
intimated that if I had accepted his proposals, he, as a physician, could
have saved me from exposure. He even condescended to pity me. Could he have
offered wormwood more bitter? He, whose persecutions had been the cause of
my sin!
"Linda," said he, "though you have been criminal towards me, I feel for
you, and I can pardon you if you obey my wishes. Tell me whether the fellow
you wanted to marry is the father of your child. If you deceive me, you
shall feel the fires of hell."
I did not feel as proud as I had done. My strongest weapon with him was
gone. I was lowered in my own estimation, and had resolved to bear his
abuse in silence. But when he spoke contemptuously of the lover who had
always treated me honorably; when I remembered that but for _him_ I might
have been a virtuous, free, and happy wife, I lost my patience. "I have
sinned against God and myself," I replied; "but not against you."
He clinched his teeth, and muttered, "Curse you!" He came towards me, with
ill-suppressed rage, and exclaimed, "You obstinate girl! I could grind your
bones to powder! You have thrown yourself away on some worthless rascal.
You are weak-minded, and have been easily persuaded by those who don't care
a straw for you. The future will settle accounts between us. You are
blinded now; but hereafter you will be convinced that your master was your
best friend. My lenity towards you is a proof of it. I might have punished
you in many ways. I might have whipped till you fell dead under the lash.
But I wanted you to live; I would have bettered your condition. Others
cannot do it. You are my slave. Your mistress, disgusted by your conduct,
forbids you to return to the house; therefore I leave you here for the
present; but I shall see you often. I will call to-morrow."
He came with frowning brows, that showed a dissatisfied state of mind.
After asking about my health, he inquired whether my board was paid, and
who visited me. He then went on to say that he had neglected his duty; that
as a physician there were certain things that he ought to have explained to
me. Then followed talk such as would have made the most shameless blush. He
ordered me to stand up before him. I obeyed. "I command you," said he, "to
tell me whether the father of your child is white or black." I hesitated.
"Answer me this instant!" he exclaimed. I did answer. He sprang upon me
like a wolf, and grabbed my arm as if he would have broken it. "Do you love
him?" said he, in a hissing tone.
"I am thankful that I do not despise him," I replied.
He raised his hand to strike me; but it fell again. I don't know what
arrested the blow. He sat down, with lips tightly compressed. At last he
spoke. "I came here," said he, "to make you a friendly proposition; but
your ingratitude chafes me beyond endurance. You turn aside all my good
intentions towards you. I don't know what it is that keeps me from killing
you." Again he rose, as if he had a mind to strike me.
But he resumed. "On one condition I will forgive your insolence and crime.
You must henceforth have no communication of any kind with the father of
your child. You must not ask any thing from him, or receive any thing from
him. I will take care of you and your child. You had better promise this at
once, and not wait till you are deserted by him. This is the last act of
mercy I shall show towards you."
I said something about being unwilling to have my child supported by a man
who had cursed it and me also. He rejoined, that a woman who had sunk to my
level had no right to expect any thing else. He asked, for the last time,
would I accept his kindness? I answered that I would not.
"Very well," said he; "then take the consequences of your wayward course.
Never look to me for help. You are my slave, and shall always be my slave.
I will never sell you, that you may depend upon."
Hope died away in my heart as he closed the door after him. I had
calculated that in his rage he would sell me to a slave-trader; and I knew
the father of my child was on the watch to buy me.
About this time my uncle Phillip was expected to return from a voyage. The
day before his departure I had officiated as bridesmaid to a young friend.
My heart was then ill at ease, but my smiling countenance did not betray
it. Only a year had passed; but what fearful changes it had wrought! My
heart had grown gray in misery. Lives that flash in sunshine, and lives
that are born in tears, receive their hue from circumstances. None of us
know what a year may bring forth.
I felt no joy when they told me my uncle had come. He wanted to see me,
though he knew what had happened. I shrank from him at first; but at last
consented that he should come to my room. He received me as he always had
done. O, how my heart smote me when I felt his tears on my burning cheeks!
The words of my grandmother came to my mind,--"Perhaps your mother and
father are taken from the evil days to come." My disappointed heart could
now praise God that it was so. But why, thought I, did my relatives ever
cherish hopes for me? What was there to save me from the usual fate of
slave girls? Many more beautiful and more intelligent than I had
experienced a similar fate, or a far worse one. How could they hope that I
should escape?
My uncle's stay was short, and I was not sorry for it. I was too ill in
mind and body to enjoy my friends as I had done. For some weeks I was
unable to leave my bed. I could not have any doctor but my master, and I
would not have him sent for. At last, alarmed by my increasing illness,
they sent for him. I was very weak and nervous; and as soon as he entered
the room, I began to scream. They told him my state was very critical. He
had no wish to hasten me out of the world, and he withdrew.
When my babe was born, they said it was premature. It weighed only four
pounds; but God let it live. I heard the doctor say I could not survive
till morning. I had often prayed for death; but now I did not want to die,
unless my child could die too. Many weeks passed before I was able to leave
my bed. I was a mere wreck of my former self. For a year there was scarcely
a day when I was free from chills and fever. My babe also was sickly. His
little limbs were often racked with pain. Dr. Flint continued his visits,
to look after my health; and he did not fail to remind me that my child was
an addition to his stock of slaves.
I felt too feeble to dispute with him, and listened to his remarks in
silence. His visits were less frequent; but his busy spirit could not
remain quiet. He employed my brother in his office; and he was made the
medium of frequent notes and messages to me. William was a bright lad, and
of much use to the doctor. He had learned to put up medicines, to leech,
cup, and bleed. He had taught himself to read and spell. I was proud of my
brother, and the old doctor suspected as much. One day, when I had not seen
him for several weeks, I heard his steps approaching the door. I dreaded
the encounter, and hid myself. He inquired for me, of course; but I was
nowhere to be found. He went to his office, and despatched William with a
note. The color mounted to my brother's face when he gave it to me; and he
said, "Don't you hate me, Linda, for bringing you these things?" I told him
I could not blame him; he was a slave, and obliged to obey his master's
will. The note ordered me to come to his office. I went. He demanded to
know where I was when he called. I told him I was at home. He flew into a
passion, and said he knew better. Then he launched out upon his usual
themes,--my crimes against him, and my ingratitude for his forbearance. The
laws were laid down to me anew, and I was dismissed. I felt humiliated that
my brother should stand by, and listen to such language as would be
addressed only to a slave. Poor boy! He was powerless to defend me; but I
saw the tears, which he vainly strove to keep back. The manifestation of
feeling irritated the doctor. William could do nothing to please him. One
morning he did not arrive at the office so early as usual; and that
circumstance afforded his master an opportunity to vent his spleen. He was
put in jail. The next day my brother sent a trader to the doctor, with a
request to be sold. His master was greatly incensed at what he called his
insolence. He said he had put him there, to reflect upon his bad conduct,
and he certainly was not giving any evidence of repentance. For two days he
harassed himself to find somebody to do his office work; but every thing
went wrong without William. He was released, and ordered to take his old
stand, with many threats, if he was not careful about his future behavior.
As the months passed on, my boy improved in health. When he was a year old,
they called him beautiful. The little vine was taking deep root in my
existence, though its clinging fondness excited a mixture of love and pain.
When I was most sorely oppressed I found a solace in his smiles. I loved to
watch his infant slumbers; but always there was a dark cloud over my
enjoyment. I could never forget that he was a slave. Sometimes I wished
that he might die in infancy. God tried me. My darling became very ill. The
bright eyes grew dull, and the little feet and hands were so icy cold that
I thought death had already touched them. I had prayed for his death, but
never so earnestly as I now prayed for his life; and my prayer was heard.
Alas, what mockery it is for a slave mother to try to pray back her dying
child to life! Death is better than slavery. It was a sad thought that I
had no name to give my child. His father caressed him and treated him
kindly, whenever he had a chance to see him. He was not unwilling that he
should bear his name; but he had no legal claim to it; and if I had
bestowed it upon him, my master would have regarded it as a new crime, a
new piece of insolence, and would, perhaps, revenge it on the boy. O, the
serpent of Slavery has many and poisonous fangs! | The New Tie To Life Dr. Flint visited Harriet in her grandmother's house and showered her with curses and the vilest abuse. He said her mistress had forbidden her to come back. He said she was lucky he did not kill her, and told her that he would take care of her and her child if she would henceforth have no communication with the father. She refused, but he had the parting shot as he left, saying he would never sell her. She had been hoping he would do so and that Mr. Sands could buy her. Benjamin, or Benny, Harriet's baby, was born prematurely but survived. Throughout his first year he improved in health and Harriet marveled at how she loved him so dearly. She had initially prayed for him to die to spare him this life, but while he was sick she prayed for his recovery. She felt a dark cloud over her enjoyment of her baby, and believed that death was preferable to slavery |
ACT II. SCENE I.
A seaport in Cyprus. An open place near the quay.
Enter Montano and two Gentlemen.
MONTANO. What from the cape can you discern at sea?
FIRST GENTLEMAN. Nothing at all. It is a high-wrought flood;
I cannot, 'twixt the heaven and the main,
Descry a sail.
MONTANO. Methinks the wind hath spoke aloud at land;
A fuller blast ne'er shook our battlements.
If it hath ruffian'd so upon the sea,
What ribs of oak, when mountains melt on them,
Can hold the mortise? What shall we hear of this?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. A segregation of the Turkish fleet.
For do but stand upon the foaming shore,
The chidden billow seems to pelt the clouds;
The wind-shaked surge, with high and monstrous mane,
Seems to cast water on the burning bear,
And quench the guards of the ever-fixed pole.
I never did like molestation view
On the enchafed flood.
MONTANO. If that the Turkish fleet
Be not enshelter'd and embay'd, they are drown'd;
It is impossible to bear it out.
Enter a third Gentleman.
THIRD GENTLEMAN. News, lads! Our wars are done.
The desperate tempest hath so bang'd the Turks,
That their designment halts. A noble ship of Venice
Hath seen a grievous wreck and sufferance
On most part of their fleet.
MONTANO. How? Is this true?
THIRD GENTLEMAN. The ship is here put in,
A Veronesa. Michael Cassio,
Lieutenant to the warlike Moor, Othello,
Is come on shore; the Moor himself at sea,
And is in full commission here for Cyprus.
MONTANO. I am glad on't; 'tis a worthy governor.
THIRD GENTLEMAN. But this same Cassio, though he speak of
comfort
Touching the Turkish loss, yet he looks sadly
And prays the Moor be safe; for they were parted
With foul and violent tempest.
MONTANO. Pray heavens he be,
For I have served him, and the man commands
Like a full soldier. Let's to the seaside, ho!
As well to see the vessel that's come in
As to throw out our eyes for brave Othello,
Even till we make the main and the aerial blue
An indistinct regard.
THIRD GENTLEMAN. Come, let's do so,
For every minute is expectancy
Of more arrivance.
Enter Cassio.
CASSIO. Thanks, you the valiant of this warlike isle,
That so approve the Moor! O, let the heavens
Give him defense against the elements,
For I have lost him on a dangerous sea.
MONTANO. Is he well shipp'd?
CASSIO. His bark is stoutly timber'd, and his pilot
Of very expert and approved allowance;
Therefore my hopes, not surfeited to death,
Stand in bold cure.
A cry within, "A sail, a sail, a
sail!"
Enter a fourth Gentleman.
What noise?
FOURTH GENTLEMAN. The town is empty; on the brow o' the sea
Stand ranks of people, and they cry, "A sail!"
CASSIO. My hopes do shape him for the governor.
Guns
heard.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. They do discharge their shot of courtesy--
Our friends at least.
CASSIO. I pray you, sir, go forth,
And give us truth who 'tis that is arrived.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. I shall.
Exit.
MONTANO. But, good lieutenant, is your general wived?
CASSIO. Most fortunately: he hath achieved a maid
That paragons description and wild fame,
One that excels the quirks of blazoning pens,
And in the essential vesture of creation
Does tire the ingener.
Re-enter second Gentleman.
How now! who has put in?
SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis one Iago, ancient to the general.
CASSIO. He has had most favorable and happy speed:
Tempests themselves, high seas, and howling winds,
The gutter'd rocks, and congregated sands,
Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel,
As having sense of beauty, do omit
Their mortal natures, letting go safely by
The divine Desdemona.
MONTANO. What is she?
CASSIO. She that I spake of, our great captain's captain,
Left in the conduct of the bold Iago,
Whose footing here anticipates our thoughts
A se'nnight's speed. Great Jove, Othello guard,
And swell his sail with thine own powerful breath,
That he may bless this bay with his tall ship,
Make love's quick pants in Desdemona's arms,
Give renew'd fire to our extincted spirits,
And bring all Cyprus comfort.
Enter Desdemona, Emilia Iago, Roderigo, and Attendants.
O, behold,
The riches of the ship is come on shore!
Ye men of Cyprus, let her have your knees.
Hall to thee, lady! And the grace of heaven,
Before, behind thee, and on every hand,
Enwheel thee round!
DESDEMONA. I thank you, valiant Cassio.
What tidings can you tell me of my lord?
CASSIO. He is not yet arrived, nor know I aught
But that he's well and will be shortly here.
DESDEMONA. O, but I fear--How lost you company?
CASSIO. The great contention of the sea and skies
Parted our fellowship--But, hark! a sail.
A cry within, "A sail, a sail!" Guns
heard.
SECOND GENTLEMAN. They give their greeting to the citadel;
This likewise is a friend.
CASSIO. See for the news.
Exit
Gentleman.
Good ancient, you are welcome. [To Emilia.] Welcome,
mistress.
Let it not gall your patience, good Iago,
That I extend my manners; 'tis my breeding
That gives me this bold show of courtesy. Kisses
her.
IAGO. Sir, would she give you so much of her lips
As of her tongue she oft bestows on me,
You'ld have enough.
DESDEMONA. Alas, she has no speech.
IAGO. In faith, too much;
I find it still when I have list to sleep.
Marry, before your ladyship I grant,
She puts her tongue a little in her heart
And chides with thinking.
EMILIA. You have little cause to say so.
IAGO. Come on, come on. You are pictures out of doors,
Bells in your parlors, wildcats in your kitchens,
Saints in your injuries, devils being offended,
Players in your housewifery, and housewives in your beds.
DESDEMONA. O, fie upon thee, slanderer!
IAGO. Nay, it is true, or else I am a Turk:
You rise to play, and go to bed to work.
EMILIA. You shall not write my praise.
IAGO. No, let me not.
DESDEMONA. What wouldst thou write of me, if thou shouldst
praise me?
IAGO. O gentle lady, do not put me to't,
For I am nothing if not critical.
DESDEMONA. Come on, assay--There's one gone to the harbor?
IAGO. Ay, madam.
DESDEMONA. I am not merry, but I do beguile
The thing I am by seeming otherwise.
Come, how wouldst thou praise me?
IAGO. I am about it, but indeed my invention
Comes from my pate as birdlime does from frieze;
It plucks out brains and all. But my Muse labors,
And thus she is deliver'd.
If she be fair and wise, fairness and wit,
The one's for use, the other useth it.
DESDEMONA. Well praised! How if she be black and witty?
IAGO. If she be black, and thereto have a wit,
She'll find a white that shall her blackness fit.
DESDEMONA. Worse and worse.
EMILIA. How if fair and foolish?
IAGO. She never yet was foolish that was fair,
For even her folly help'd her to an heir.
DESDEMONA. These are old fond paradoxes to make fools laugh i'
the
alehouse. What miserable praise hast thou for her that's foul
and
foolish?
IAGO. There's none so foul and foolish thereunto,
But does foul pranks which fair and wise ones do.
DESDEMONA. O heavy ignorance! Thou praisest the worst best. But
what
praise couldst thou bestow on a deserving woman indeed, one
that
in the authority of her merit did justly put on the vouch of
very
malice itself?
IAGO. She that was ever fair and never proud,
Had tongue at will and yet was never loud,
Never lack'd gold and yet went never gay,
Fled from her wish and yet said, "Now I may";
She that, being anger'd, her revenge being nigh,
Bade her wrong stay and her displeasure fly;
She that in wisdom never was so frail
To change the cod's head for the salmon's tail;
She that could think and ne'er disclose her mind,
See suitors following and not look behind;
She was a wight, if ever such wight were--
DESDEMONA. To do what?
IAGO. To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.
DESDEMONA. O most lame and impotent conclusion! Do not learn of
him,
Emilia, though he be thy husband. How say you, Cassio? Is he
not
a most profane and liberal counselor?
CASSIO. He speaks home, madam. You may relish him more in the
soldier than in the scholar.
IAGO. [Aside.] He takes her by the palm; ay, well said,
whisper.
With as little a web as this will I ensnare as great a fly as
Cassio. Ay, smile upon her, do; I will gyve thee in thine own
courtship. You say true; 'tis so, indeed. If such tricks as
these
strip you out of your lieutenantry, it had been better you
had
not kissed your three fingers so oft, which now again you are
most apt to play the sir in. Very good. Well kissed! an
excellent
courtesy! 'tis so, indeed. Yet again your fingers to your
lips?
Would they were clyster-pipes for your sake! [Trumpet
within.]
The Moor! I know his trumpet.
CASSIO. 'Tis truly so.
DESDEMONA. Let's meet him and receive him.
CASSIO. Lo, where he comes!
Enter Othello and Attendants.
OTHELLO. O my fair warrior!
DESDEMONA. My dear Othello!
OTHELLO. It gives me wonder great as my content
To see you here before me. O my soul's joy!
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have waken'd death!
And let the laboring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell's from heaven! If it were now to die,
'Twere now to be most happy; for I fear
My soul hath her content so absolute
That not another comfort like to this
Succeeds in unknown fate.
DESDEMONA. The heavens forbid
But that our loves and comforts should increase,
Even as our days do grow!
OTHELLO. Amen to that, sweet powers!
I cannot speak enough of this content;
It stops me here; it is too much of joy.
And this, and this, the greatest discords be Kisses
her.
That e'er our hearts shall make!
IAGO. [Aside.] O, you are well tuned now!
But I'll set down the pegs that make this music,
As honest as I am.
OTHELLO. Come, let us to the castle.
News, friends: our wars are done, the Turks are drown'd.
How does my old acquaintance of this isle?
Honey, you shall be well desired in Cyprus;
I have found great love amongst them. O my sweet,
I prattle out of fashion, and I dote
In mine own comforts. I prithee, good Iago,
Go to the bay and disembark my coffers.
Bring thou the master to the citadel;
He is a good one, and his worthiness
Does challenge much respect. Come, Desdemona,
Once more well met at Cyprus.
Exeunt all but Iago and
Roderigo.
IAGO. Do thou meet me presently at the harbor. Come hither. If
thou
be'st valiant--as they say base men being in love have then a
nobility in their natures more than is native to them--list
me.
The lieutenant tonight watches on the court of guard. First,
I
must tell thee this: Desdemona is directly in love with him.
RODERIGO. With him? Why, 'tis not possible.
IAGO. Lay thy finger thus, and let thy soul be instructed. Mark
me
with what violence she first loved the Moor, but for bragging
and
telling her fantastical lies. And will she love him still for
prating? Let not thy discreet heart think it. Her eye must be
fed; and what delight shall she have to look on the devil?
When
the blood is made dull with the act of sport, there should
be,
again to inflame it and to give satiety a fresh appetite,
loveliness in favor, sympathy in years, manners, and
beauties--
all which the Moor is defective in. Now, for want of these
required conveniences, her delicate tenderness will find
itself
abused, begin to heave the gorge, disrelish and abhor the
Moor;
very nature will instruct her in it and compel her to some
second
choice. Now sir, this granted--as it is a most pregnant and
unforced position--who stands so eminently in the degree of
this
fortune as Cassio does? A knave very voluble; no further
conscionable than in putting on the mere form of civil and
humane
seeming, for the better compass of his salt and most hidden
loose
affection? Why, none, why, none--a slipper and subtle knave,
a
finder out of occasions, that has an eye can stamp and
counterfeit advantages, though true advantage never present
itself--a devilish knave! Besides, the knave is handsome,
young,
and hath all those requisites in him that folly and green
minds
look after--a pestilent complete knave, and the woman hath
found
him already.
RODERIGO. I cannot believe that in her; she's full of most
blest
condition.
IAGO. Blest fig's-end! The wine she drinks is made of grapes.
If
she had been blest, she would never have loved the Moor.
Blest
pudding! Didst thou not see her paddle with the palm of his
hand?
Didst not mark that?
RODERIGO. Yes, that I did; but that was but courtesy.
IAGO. Lechery, by this hand; an index and obscure prologue to
the
history of lust and foul thoughts. They met so near with
their
lips that their breaths embraced together. Villainous
thoughts,
Roderigo! When these mutualities so marshal the way, hard at
hand
comes the master and main exercise, the incorporate
conclusion.
Pish! But, sir, be you ruled by me. I have brought you from
Venice. Watch you tonight; for the command, I'll lay't upon
you.
Cassio knows you not. I'll not be far from you. Do you find
some
occasion to anger Cassio, either by speaking too loud, or
tainting his discipline, or from what other course you
please,
which the time shall more favorably minister.
RODERIGO. Well.
IAGO. Sir, he is rash and very sudden in choler, and haply may
strike at you. Provoke him, that he may; for even out of that
will I cause these of Cyprus to mutiny, whose qualification
shall
come into no true taste again but by the displanting of
Cassio.
So shall you have a shorter journey to your desires by the
means
I shall then have to prefer them, and the impediment most
profitably removed, without the which there were no
expectation
of our prosperity.
RODERIGO. I will do this, if I can bring it to any opportunity.
IAGO. I warrant thee. Meet me by and by at the citadel. I must
fetch his necessaries ashore. Farewell.
RODERIGO. Adieu.
Exit.
IAGO. That Cassio loves her, I do well believe it;
That she loves him, 'tis apt and of great credit.
The Moor, howbeit that I endure him not,
Is of a constant, loving, noble nature,
And I dare think he'll prove to Desdemona
A most dear husband. Now, I do love her too,
Not out of absolute lust, though peradventure
I stand accountant for as great a sin,
But partly led to diet my revenge,
For that I do suspect the lusty Moor
Hath leap'd into my seat; the thought whereof
Doth like a poisonous mineral gnaw my inwards,
And nothing can or shall content my soul
Till I am even'd with him, wife for wife.
Or failing so, yet that I put the Moor
At least into a jealousy so strong
That judgement cannot cure. Which thing to do,
If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash
For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,
I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,
Abuse him to the Moor in the rank garb
(For I fear Cassio with my nightcap too),
Make the Moor thank me, love me, and reward me
For making him egregiously an ass
And practicing upon his peace and quiet
Even to madness. 'Tis here, but yet confused:
Knavery's plain face is never seen till used.
Exit. | On the shores of Cyprus, Montano, the island's governor, watches a storm with two gentlemen. Just as Montano says that the Turkish fleet of ships could not survive the storm, a third gentlemen comes to confirm his prediction: as his ship traveled from Venice, Cassio witnessed that the Turks lost most of their fleet in the tempest. It is still uncertain whether Othello's ship has been able to survive the storm. Hope lifts as voices offstage announce the sighting of a sail offshore, but the new ship turns out to be carrying Iago, Emilia, Desdemona, and Roderigo. Desdemona disembarks, and no sooner does Cassio tell her that Othello has yet to arrive than a friendly shot announces the arrival of a third ship. While the company waits for the ship, Cassio and Desdemona tease Emilia about being a chatterbox, but Iago quickly takes the opportunity to criticize women in general as deceptive and hypocritical, saying they are lazy in all matters except sex: "You rise to play and go to bed to work". Desdemona plays along, laughing as Iago belittles women, whether beautiful or ugly, intelligent or stupid, as equally despicable. Cassio takes Desdemona away to speak with her privately about Othello's arrival. Iago notices that Cassio takes Desdemona's hand as he talks to her, and, in an aside, Iago plots to use Cassio's hand-holding to frame him so that he loses his newly gained promotion to lieutenant. With as little a web as this I will ensnare as great a fly as Cassio," he asserts. Othello arrives safely and greets Desdemona, expressing his devotion to her and giving her a kiss. He then thanks the Cypriots for their welcome and hospitality, and orders Iago to unload the ship. All but Roderigo and Iago head to the castle to celebrate the drowning of the Turks. Iago tells the despondent Roderigo that Desdemona will soon grow tired of being with Othello and will long for a more well-mannered and handsome man. But, Iago continues, the obvious first choice for Desdemona will be Cassio, whom Iago characterizes over and over again as a "knave". Roderigo tries to argue that Cassio was merely being polite by taking Desdemona's hand, but Iago convinces him of Cassio's ill intentions and convinces Roderigo to start a quarrel with Cassio that evening. He posits that the uproar the quarrel will cause in the still tense city will make Cassio fall out of favor with Othello. Left alone onstage again, Iago explains his actions to the audience in a soliloquy. He secretly lusts after Desdemona, partially because he suspects that Othello has slept with Emilia, and he wants to get even with the Moor "wife for wife". But, Iago continues, if he is unable to get his revenge by sleeping with Desdemona, Roderigo's accusation of Cassio will make Othello suspect his lieutenant of sleeping with his wife and torture Othello to madness |
1st Outlaw: Stand, sir, and throw us that you have about you;
If not, we'll make you sit, and rifle you.
Speed: Sir, we are undone! these are the villains
That all the travellers do fear so much.
Val: My friends,--
1st Out: That's not so, sir, we are your enemies.
2d Out: Peace! we'll hear him.
3d Out: Ay, by my beard, will we;
For he's a proper man.
--Two Gentlemen of Verona
The nocturnal adventures of Gurth were not yet concluded; indeed he
himself became partly of that mind, when, after passing one or two
straggling houses which stood in the outskirts of the village, he found
himself in a deep lane, running between two banks overgrown with hazel
and holly, while here and there a dwarf oak flung its arms altogether
across the path. The lane was moreover much rutted and broken up by the
carriages which had recently transported articles of various kinds to
the tournament; and it was dark, for the banks and bushes intercepted
the light of the harvest moon.
From the village were heard the distant sounds of revelry, mixed
occasionally with loud laughter, sometimes broken by screams, and
sometimes by wild strains of distant music. All these sounds, intimating
the disorderly state of the town, crowded with military nobles and
their dissolute attendants, gave Gurth some uneasiness. "The Jewess was
right," he said to himself. "By heaven and St Dunstan, I would I were
safe at my journey's end with all this treasure! Here are such numbers,
I will not say of arrant thieves, but of errant knights and errant
squires, errant monks and errant minstrels, errant jugglers and errant
jesters, that a man with a single merk would be in danger, much more a
poor swineherd with a whole bagful of zecchins. Would I were out of
the shade of these infernal bushes, that I might at least see any of St
Nicholas's clerks before they spring on my shoulders."
Gurth accordingly hastened his pace, in order to gain the open common
to which the lane led, but was not so fortunate as to accomplish his
object. Just as he had attained the upper end of the lane, where the
underwood was thickest, four men sprung upon him, even as his fears
anticipated, two from each side of the road, and seized him so fast,
that resistance, if at first practicable, would have been now too
late.--"Surrender your charge," said one of them; "we are the deliverers
of the commonwealth, who ease every man of his burden."
"You should not ease me of mine so lightly," muttered Gurth, whose
surly honesty could not be tamed even by the pressure of immediate
violence,--"had I it but in my power to give three strokes in its
defence."
"We shall see that presently," said the robber; and, speaking to his
companions, he added, "bring along the knave. I see he would have his
head broken, as well as his purse cut, and so be let blood in two veins
at once."
Gurth was hurried along agreeably to this mandate, and having been
dragged somewhat roughly over the bank, on the left-hand side of the
lane, found himself in a straggling thicket, which lay betwixt it and
the open common. He was compelled to follow his rough conductors into
the very depth of this cover, where they stopt unexpectedly in an
irregular open space, free in a great measure from trees, and on which,
therefore, the beams of the moon fell without much interruption from
boughs and leaves. Here his captors were joined by two other persons,
apparently belonging to the gang. They had short swords by their sides,
and quarter-staves in their hands, and Gurth could now observe that
all six wore visors, which rendered their occupation a matter of no
question, even had their former proceedings left it in doubt.
"What money hast thou, churl?" said one of the thieves.
"Thirty zecchins of my own property," answered Gurth, doggedly.
"A forfeit--a forfeit," shouted the robbers; "a Saxon hath thirty
zecchins, and returns sober from a village! An undeniable and
unredeemable forfeit of all he hath about him."
"I hoarded it to purchase my freedom," said Gurth.
"Thou art an ass," replied one of the thieves "three quarts of double
ale had rendered thee as free as thy master, ay, and freer too, if he be
a Saxon like thyself."
"A sad truth," replied Gurth; "but if these same thirty zecchins will
buy my freedom from you, unloose my hands, and I will pay them to you."
"Hold," said one who seemed to exercise some authority over the others;
"this bag which thou bearest, as I can feel through thy cloak, contains
more coin than thou hast told us of."
"It is the good knight my master's," answered Gurth, "of which,
assuredly, I would not have spoken a word, had you been satisfied with
working your will upon mine own property."
"Thou art an honest fellow," replied the robber, "I warrant thee; and we
worship not St Nicholas so devoutly but what thy thirty zecchins may yet
escape, if thou deal uprightly with us. Meantime render up thy trust
for a time." So saying, he took from Gurth's breast the large leathern
pouch, in which the purse given him by Rebecca was enclosed, as well as
the rest of the zecchins, and then continued his interrogation.--"Who is
thy master?"
"The Disinherited Knight," said Gurth.
"Whose good lance," replied the robber, "won the prize in to-day's
tourney? What is his name and lineage?"
"It is his pleasure," answered Gurth, "that they be concealed; and from
me, assuredly, you will learn nought of them."
"What is thine own name and lineage?"
"To tell that," said Gurth, "might reveal my master's."
"Thou art a saucy groom," said the robber, "but of that anon. How comes
thy master by this gold? is it of his inheritance, or by what means hath
it accrued to him?"
"By his good lance," answered Gurth.--"These bags contain the ransom of
four good horses, and four good suits of armour."
"How much is there?" demanded the robber.
"Two hundred zecchins."
"Only two hundred zecchins!" said the bandit; "your master hath dealt
liberally by the vanquished, and put them to a cheap ransom. Name those
who paid the gold."
Gurth did so.
"The armour and horse of the Templar Brian de Bois-Guilbert, at what
ransom were they held?--Thou seest thou canst not deceive me."
"My master," replied Gurth, "will take nought from the Templar save
his life's-blood. They are on terms of mortal defiance, and cannot hold
courteous intercourse together."
"Indeed!"--repeated the robber, and paused after he had said the
word. "And what wert thou now doing at Ashby with such a charge in thy
custody?"
"I went thither to render to Isaac the Jew of York," replied Gurth,
"the price of a suit of armour with which he fitted my master for this
tournament."
"And how much didst thou pay to Isaac?--Methinks, to judge by weight,
there is still two hundred zecchins in this pouch."
"I paid to Isaac," said the Saxon, "eighty zecchins, and he restored me
a hundred in lieu thereof."
"How! what!" exclaimed all the robbers at once; "darest thou trifle with
us, that thou tellest such improbable lies?"
"What I tell you," said Gurth, "is as true as the moon is in heaven. You
will find the just sum in a silken purse within the leathern pouch, and
separate from the rest of the gold."
"Bethink thee, man," said the Captain, "thou speakest of a Jew--of an
Israelite,--as unapt to restore gold, as the dry sand of his deserts to
return the cup of water which the pilgrim spills upon them."
"There is no more mercy in them," said another of the banditti, "than in
an unbribed sheriffs officer."
"It is, however, as I say," said Gurth.
"Strike a light instantly," said the Captain; "I will examine this said
purse; and if it be as this fellow says, the Jew's bounty is little
less miraculous than the stream which relieved his fathers in the
wilderness."
A light was procured accordingly, and the robber proceeded to examine
the purse. The others crowded around him, and even two who had hold of
Gurth relaxed their grasp while they stretched their necks to see the
issue of the search. Availing himself of their negligence, by a sudden
exertion of strength and activity, Gurth shook himself free of their
hold, and might have escaped, could he have resolved to leave his
master's property behind him. But such was no part of his intention.
He wrenched a quarter-staff from one of the fellows, struck down the
Captain, who was altogether unaware of his purpose, and had well-nigh
repossessed himself of the pouch and treasure. The thieves, however,
were too nimble for him, and again secured both the bag and the trusty
Gurth.
"Knave!" said the Captain, getting up, "thou hast broken my head;
and with other men of our sort thou wouldst fare the worse for thy
insolence. But thou shalt know thy fate instantly. First let us speak of
thy master; the knight's matters must go before the squire's, according
to the due order of chivalry. Stand thou fast in the meantime--if
thou stir again, thou shalt have that will make thee quiet for thy
life--Comrades!" he then said, addressing his gang, "this purse is
embroidered with Hebrew characters, and I well believe the yeoman's tale
is true. The errant knight, his master, must needs pass us toll-free. He
is too like ourselves for us to make booty of him, since dogs should not
worry dogs where wolves and foxes are to be found in abundance."
"Like us?" answered one of the gang; "I should like to hear how that is
made good."
"Why, thou fool," answered the Captain, "is he not poor and disinherited
as we are?--Doth he not win his substance at the sword's point as we
do?--Hath he not beaten Front-de-Boeuf and Malvoisin, even as we would
beat them if we could? Is he not the enemy to life and death of Brian
de Bois-Guilbert, whom we have so much reason to fear? And were all
this otherwise, wouldst thou have us show a worse conscience than an
unbeliever, a Hebrew Jew?"
"Nay, that were a shame," muttered the other fellow; "and yet, when I
served in the band of stout old Gandelyn, we had no such scruples of
conscience. And this insolent peasant,--he too, I warrant me, is to be
dismissed scatheless?"
"Not if THOU canst scathe him," replied the Captain.--"Here, fellow,"
continued he, addressing Gurth, "canst thou use the staff, that thou
starts to it so readily?"
"I think," said Gurth, "thou shouldst be best able to reply to that
question."
"Nay, by my troth, thou gavest me a round knock," replied the Captain;
"do as much for this fellow, and thou shalt pass scot-free; and if thou
dost not--why, by my faith, as thou art such a sturdy knave, I think
I must pay thy ransom myself.--Take thy staff, Miller," he added, "and
keep thy head; and do you others let the fellow go, and give him a
staff--there is light enough to lay on load by."
The two champions being alike armed with quarter-staves, stepped forward
into the centre of the open space, in order to have the full benefit of
the moonlight; the thieves in the meantime laughing, and crying to their
comrade, "Miller! beware thy toll-dish." The Miller, on the other hand,
holding his quarter-staff by the middle, and making it flourish round
his head after the fashion which the French call "faire le moulinet",
exclaimed boastfully, "Come on, churl, an thou darest: thou shalt feel
the strength of a miller's thumb!"
"If thou be'st a miller," answered Gurth, undauntedly, making his weapon
play around his head with equal dexterity, "thou art doubly a thief, and
I, as a true man, bid thee defiance."
So saying, the two champions closed together, and for a few minutes they
displayed great equality in strength, courage, and skill, intercepting
and returning the blows of their adversary with the most rapid
dexterity, while, from the continued clatter of their weapons, a person
at a distance might have supposed that there were at least six persons
engaged on each side. Less obstinate, and even less dangerous combats,
have been described in good heroic verse; but that of Gurth and the
Miller must remain unsung, for want of a sacred poet to do justice to
its eventful progress. Yet, though quarter-staff play be out of date,
what we can in prose we will do for these bold champions.
Long they fought equally, until the Miller began to lose temper at
finding himself so stoutly opposed, and at hearing the laughter of his
companions, who, as usual in such cases, enjoyed his vexation. This was
not a state of mind favourable to the noble game of quarter-staff, in
which, as in ordinary cudgel-playing, the utmost coolness is requisite;
and it gave Gurth, whose temper was steady, though surly, the
opportunity of acquiring a decided advantage, in availing himself of
which he displayed great mastery.
The Miller pressed furiously forward, dealing blows with either end of
his weapon alternately, and striving to come to half-staff distance,
while Gurth defended himself against the attack, keeping his hands about
a yard asunder, and covering himself by shifting his weapon with great
celerity, so as to protect his head and body. Thus did he maintain
the defensive, making his eye, foot, and hand keep true time, until,
observing his antagonist to lose wind, he darted the staff at his face
with his left hand; and, as the Miller endeavoured to parry the thrust,
he slid his right hand down to his left, and with the full swing of the
weapon struck his opponent on the left side of the head, who instantly
measured his length upon the green sward.
"Well and yeomanly done!" shouted the robbers; "fair play and Old
England for ever! The Saxon hath saved both his purse and his hide, and
the Miller has met his match."
"Thou mayst go thy ways, my friend," said the Captain, addressing Gurth,
in special confirmation of the general voice, "and I will cause two of
my comrades to guide thee by the best way to thy master's pavilion, and
to guard thee from night-walkers that might have less tender consciences
than ours; for there is many one of them upon the amble in such a night
as this. Take heed, however," he added sternly; "remember thou hast
refused to tell thy name--ask not after ours, nor endeavour to discover
who or what we are; for, if thou makest such an attempt, thou wilt come
by worse fortune than has yet befallen thee."
Gurth thanked the Captain for his courtesy, and promised to attend to
his recommendation. Two of the outlaws, taking up their quarter-staves,
and desiring Gurth to follow close in the rear, walked roundly forward
along a by-path, which traversed the thicket and the broken ground
adjacent to it. On the very verge of the thicket two men spoke to his
conductors, and receiving an answer in a whisper, withdrew into the
wood, and suffered them to pass unmolested. This circumstance induced
Gurth to believe both that the gang was strong in numbers, and that they
kept regular guards around their place of rendezvous.
When they arrived on the open heath, where Gurth might have had some
trouble in finding his road, the thieves guided him straight forward to
the top of a little eminence, whence he could see, spread beneath him
in the moonlight, the palisades of the lists, the glimmering pavilions
pitched at either end, with the pennons which adorned them fluttering
in the moonbeams, and from which could be heard the hum of the song with
which the sentinels were beguiling their night-watch.
Here the thieves stopt.
"We go with you no farther," said they; "it were not safe that we should
do so.--Remember the warning you have received--keep secret what has
this night befallen you, and you will have no room to repent it--neglect
what is now told you, and the Tower of London shall not protect you
against our revenge."
"Good night to you, kind sirs," said Gurth; "I shall remember your
orders, and trust that there is no offence in wishing you a safer and an
honester trade."
Thus they parted, the outlaws returning in the direction from whence
they had come, and Gurth proceeding to the tent of his master, to whom,
notwithstanding the injunction he had received, he communicated the
whole adventures of the evening.
The Disinherited Knight was filled with astonishment, no less at the
generosity of Rebecca, by which, however, he resolved he would not
profit, than that of the robbers, to whose profession such a quality
seemed totally foreign. His course of reflections upon these singular
circumstances was, however, interrupted by the necessity for taking
repose, which the fatigue of the preceding day, and the propriety
of refreshing himself for the morrow's encounter, rendered alike
indispensable.
The knight, therefore, stretched himself for repose upon a rich couch
with which the tent was provided; and the faithful Gurth, extending
his hardy limbs upon a bear-skin which formed a sort of carpet to the
pavilion, laid himself across the opening of the tent, so that no one
could enter without awakening him. | This chapter's opening poetry passage is from Act IV of Shakespeare's play Two Gentlemen of Verona. In this dialogue, the main character Valentine encounters a band of outlaws on the road. Foreshadowing! As Gurth walks away from Ashby, he starts to worry about thieves in the countryside. After all, he is carrying a lot of cash. He's right to worry: outlaws stop him along the road and drag him into the forest to rob him of his money. Gurth confirms that he has 30 zecchins of his own - the rest is his master's. The outlaw captain asks who his master is. Gurth answers that he serves the Disinherited Knight. He refuses to say anything more of his master's identity or his own. The thieves are amazed that Gurth walked away from Isaac with more money than he had when he arrived. They are also amazed that the Disinherited Knight has refused any ransom from Bois-Guilbert. The captain of the thieves is so impressed by Gurth's story and by the Disinherited Knight's tournament performance that he wants to let Gurth pass without taking any of his money. But one of the other thieves is not willing just to let Gurth go, regardless of how pro-Saxon his captain may be. So the captain proposes that this thief and Gurth fight it out with long wooden staffs. If Gurth wins, he is free to go. Gurth and the miller fight with their staffs until Gurth knocks the miller out with a blow to his head. The other thieves shout, "fair play and Old England forever! The Saxon has saved both his purse and his hide, and the Miller has met his match" . The captain sends two of his outlaws to guide Gurth back to the tournament grounds. At the edge of the forest, Gurth's two guides warn him not to tell anyone what he has seen in the forest that night. Despite this warning, Gurth tells the Disinherited Knight everything, including the bit with the outlaws. While the Disinherited Knight is impressed with Rebecca's generosity, he vows to repay her the money she has given him. |
XXVII. LITERARY LESSONS.
Fortune suddenly smiled upon Jo, and dropped a good-luck penny in her
path. Not a golden penny, exactly, but I doubt if half a million would
have given more real happiness than did the little sum that came to her
in this wise.
Every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her
scribbling suit, and "fall into a vortex," as she expressed it, writing
away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was
finished she could find no peace. Her "scribbling suit" consisted of a
black woollen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a
cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which
she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action. This cap
was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these
periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads
semi-occasionally, to ask, with interest, "Does genius burn, Jo?" They
did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an
observation of the cap, and judged accordingly. If this expressive
article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that
hard work was going on; in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly
askew; and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and
cast upon the floor. At such times the intruder silently withdrew; and
not until the red bow was seen gayly erect upon the gifted brow, did any
one dare address Jo.
She did not think herself a genius by any means; but when the writing
fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a
blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat
safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and
dear to her as any in the flesh. Sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood
untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which
blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even
if they bore no other fruit. The divine afflatus usually lasted a week
or two, and then she emerged from her "vortex," hungry, sleepy, cross,
or despondent.
She was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed
upon to escort Miss Crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue
was rewarded with a new idea. It was a People's Course, the lecture on
the Pyramids, and Jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for
such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil
would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories
of the Pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price
of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder
riddles than that of the Sphinx.
They were early; and while Miss Crocker set the heel of her stocking, Jo
amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the
seat with them. On her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads,
and bonnets to match, discussing Woman's Rights and making tatting.
Beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the
hand, a sombre spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an
old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna. On
her right, her only neighbor was a studious-looking lad absorbed in a
newspaper.
It was a pictorial sheet, and Jo examined the work of art nearest her,
idly wondering what unfortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed
the melodramatic illustration of an Indian in full war costume, tumbling
over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young
gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each
other close by, and a dishevelled female was flying away in the
background with her mouth wide open. Pausing to turn a page, the lad saw
her looking, and, with boyish good-nature, offered half his paper,
saying bluntly, "Want to read it? That's a first-rate story."
Jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for
lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love,
mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light
literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's
invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the
_dramatis personæ_, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
"Prime, isn't it?" asked the boy, as her eye went down the last
paragraph of her portion.
"I think you and I could do as well as that if we tried," returned Jo,
amused at his admiration of the trash.
"I should think I was a pretty lucky chap if I could. She makes a good
living out of such stories, they say;" and he pointed to the name of
Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury, under the title of the tale.
"Do you know her?" asked Jo, with sudden interest.
"No; but I read all her pieces, and I know a fellow who works in the
office where this paper is printed."
"Do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?" and Jo
looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly-sprinkled
exclamation-points that adorned the page.
"Guess she does! She knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for
writing it."
Here the lecture began, but Jo heard very little of it, for while Prof.
Sands was prosing away about Belzoni, Cheops, scarabei, and
hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper,
and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its
columns for a sensational story. By the time the lecture ended and the
audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the
first founded upon paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her
story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the
elopement or after the murder.
She said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to
the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when
"genius took to burning." Jo had never tried this style before,
contenting herself with very mild romances for the "Spread Eagle." Her
theatrical experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for
they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language,
and costumes. Her story was as full of desperation and despair as her
limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to
make it, and, having located it in Lisbon, she wound up with an
earthquake, as a striking and appropriate _dénouement_. The manuscript
was privately despatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if
the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she
would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
Six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to
keep a secret; but Jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all
hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which
almost took her breath away; for on opening it, a check for a hundred
dollars fell into her lap. For a minute she stared at it as if it had
been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry. If the amiable
gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense
happiness he was giving a fellow-creature, I think he would devote his
leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement; for Jo valued the
letter more than the money, because it was encouraging; and after years
of effort it was _so_ pleasant to find that she had learned to do
something, though it was only to write a sensation story.
[Illustration: A check for one hundred dollars]
A prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed
herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the
letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won
the prize. Of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came
every one read and praised it; though after her father had told her that
the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy
quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way,--
"You can do better than this, Jo. Aim at the highest, and never mind the
money."
"_I_ think the money is the best part of it. What _will_ you do with
such a fortune?" asked Amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a
reverential eye.
"Send Beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered Jo
promptly.
"Oh, how splendid! No, I can't do it, dear, it would be so selfish,"
cried Beth, who had clapped her thin hands, and taken a long breath, as
if pining for fresh ocean-breezes; then stopped herself, and motioned
away the check which her sister waved before her.
"Ah, but you shall go, I've set my heart on it; that's what I tried for,
and that's why I succeeded. I never get on when I think of myself alone,
so it will help me to work for you, don't you see? Besides, Marmee needs
the change, and she won't leave you, so you _must_ go. Won't it be fun
to see you come home plump and rosy again? Hurrah for Dr. Jo, who always
cures her patients!"
To the sea side they went, after much discussion; and though Beth didn't
come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better,
while Mrs. March declared she felt ten years younger; so Jo was
satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with
a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks. She
did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the
house; for by the magic of a pen, her "rubbish" turned into comforts for
them all. "The Duke's Daughter" paid the butcher's bill, "A Phantom
Hand" put down a new carpet, and the "Curse of the Coventrys" proved the
blessing of the Marches in the way of groceries and gowns.
Wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny
side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction
which comes from hearty work of head or hand; and to the inspiration of
necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the
world. Jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy
richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could
supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.
Little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market; and,
encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and
fortune. Having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her
confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three
publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut
it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly
admired.
"Now I must either bundle it back into my tin-kitchen to mould, pay for
printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers, and get what I can
for it. Fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more
convenient; so I wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important
subject," said Jo, calling a family council.
"Don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know,
and the idea is well worked out. Let it wait and ripen," was her
father's advice; and he practised as he preached, having waited
patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no
haste to gather it, even now, when it was sweet and mellow.
"It seems to me that Jo will profit more by making the trial than by
waiting," said Mrs. March. "Criticism is the best test of such work, for
it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do
better next time. We are too partial; but the praise and blame of
outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
"Yes," said Jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it; I've been fussing
over the thing so long, I really don't know whether it's good, bad, or
indifferent. It will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons
take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
"I wouldn't leave out a word of it; you'll spoil it if you do, for the
interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the
people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on,"
said Meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable
novel ever written.
"But Mr. Allen says, 'Leave out the explanations, make it brief and
dramatic, and let the characters tell the story,'" interrupted Jo,
turning to the publisher's note.
"Do as he tells you; he knows what will sell, and we don't. Make a good,
popular book, and get as much money as you can. By and by, when, you've
got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and
metaphysical people in your novels," said Amy, who took a strictly
practical view of the subject.
"Well," said Jo, laughing, "if my people _are_ 'philosophical and
metaphysical,' it isn't my fault, for I know nothing about such things,
except what I hear father say, sometimes. If I've got some of his wise
ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me. Now, Beth,
what do you say?"
"I should so like to see it printed _soon_," was all Beth said, and
smiled in saying it; but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last
word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike
candor, which chilled Jo's heart, for a minute, with a foreboding fear,
and decided her to make her little venture "soon."
So, with Spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on
her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre. In the hope of
pleasing every one, she took every one's advice; and, like the old man
and his donkey in the fable, suited nobody.
Her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got
into it; so that was allowed to remain, though she had her doubts about
it. Her mother thought that there _was_ a trifle too much description;
out, therefore, it nearly all came, and with it many necessary links in
the story. Meg admired the tragedy; so Jo piled up the agony to suit
her, while Amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in
life, Jo quenched the sprightly scenes which relieved the sombre
character of the story. Then, to complete the ruin, she cut it down one
third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked
robin, out into the big, busy world, to try its fate.
Well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it; likewise
plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that
she was thrown into a state of bewilderment, from which it took her some
time to recover.
"You said, mother, that criticism would help me; but how can it, when
it's so contradictory that I don't know whether I've written a promising
book or broken all the ten commandments?" cried poor Jo, turning over a
heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one
minute, wrath and dire dismay the next. "This man says 'An exquisite
book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness; all is sweet, pure, and
healthy,'" continued the perplexed authoress. "The next, 'The theory of
the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and
unnatural characters.' Now, as I had no theory of any kind, don't
believe in Spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, I don't see
how this critic _can_ be right. Another says, 'It's one of the best
American novels which has appeared for years' (I know better than that);
and the next asserts that 'though it is original, and written with great
force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.' 'Tisn't! Some make fun of
it, some over-praise, and nearly all insist that I had a deep theory to
expound, when I only wrote it for the pleasure and the money. I wish I'd
printed it whole or not at all, for I do hate to be so misjudged."
Her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally;
yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited Jo, who meant so
well, and had apparently done so ill. But it did her good, for those
whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's
best education; and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at
her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the
wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
"Not being a genius, like Keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly;
"and I've got the joke on my side, after all; for the parts that were
taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd,
and the scenes that I made up out of my own silly head are pronounced
'charmingly natural, tender, and true.' So I'll comfort myself with
that; and when I'm ready, I'll up again and take another."
[Illustration: Tail-piece]
[Illustration: Domestic Experiences] | Literary Lessons Jo, wishing to be a writer, spends great time in the garret when she feels inspired, often foregoing meals and sleep to translate her imagination into stories. One day, while accompanying Miss Crocker to a lecture, she learns that sensational stories like those by Mrs. S. L. A. N. G. Northbury have quite an audience, and a newspaper is having a competition for such stories with a prize of $100. Jo secretly writes a story about an earthquake in Lisbon and submits it to the competition. Six long weeks later, Jo receives a note of encouragement and the grand prize, for $100. Her family celebrates, though her unworldly Father says that she can do better, and should aim higher, disregarding the money. Jo, however, continues to write, and takes great pride in assisting with the family's bills. Her $100 sends Beth and Marmee to the shore for relaxation and recovery, and several more stories pay for the butcher bill, groceries, and new carpet. Jo cherishes her independence and ability to help her family. Encouraged by her success, Jo writes her first novel. After much effort, she finds a publisher, but he insists that she remove 1/3 of the story. In her redrafting, she tries to please everyone, and thus pleases no one, least of all herself. It is published, and she receives $300 and heaps of criticism and praise, furthering her confusion, but she is glad for the trial |
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
SCENE 2.
France. Plains in Anjou
Enter CHARLES, BURGUNDY, ALENCON, BASTARD,
REIGNIER, LA PUCELLE, and forces
CHARLES. These news, my lords, may cheer our drooping
spirits:
'Tis said the stout Parisians do revolt
And turn again unto the warlike French.
ALENCON. Then march to Paris, royal Charles of France,
And keep not back your powers in dalliance.
PUCELLE. Peace be amongst them, if they turn to us;
Else ruin combat with their palaces!
Enter a SCOUT
SCOUT. Success unto our valiant general,
And happiness to his accomplices!
CHARLES. What tidings send our scouts? I prithee speak.
SCOUT. The English army, that divided was
Into two parties, is now conjoin'd in one,
And means to give you battle presently.
CHARLES. Somewhat too sudden, sirs, the warning is;
But we will presently provide for them.
BURGUNDY. I trust the ghost of Talbot is not there.
Now he is gone, my lord, you need not fear.
PUCELLE. Of all base passions fear is most accurs'd.
Command the conquest, Charles, it shall be thine,
Let Henry fret and all the world repine.
CHARLES. Then on, my lords; and France be fortunate!
Exeunt
SCENE 3.
Before Angiers
Alarum, excursions. Enter LA PUCELLE
PUCELLE. The Regent conquers and the Frenchmen fly.
Now help, ye charming spells and periapts;
And ye choice spirits that admonish me
And give me signs of future accidents; [Thunder]
You speedy helpers that are substitutes
Under the lordly monarch of the north,
Appear and aid me in this enterprise!
Enter FIENDS
This speedy and quick appearance argues proof
Of your accustom'd diligence to me.
Now, ye familiar spirits that are cull'd
Out of the powerful regions under earth,
Help me this once, that France may get the field.
[They walk and speak not]
O, hold me not with silence over-long!
Where I was wont to feed you with my blood,
I'll lop a member off and give it you
In earnest of a further benefit,
So you do condescend to help me now.
[They hang their heads]
No hope to have redress? My body shall
Pay recompense, if you will grant my suit.
[They shake their heads]
Cannot my body nor blood sacrifice
Entreat you to your wonted furtherance?
Then take my soul-my body, soul, and all,
Before that England give the French the foil.
[They depart]
See! they forsake me. Now the time is come
That France must vail her lofty-plumed crest
And let her head fall into England's lap.
My ancient incantations are too weak,
And hell too strong for me to buckle with.
Now, France, thy glory droopeth to the dust. Exit
Excursions. Enter French and English, fighting.
LA PUCELLE and YORK fight hand to hand; LA PUCELLE
is taken. The French fly
YORK. Damsel of France, I think I have you fast.
Unchain your spirits now with spelling charms,
And try if they can gain your liberty.
A goodly prize, fit for the devil's grace!
See how the ugly witch doth bend her brows
As if, with Circe, she would change my shape!
PUCELLE. Chang'd to a worser shape thou canst not be.
YORK. O, Charles the Dauphin is a proper man:
No shape but his can please your dainty eye.
PUCELLE. A plaguing mischief fight on Charles and thee!
And may ye both be suddenly surpris'd
By bloody hands, in sleeping on your beds!
YORK. Fell banning hag; enchantress, hold thy tongue.
PUCELLE. I prithee give me leave to curse awhile.
YORK. Curse, miscreant, when thou comest to the stake.
Exeunt
Alarum. Enter SUFFOLK, with MARGARET in his hand
SUFFOLK. Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.
[Gazes on her]
O fairest beauty, do not fear nor fly!
For I will touch thee but with reverent hands;
I kiss these fingers for eternal peace,
And lay them gently on thy tender side.
Who art thou? Say, that I may honour thee.
MARGARET. Margaret my name, and daughter to a king,
The King of Naples--whosoe'er thou art.
SUFFOLK. An earl I am, and Suffolk am I call'd.
Be not offended, nature's miracle,
Thou art allotted to be ta'en by me.
So doth the swan her downy cygnets save,
Keeping them prisoner underneath her wings.
Yet, if this servile usage once offend,
Go and be free again as Suffolk's friend. [She is going]
O, stay! [Aside] I have no power to let her pass;
My hand would free her, but my heart says no.
As plays the sun upon the glassy streams,
Twinkling another counterfeited beam,
So seems this gorgeous beauty to mine eyes.
Fain would I woo her, yet I dare not speak.
I'll call for pen and ink, and write my mind.
Fie, de la Pole! disable not thyself;
Hast not a tongue? Is she not here thy prisoner?
Wilt thou be daunted at a woman's sight?
Ay, beauty's princely majesty is such
Confounds the tongue and makes the senses rough.
MARGARET. Say, Earl of Suffolk, if thy name be so,
What ransom must I pay before I pass?
For I perceive I am thy prisoner.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] How canst thou tell she will deny thy
suit,
Before thou make a trial of her love?
MARGARET. Why speak'st thou not? What ransom must I
pay?
SUFFOLK. [Aside] She's beautiful, and therefore to be woo'd;
She is a woman, therefore to be won.
MARGARET. Wilt thou accept of ransom--yea or no?
SUFFOLK. [Aside] Fond man, remember that thou hast a
wife;
Then how can Margaret be thy paramour?
MARGARET. I were best leave him, for he will not hear.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] There all is marr'd; there lies a cooling
card.
MARGARET. He talks at random; sure, the man is mad.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] And yet a dispensation may be had.
MARGARET. And yet I would that you would answer me.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] I'll win this Lady Margaret. For whom?
Why, for my King! Tush, that's a wooden thing!
MARGARET. He talks of wood. It is some carpenter.
SUFFOLK. [Aside] Yet so my fancy may be satisfied,
And peace established between these realms.
But there remains a scruple in that too;
For though her father be the King of Naples,
Duke of Anjou and Maine, yet is he poor,
And our nobility will scorn the match.
MARGARET. Hear ye, Captain--are you not at leisure?
SUFFOLK. [Aside] It shall be so, disdain they ne'er so much.
Henry is youthful, and will quickly yield.
Madam, I have a secret to reveal.
MARGARET. [Aside] What though I be enthrall'd? He seems
a knight,
And will not any way dishonour me.
SUFFOLK. Lady, vouchsafe to listen what I say.
MARGARET. [Aside] Perhaps I shall be rescu'd by the French;
And then I need not crave his courtesy.
SUFFOLK. Sweet madam, give me hearing in a cause--
MARGARET. [Aside] Tush! women have been captivate ere
now.
SUFFOLK. Lady, wherefore talk you so?
MARGARET. I cry you mercy, 'tis but quid for quo.
SUFFOLK. Say, gentle Princess, would you not suppose
Your bondage happy, to be made a queen?
MARGARET. To be a queen in bondage is more vile
Than is a slave in base servility;
For princes should be free.
SUFFOLK. And so shall you,
If happy England's royal king be free.
MARGARET. Why, what concerns his freedom unto me?
SUFFOLK. I'll undertake to make thee Henry's queen,
To put a golden sceptre in thy hand
And set a precious crown upon thy head,
If thou wilt condescend to be my--
MARGARET. What?
SUFFOLK. His love.
MARGARET. I am unworthy to be Henry's wife.
SUFFOLK. No, gentle madam; I unworthy am
To woo so fair a dame to be his wife
And have no portion in the choice myself.
How say you, madam? Are ye so content?
MARGARET. An if my father please, I am content.
SUFFOLK. Then call our captains and our colours forth!
And, madam, at your father's castle walls
We'll crave a parley to confer with him.
Sound a parley. Enter REIGNIER on the walls
See, Reignier, see, thy daughter prisoner!
REIGNIER. To whom?
SUFFOLK. To me.
REIGNIER. Suffolk, what remedy?
I am a soldier and unapt to weep
Or to exclaim on fortune's fickleness.
SUFFOLK. Yes, there is remedy enough, my lord.
Consent, and for thy honour give consent,
Thy daughter shall be wedded to my king,
Whom I with pain have woo'd and won thereto;
And this her easy-held imprisonment
Hath gain'd thy daughter princely liberty.
REIGNIER. Speaks Suffolk as he thinks?
SUFFOLK. Fair Margaret knows
That Suffolk doth not flatter, face, or feign.
REIGNIER. Upon thy princely warrant I descend
To give thee answer of thy just demand.
Exit REIGNIER from the walls
SUFFOLK. And here I will expect thy coming.
Trumpets sound. Enter REIGNIER below
REIGNIER. Welcome, brave Earl, into our territories;
Command in Anjou what your Honour pleases.
SUFFOLK. Thanks, Reignier, happy for so sweet a child,
Fit to be made companion with a king.
What answer makes your Grace unto my suit?
REIGNIER. Since thou dost deign to woo her little worth
To be the princely bride of such a lord,
Upon condition I may quietly
Enjoy mine own, the country Maine and Anjou,
Free from oppression or the stroke of war,
My daughter shall be Henry's, if he please.
SUFFOLK. That is her ransom; I deliver her.
And those two counties I will undertake
Your Grace shall well and quietly enjoy.
REIGNIER. And I again, in Henry's royal name,
As deputy unto that gracious king,
Give thee her hand for sign of plighted faith.
SUFFOLK. Reignier of France, I give thee kingly thanks,
Because this is in traffic of a king.
[Aside] And yet, methinks, I could be well content
To be mine own attorney in this case.
I'll over then to England with this news,
And make this marriage to be solemniz'd.
So, farewell, Reignier. Set this diamond safe
In golden palaces, as it becomes.
REIGNIER. I do embrace thee as I would embrace
The Christian prince, King Henry, were he here.
MARGARET. Farewell, my lord. Good wishes, praise, and
prayers,
Shall Suffolk ever have of Margaret. [She is going]
SUFFOLK. Farewell, sweet madam. But hark you, Margaret
No princely commendations to my king?
MARGARET. Such commendations as becomes a maid,
A virgin, and his servant, say to him.
SUFFOLK. Words sweetly plac'd and modestly directed.
But, madam, I must trouble you again
No loving token to his Majesty?
MARGARET. Yes, my good lord: a pure unspotted heart,
Never yet taint with love, I send the King.
SUFFOLK. And this withal. [Kisses her]
MARGARET. That for thyself, I will not so presume
To send such peevish tokens to a king.
Exeunt REIGNIER and MARGARET
SUFFOLK. O, wert thou for myself! But, Suffolk, stay;
Thou mayst not wander in that labyrinth:
There Minotaurs and ugly treasons lurk.
Solicit Henry with her wondrous praise.
Bethink thee on her virtues that surmount,
And natural graces that extinguish art;
Repeat their semblance often on the seas,
That, when thou com'st to kneel at Henry's feet,
Thou mayst bereave him of his wits with wonder. Exit
SCENE 4.
Camp of the DUKE OF YORK in Anjou
Enter YORK, WARWICK, and others
YORK. Bring forth that sorceress, condemn'd to burn.
Enter LA PUCELLE, guarded, and a SHEPHERD
SHEPHERD. Ah, Joan, this kills thy father's heart outright!
Have I sought every country far and near,
And, now it is my chance to find thee out,
Must I behold thy timeless cruel death?
Ah, Joan, sweet daughter Joan, I'll die with thee!
PUCELLE. Decrepit miser! base ignoble wretch!
I am descended of a gentler blood;
Thou art no father nor no friend of mine.
SHEPHERD. Out, out! My lords, an please you, 'tis not so;
I did beget her, all the parish knows.
Her mother liveth yet, can testify
She was the first fruit of my bach'lorship.
WARWICK. Graceless, wilt thou deny thy parentage?
YORK. This argues what her kind of life hath been--
Wicked and vile; and so her death concludes.
SHEPHERD. Fie, Joan, that thou wilt be so obstacle!
God knows thou art a collop of my flesh;
And for thy sake have I shed many a tear.
Deny me not, I prithee, gentle Joan.
PUCELLE. Peasant, avaunt! You have suborn'd this man
Of purpose to obscure my noble birth.
SHEPHERD. 'Tis true, I gave a noble to the priest
The morn that I was wedded to her mother.
Kneel down and take my blessing, good my girl.
Wilt thou not stoop? Now cursed be the time
Of thy nativity. I would the milk
Thy mother gave thee when thou suck'dst her breast
Had been a little ratsbane for thy sake.
Or else, when thou didst keep my lambs afield,
I wish some ravenous wolf had eaten thee.
Dost thou deny thy father, cursed drab?
O, burn her, burn her! Hanging is too good. Exit
YORK. Take her away; for she hath liv'd too long,
To fill the world with vicious qualities.
PUCELLE. First let me tell you whom you have condemn'd:
Not me begotten of a shepherd swain,
But issued from the progeny of kings;
Virtuous and holy, chosen from above
By inspiration of celestial grace,
To work exceeding miracles on earth.
I never had to do with wicked spirits.
But you, that are polluted with your lusts,
Stain'd with the guiltless blood of innocents,
Corrupt and tainted with a thousand vices,
Because you want the grace that others have,
You judge it straight a thing impossible
To compass wonders but by help of devils.
No, misconceived! Joan of Arc hath been
A virgin from her tender infancy,
Chaste and immaculate in very thought;
Whose maiden blood, thus rigorously effus'd,
Will cry for vengeance at the gates of heaven.
YORK. Ay, ay. Away with her to execution!
WARWICK. And hark ye, sirs; because she is a maid,
Spare for no fagots, let there be enow.
Place barrels of pitch upon the fatal stake,
That so her torture may be shortened.
PUCELLE. Will nothing turn your unrelenting hearts?
Then, Joan, discover thine infirmity
That warranteth by law to be thy privilege:
I am with child, ye bloody homicides;
Murder not then the fruit within my womb,
Although ye hale me to a violent death.
YORK. Now heaven forfend! The holy maid with child!
WARWICK. The greatest miracle that e'er ye wrought:
Is all your strict preciseness come to this?
YORK. She and the Dauphin have been juggling.
I did imagine what would be her refuge.
WARWICK. Well, go to; we'll have no bastards live;
Especially since Charles must father it.
PUCELLE. You are deceiv'd; my child is none of his:
It was Alencon that enjoy'd my love.
YORK. Alencon, that notorious Machiavel!
It dies, an if it had a thousand lives.
PUCELLE. O, give me leave, I have deluded you.
'Twas neither Charles nor yet the Duke I nam'd,
But Reignier, King of Naples, that prevail'd.
WARWICK. A married man! That's most intolerable.
YORK. Why, here's a girl! I think she knows not well
There were so many--whom she may accuse.
WARWICK. It's sign she hath been liberal and free.
YORK. And yet, forsooth, she is a virgin pure.
Strumpet, thy words condemn thy brat and thee.
Use no entreaty, for it is in vain.
PUCELLE. Then lead me hence--with whom I leave my
curse:
May never glorious sun reflex his beams
Upon the country where you make abode;
But darkness and the gloomy shade of death
Environ you, till mischief and despair
Drive you to break your necks or hang yourselves!
Exit, guarded
YORK. Break thou in pieces and consume to ashes,
Thou foul accursed minister of hell!
Enter CARDINAL BEAUFORT, attended
CARDINAL. Lord Regent, I do greet your Excellence
With letters of commission from the King.
For know, my lords, the states of Christendom,
Mov'd with remorse of these outrageous broils,
Have earnestly implor'd a general peace
Betwixt our nation and the aspiring French;
And here at hand the Dauphin and his train
Approacheth, to confer about some matter.
YORK. Is all our travail turn'd to this effect?
After the slaughter of so many peers,
So many captains, gentlemen, and soldiers,
That in this quarrel have been overthrown
And sold their bodies for their country's benefit,
Shall we at last conclude effeminate peace?
Have we not lost most part of all the towns,
By treason, falsehood, and by treachery,
Our great progenitors had conquered?
O Warwick, Warwick! I foresee with grief
The utter loss of all the realm of France.
WARWICK. Be patient, York. If we conclude a peace,
It shall be with such strict and severe covenants
As little shall the Frenchmen gain thereby.
Enter CHARLES, ALENCON, BASTARD, REIGNIER, and others
CHARLES. Since, lords of England, it is thus agreed
That peaceful truce shall be proclaim'd in France,
We come to be informed by yourselves
What the conditions of that league must be.
YORK. Speak, Winchester; for boiling choler chokes
The hollow passage of my poison'd voice,
By sight of these our baleful enemies.
CARDINAL. Charles, and the rest, it is enacted thus:
That, in regard King Henry gives consent,
Of mere compassion and of lenity,
To ease your country of distressful war,
An suffer you to breathe in fruitful peace,
You shall become true liegemen to his crown;
And, Charles, upon condition thou wilt swear
To pay him tribute and submit thyself,
Thou shalt be plac'd as viceroy under him,
And still enjoy thy regal dignity.
ALENCON. Must he be then as shadow of himself?
Adorn his temples with a coronet
And yet, in substance and authority,
Retain but privilege of a private man?
This proffer is absurd and reasonless.
CHARLES. 'Tis known already that I am possess'd
With more than half the Gallian territories,
And therein reverenc'd for their lawful king.
Shall I, for lucre of the rest unvanquish'd,
Detract so much from that prerogative
As to be call'd but viceroy of the whole?
No, Lord Ambassador; I'll rather keep
That which I have than, coveting for more,
Be cast from possibility of all.
YORK. Insulting Charles! Hast thou by secret means
Us'd intercession to obtain a league,
And now the matter grows to compromise
Stand'st thou aloof upon comparison?
Either accept the title thou usurp'st,
Of benefit proceeding from our king
And not of any challenge of desert,
Or we will plague thee with incessant wars.
REIGNIER. [To CHARLES] My lord, you do not well in
obstinacy
To cavil in the course of this contract.
If once it be neglected, ten to one
We shall not find like opportunity.
ALENCON. [To CHARLES] To say the truth, it is your policy
To save your subjects from such massacre
And ruthless slaughters as are daily seen
By our proceeding in hostility;
And therefore take this compact of a truce,
Although you break it when your pleasure serves.
WARWICK. How say'st thou, Charles? Shall our condition
stand?
CHARLES. It shall;
Only reserv'd, you claim no interest
In any of our towns of garrison.
YORK. Then swear allegiance to his Majesty:
As thou art knight, never to disobey
Nor be rebellious to the crown of England
Thou, nor thy nobles, to the crown of England.
[CHARLES and the rest give tokens of fealty]
So, now dismiss your army when ye please;
Hang up your ensigns, let your drums be still,
For here we entertain a solemn peace. Exeunt | In the palace in London, Henry enters with Gloucester, Exeter, and other lords. Henry asks if Gloucester has read the letters from the pope. Gloucester says that the pope urges the negotiation of peace between England and France. Henry asks Gloucester what he thinks, and Gloucester suggests it may be the only way to stop the bloodshed. He urges another tie to the French; the Earl of Armagnac, a close relative of Charles, has offered his daughter in marriage. Henry replies that he is young and might be better suited to study than to marriage, but he will take Gloucester's advice. Winchester enters, in the garb of a cardinal, with several messengers from the pope. Exeter wonders to himself how Winchester came to be a cardinal; certainly it means he plans to have more influence over the king. The king tells the papal messengers that he has decided that a friendly peace with France is a good idea, and he means to pursue it immediately. Gloucester tells the messengers that the king has also agreed to a marriage with the Earl of Armagnac's daughter. The court departs, except for Winchester and the main messenger from the pope. Winchester tells the messenger he owes him money for having made him a cardinal. Now he won't have to submit to anyone, he declares, especially not to Gloucester. Charles and his nobles, including Burgundy, Alencon, the Bastard of Orleans, Rene, and Joan, ponder news from Paris that their countrymen there are again swearing their loyalty to England. Alencon urges Charles to march to Paris and clear up the situation. Then, a messenger enters to announce that the two segments of the English army have merged and are preparing to attack the French troops. Joan urges Charles to lead the battle, and she declares he will win. It is now the middle of the battle, and Joan, alone onstage, realizes York is winning. She calls on the spirits that give her signs of coming events; she asks them to appear and to aid her. They arrive, and she asks them to help her win the fight for France. But the fiends refuse to speak to Joan. She reminds them that she has always offered her blood to them in exchange for their help. Yet the demons show no interest in her offerings. Becoming desperate, she offers her soul to them, but they depart. Joan, forsaken by the source of her former powers, declares that France will now surely fall to the English. Burgundy and York fight in hand-to-hand combat offstage. The French flee, and York seizes Joan. Holding her, he tauntingly asks her if her demons can help her now. He calls her an enchantress and a witch, and he takes her away. |
Signa's wedding supper was over. The guests, and the tiresome
little Norwegian preacher who had performed the marriage ceremony,
were saying good-night. Old Ivar was hitching the horses to the
wagon to take the wedding presents and the bride and groom up to
their new home, on Alexandra's north quarter. When Ivar drove up
to the gate, Emil and Marie Shabata began to carry out the presents,
and Alexandra went into her bedroom to bid Signa good-bye and to
give her a few words of good counsel. She was surprised to find
that the bride had changed her slippers for heavy shoes and was
pinning up her skirts. At that moment Nelse appeared at the gate
with the two milk cows that Alexandra had given Signa for a wedding
present.
Alexandra began to laugh. "Why, Signa, you and Nelse are to ride
home. I'll send Ivar over with the cows in the morning."
Signa hesitated and looked perplexed. When her husband called her,
she pinned her hat on resolutely. "I ta-ank I better do yust like
he say," she murmured in confusion.
Alexandra and Marie accompanied Signa to the gate and saw the
party set off, old Ivar driving ahead in the wagon and the bride
and groom following on foot, each leading a cow. Emil burst into
a laugh before they were out of hearing.
"Those two will get on," said Alexandra as they turned back to the
house. "They are not going to take any chances. They will feel
safer with those cows in their own stable. Marie, I am going to
send for an old woman next. As soon as I get the girls broken in,
I marry them off."
"I've no patience with Signa, marrying that grumpy fellow!" Marie
declared. "I wanted her to marry that nice Smirka boy who worked
for us last winter. I think she liked him, too."
"Yes, I think she did," Alexandra assented, "but I suppose she was
too much afraid of Nelse to marry any one else. Now that I think
of it, most of my girls have married men they were afraid of. I
believe there is a good deal of the cow in most Swedish girls.
You high-strung Bohemian can't understand us. We're a terribly
practical people, and I guess we think a cross man makes a good
manager."
Marie shrugged her shoulders and turned to pin up a lock of hair
that had fallen on her neck. Somehow Alexandra had irritated her
of late. Everybody irritated her. She was tired of everybody. "I'm
going home alone, Emil, so you needn't get your hat," she said as
she wound her scarf quickly about her head. "Good-night, Alexandra,"
she called back in a strained voice, running down the gravel walk.
Emil followed with long strides until he overtook her. Then she began
to walk slowly. It was a night of warm wind and faint starlight,
and the fireflies were glimmering over the wheat.
"Marie," said Emil after they had walked for a while, "I wonder if
you know how unhappy I am?"
Marie did not answer him. Her head, in its white scarf, drooped
forward a little.
Emil kicked a clod from the path and went on:--
"I wonder whether you are really shallow-hearted, like you seem?
Sometimes I think one boy does just as well as another for you.
It never seems to make much difference whether it is me or Raoul
Marcel or Jan Smirka. Are you really like that?"
"Perhaps I am. What do you want me to do? Sit round and cry all
day? When I've cried until I can't cry any more, then--then I must
do something else."
"Are you sorry for me?" he persisted.
"No, I'm not. If I were big and free like you, I wouldn't let
anything make me unhappy. As old Napoleon Brunot said at the fair,
I wouldn't go lovering after no woman. I'd take the first train
and go off and have all the fun there is."
"I tried that, but it didn't do any good. Everything reminded me.
The nicer the place was, the more I wanted you." They had come to
the stile and Emil pointed to it persuasively. "Sit down a moment,
I want to ask you something." Marie sat down on the top step and
Emil drew nearer. "Would you tell me something that's none of my
business if you thought it would help me out? Well, then, tell
me, PLEASE tell me, why you ran away with Frank Shabata!"
Marie drew back. "Because I was in love with him," she said firmly.
"Really?" he asked incredulously.
"Yes, indeed. Very much in love with him. I think I was the one
who suggested our running away. From the first it was more my
fault than his."
Emil turned away his face.
"And now," Marie went on, "I've got to remember that. Frank is
just the same now as he was then, only then I would see him as I
wanted him to be. I would have my own way. And now I pay for it."
"You don't do all the paying."
"That's it. When one makes a mistake, there's no telling where
it will stop. But you can go away; you can leave all this behind
you."
"Not everything. I can't leave you behind. Will you go away with
me, Marie?"
Marie started up and stepped across the stile. "Emil! How wickedly
you talk! I am not that kind of a girl, and you know it. But what
am I going to do if you keep tormenting me like this!" she added
plaintively.
"Marie, I won't bother you any more if you will tell me just
one thing. Stop a minute and look at me. No, nobody can see us.
Everybody's asleep. That was only a firefly. Marie, STOP and tell
me!"
Emil overtook her and catching her by the shoulders shook her
gently, as if he were trying to awaken a sleepwalker.
Marie hid her face on his arm. "Don't ask me anything more. I
don't know anything except how miserable I am. And I thought it
would be all right when you came back. Oh, Emil," she clutched his
sleeve and began to cry, "what am I to do if you don't go away? I
can't go, and one of us must. Can't you see?"
Emil stood looking down at her, holding his shoulders stiff and
stiffening the arm to which she clung. Her white dress looked
gray in the darkness. She seemed like a troubled spirit, like some
shadow out of the earth, clinging to him and entreating him to give
her peace. Behind her the fireflies were weaving in and out over
the wheat. He put his hand on her bent head. "On my honor, Marie,
if you will say you love me, I will go away."
She lifted her face to his. "How could I help it? Didn't you
know?"
Emil was the one who trembled, through all his frame. After he
left Marie at her gate, he wandered about the fields all night,
till morning put out the fireflies and the stars. | Fast forward a bit to the wedding of one of Alexandra's hired girls, Signa. The wedding has just finished and the guests are leaving--only Signa seems reluctant to leave. Finally, she and her husband take off, with two cows as a gift from Alexandra. When Marie complains about Signa's marriage to Nelse Jensen, who she thinks is too "grumpy," Alexandra muses aloud that Swedish girls often marry men they're afraid of, because Swedes are a practical people and they think a mean guy will keep them and the household in line . This irritates Marie, for some reason. She often gets irritated these days. She tells Emil that he doesn't need to walk her home and leaves. Emil runs after her to catch up. He tries to talk with her, asking if she knows how unhappy he is, or whether she really is as indifferent as she seems. When he asks whether she feels sorry for him, she says she doesn't. If she had his freedom, she tells him, she would skip town and have all the fun there is to have. He already did that, he reminds her, and all he could think about was her. Then he sits her down and asks her specifically why she ran away with Frank. When she replies that it was because she was in love with him, Emil is incredulous. She continues, explaining that she chose to see in him what she wanted to, and now she has to pay for it. He, on the other hand, can just leave all the drama behind and move on. As their conversation goes on, Emil asks her to run away with him, and she says no. The best thing is for him to go, because she can't take it anymore. Emil promises to leave if she will say that she loves him. Marie doesn't directly say that she loves him. "Didn't you know?" , she asks him. |
Dr. Flint had not given me up. Every now and then he would say to my
grandmother that I would yet come back, and voluntarily surrender myself;
and that when I did, I could be purchased by my relatives, or any one who
wished to buy me. I knew his cunning nature too well not to perceive that
this was a trap laid for me; and so all my friends understood it. I
resolved to match my cunning against his cunning. In order to make him
believe that I was in New York, I resolved to write him a letter dated from
that place. I sent for my friend Peter, and asked him if he knew any
trustworthy seafaring person, who would carry such a letter to New York,
and put it in the post office there. He said he knew one that he would
trust with his own life to the ends of the world. I reminded him that it
was a hazardous thing for him to undertake. He said he knew it, but he was
willing to do any thing to help me. I expressed a wish for a New York
paper, to ascertain the names of some of the streets. He run his hand into
his pocket, and said, "Here is half a one, that was round a cap I bought of
a pedler yesterday." I told him the letter would be ready the next evening.
He bade me good by, adding, "Keep up your spirits, Linda; brighter days
will come by and by."
My uncle Phillip kept watch over the gate until our brief interview was
over. Early the next morning, I seated myself near the little aperture to
examine the newspaper. It was a piece of the New York Herald; and, for
once, the paper that systematically abuses the colored people, was made to
render them a service. Having obtained what information I wanted concerning
streets and numbers, I wrote two letters, one to my grandmother, the other
to Dr. Flint. I reminded him how he, a gray-headed man, had treated a
helpless child, who had been placed in his power, and what years of misery
he had brought upon her. To my grandmother, I expressed a wish to have my
children sent to me at the north, where I could teach them to respect
themselves, and set them a virtuous example; which a slave mother was not
allowed to do at the south. I asked her to direct her answer to a certain
street in Boston, as I did not live in New York, though I went there
sometimes. I dated these letters ahead, to allow for the time it would take
to carry them, and sent a memorandum of the date to the messenger. When my
friend came for the letters, I said, "God bless and reward you, Peter, for
this disinterested kindness. Pray be careful. If you are detected, both you
and I will have to suffer dreadfully. I have not a relative who would dare
to do it for me." He replied, "You may trust to me, Linda. I don't forget
that your father was my best friend, and I will be a friend to his children
so long as God lets me live."
It was necessary to tell my grandmother what I had done, in order that she
might be ready for the letter, and prepared to hear what Dr. Flint might
say about my being at the north. She was sadly troubled. She felt sure
mischief would come of it. I also told my plan to aunt Nancy, in order that
she might report to us what was said at Dr. Flint's house. I whispered it
to her through a crack, and she whispered back, "I hope it will succeed. I
shan't mind being a slave all _my_ life, if I can only see you and the
children free."
I had directed that my letters should be put into the New York post office
on the 20th of the month. On the evening of the 24th my aunt came to say
that Dr. Flint and his wife had been talking in a low voice about a letter
he had received, and that when he went to his office he promised to bring
it when he came to tea. So I concluded I should hear my letter read the
next morning. I told my grandmother Dr. Flint would be sure to come, and
asked her to have him sit near a certain door, and leave it open, that I
might hear what he said. The next morning I took my station within sound of
that door, and remained motionless as a statue. It was not long before I
heard the gate slam, and the well-known footsteps enter the house. He
seated himself in the chair that was placed for him, and said, "Well,
Martha, I've brought you a letter from Linda. She has sent me a letter,
also. I know exactly where to find her; but I don't choose to go to Boston
for her. I had rather she would come back of her own accord, in a
respectable manner. Her uncle Phillip is the best person to go for her.
With _him_, she would feel perfectly free to act. I am willing to pay his
expenses going and returning. She shall be sold to her friends. Her
children are free; at least I suppose they are; and when you obtain her
freedom, you'll make a happy family. I suppose, Martha, you have no
objection to my reading to you the letter Linda has written to you."
He broke the seal, and I heard him read it. The old villain! He had
suppressed the letter I wrote to grandmother, and prepared a substitute of
his own, the purport of which was as follows:--
Dear Grandmother: I have long wanted to write to you; but the
disgraceful manner in which I left you and my children made me
ashamed to do it. If you knew how much I have suffered since I
ran away, you would pity and forgive me. I have purchased freedom
at a dear rate. If any arrangement could be made for me to return
to the south without being a slave, I would gladly come. If not,
I beg of you to send my children to the north. I cannot live any
longer without them. Let me know in time, and I will meet them in
New York or Philadelphia, whichever place best suits my uncle's
convenience. Write as soon as possible to your unhappy daughter,
Linda.
"It is very much as I expected it would be," said the old hypocrite, rising
to go. "You see the foolish girl has repented of her rashness, and wants to
return. We must help her to do it, Martha. Talk with Phillip about it. If
he will go for her, she will trust to him, and come back. I should like an
answer to-morrow. Good morning, Martha."
As he stepped out on the piazza, he stumbled over my little girl. "Ah,
Ellen, is that you?" he said, in his most gracious manner. "I didn't see
you. How do you do?"
"Pretty well, sir," she replied. "I heard you tell grandmother that my
mother is coming home. I want to see her."
"Yes, Ellen, I am going to bring her home very soon," rejoined he; "and you
shall see her as much as you like, you little curly-headed nigger."
This was as good as a comedy to me, who had heard it all; but grandmother
was frightened and distressed, because the doctor wanted my uncle to go for
me.
The next evening Dr. Flint called to talk the matter over. My uncle told
him that from what he had heard of Massachusetts, he judged he should be
mobbed if he went there after a runaway slave. "All stuff and nonsense,
Phillip!" replied the doctor. "Do you suppose I want you to kick up a row
in Boston? The business can all be done quietly. Linda writes that she
wants to come back. You are her relative, and she would trust _you_. The
case would be different if I went. She might object to coming with _me_;
and the damned abolitionists, if they knew I was her master, would not
believe me, if I told them she had begged to go back. They would get up a
row; and I should not like to see Linda dragged through the streets like a
common negro. She has been very ungrateful to me for all my kindness; but I
forgive her, and want to act the part of a friend towards her. I have no
wish to hold her as my slave. Her friends can buy her as soon as she
arrives here."
Finding that his arguments failed to convince my uncle, the doctor "let the
cat out of the bag," by saying that he had written to the mayor of Boston,
to ascertain whether there was a person of my description at the street and
number from which my letter was dated. He had omitted this date in the
letter he had made up to read to my grandmother. If I had dated from New
York, the old man would probably have made another journey to that city.
But even in that dark region, where knowledge is so carefully excluded from
the slave, I had heard enough about Massachusetts to come to the conclusion
that slaveholders did not consider it a comfortable place to go in search
of a runaway. That was before the Fugitive Slave Law was passed; before
Massachusetts had consented to become a "nigger hunter" for the south.
My grandmother, who had become skittish by seeing her family always in
danger, came to me with a very distressed countenance, and said, "What will
you do if the mayor of Boston sends him word that you haven't been there?
Then he will suspect the letter was a trick; and maybe he'll find out
something about it, and we shall all get into trouble. O Linda, I wish you
had never sent the letters."
"Don't worry yourself, Grandmother," said I. "The mayor of Boston won't
trouble himself to hunt niggers for Dr. Flint. The letters will do good in
the end. I shall get out of this dark hole some time or other."
"I hope you will, child," replied the good, patient old friend. "You have
been here a long time; almost five years; but whenever you do go, it will
break your old grandmother's heart. I should be expecting every day to hear
that you were brought back in irons and put in jail. God help you, poor
child! Let us be thankful that some time or other we shall go 'where the
wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.'" My heart
responded, Amen.
The fact that Dr. Flint had written to the mayor of Boston convinced me
that he believed my letter to be genuine, and of course that he had no
suspicion of my being any where in the vicinity. It was a great object to
keep up this delusion, for it made me and my friends feel less anxious, and
it would be very convenient whenever there was a chance to escape. I
resolved, therefore, to continue to write letters from the north from time
to time.
Two or three weeks passed, and as no news came from the mayor of Boston,
grandmother began to listen to my entreaty to be allowed to leave my cell,
sometimes, and exercise my limbs to prevent my becoming a cripple. I was
allowed to slip down into the small storeroom, early in the morning, and
remain there a little while. The room was all filled up with barrels,
except a small open space under my trap-door. This faced the door, the
upper part of which was of glass, and purposely left uncurtained, that the
curious might look in. The air of this place was close; but it was so much
better than the atmosphere of my cell, that I dreaded to return. I came
down as soon as it was light, and remained till eight o'clock, when people
began to be about, and there was danger that some one might come on the
piazza. I had tried various applications to bring warmth and feeling into
my limbs, but without avail. They were so numb and stiff that it was a
painful effort to move; and had my enemies come upon me during the first
mornings I tried to exercise them a little in the small unoccupied space of
the storeroom, it would have been impossible for me to have escaped. | Competition In Cunning Dr. Flint had not given up on finding Harriet. She decided that, since he thought she was in New York, that she should write a letter dated from that location. Her friend Peter was able to take the letters - she wrote one to her grandmother as well - to a person who was going to New York and would mail them on her behalf. This plan made her grandmother very nervous, as she felt sure "mischief would come of it. In the letter Harriet said she wanted replies directed to a street in Boston, as she did not live in New York but only went there occasionally. When Dr. Flint received the letters , he immediately came to Aunt Marthy's house and read aloud the one addressed to her. From her hiding place, Harriet heard the letter and realized that he had changed the words to make it sound like she wanted to come home. He wanted to send Phillip to go get her, but Phillip was nervous about Boston because they were very anti-slavery and a man looking for a runaway slave was sure to be mobbed. Dr. Flint said he had written the mayor of Boston to try and find information about Harriet. No answer came, and Harriet began to feel a bit easier about her situation. She even came out of her hiding place to exercise for short periods so she would not be crippled |
The visions of romance were over. Catherine was completely awakened.
Henry's address, short as it had been, had more thoroughly opened her
eyes to the extravagance of her late fancies than all their several
disappointments had done. Most grievously was she humbled. Most bitterly
did she cry. It was not only with herself that she was sunk--but with
Henry. Her folly, which now seemed even criminal, was all exposed to
him, and he must despise her forever. The liberty which her imagination
had dared to take with the character of his father--could he ever
forgive it? The absurdity of her curiosity and her fears--could they
ever be forgotten? She hated herself more than she could express. He
had--she thought he had, once or twice before this fatal morning, shown
something like affection for her. But now--in short, she made herself as
miserable as possible for about half an hour, went down when the
clock struck five, with a broken heart, and could scarcely give an
intelligible answer to Eleanor's inquiry if she was well. The formidable
Henry soon followed her into the room, and the only difference in his
behaviour to her was that he paid her rather more attention than usual.
Catherine had never wanted comfort more, and he looked as if he was
aware of it.
The evening wore away with no abatement of this soothing politeness; and
her spirits were gradually raised to a modest tranquillity. She did not
learn either to forget or defend the past; but she learned to hope that
it would never transpire farther, and that it might not cost her Henry's
entire regard. Her thoughts being still chiefly fixed on what she had
with such causeless terror felt and done, nothing could shortly be
clearer than that it had been all a voluntary, self-created delusion,
each trifling circumstance receiving importance from an imagination
resolved on alarm, and everything forced to bend to one purpose by
a mind which, before she entered the abbey, had been craving to be
frightened. She remembered with what feelings she had prepared for a
knowledge of Northanger. She saw that the infatuation had been created,
the mischief settled, long before her quitting Bath, and it seemed as if
the whole might be traced to the influence of that sort of reading which
she had there indulged.
Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were
the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human
nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked
for. Of the Alps and Pyrenees, with their pine forests and their vices,
they might give a faithful delineation; and Italy, Switzerland, and
the south of France might be as fruitful in horrors as they were there
represented. Catherine dared not doubt beyond her own country, and even
of that, if hard pressed, would have yielded the northern and western
extremities. But in the central part of England there was surely some
security for the existence even of a wife not beloved, in the laws of
the land, and the manners of the age. Murder was not tolerated, servants
were not slaves, and neither poison nor sleeping potions to be procured,
like rhubarb, from every druggist. Among the Alps and Pyrenees, perhaps,
there were no mixed characters. There, such as were not as spotless as
an angel might have the dispositions of a fiend. But in England it was
not so; among the English, she believed, in their hearts and habits,
there was a general though unequal mixture of good and bad. Upon this
conviction, she would not be surprised if even in Henry and Eleanor
Tilney, some slight imperfection might hereafter appear; and upon this
conviction she need not fear to acknowledge some actual specks in
the character of their father, who, though cleared from the grossly
injurious suspicions which she must ever blush to have entertained, she
did believe, upon serious consideration, to be not perfectly amiable.
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of
always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she
had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever; and
the lenient hand of time did much for her by insensible gradations in
the course of another day. Henry's astonishing generosity and nobleness
of conduct, in never alluding in the slightest way to what had passed,
was of the greatest assistance to her; and sooner than she could have
supposed it possible in the beginning of her distress, her spirits
became absolutely comfortable, and capable, as heretofore, of continual
improvement by anything he said. There were still some subjects, indeed,
under which she believed they must always tremble--the mention of a
chest or a cabinet, for instance--and she did not love the sight of
japan in any shape: but even she could allow that an occasional memento
of past folly, however painful, might not be without use.
The anxieties of common life began soon to succeed to the alarms of
romance. Her desire of hearing from Isabella grew every day greater.
She was quite impatient to know how the Bath world went on, and how the
rooms were attended; and especially was she anxious to be assured of
Isabella's having matched some fine netting-cotton, on which she had
left her intent; and of her continuing on the best terms with James. Her
only dependence for information of any kind was on Isabella. James had
protested against writing to her till his return to Oxford; and Mrs.
Allen had given her no hopes of a letter till she had got back to
Fullerton. But Isabella had promised and promised again; and when she
promised a thing, she was so scrupulous in performing it! This made it
so particularly strange!
For nine successive mornings, Catherine wondered over the repetition
of a disappointment, which each morning became more severe: but, on
the tenth, when she entered the breakfast-room, her first object was a
letter, held out by Henry's willing hand. She thanked him as heartily
as if he had written it himself. "'Tis only from James, however," as she
looked at the direction. She opened it; it was from Oxford; and to this
purpose:
"Dear Catherine,
"Though, God knows, with little inclination for writing, I think it my
duty to tell you that everything is at an end between Miss Thorpe and
me. I left her and Bath yesterday, never to see either again. I shall
not enter into particulars--they would only pain you more. You will soon
hear enough from another quarter to know where lies the blame; and I
hope will acquit your brother of everything but the folly of too easily
thinking his affection returned. Thank God! I am undeceived in time!
But it is a heavy blow! After my father's consent had been so kindly
given--but no more of this. She has made me miserable forever! Let me
soon hear from you, dear Catherine; you are my only friend; your love
I do build upon. I wish your visit at Northanger may be over before
Captain Tilney makes his engagement known, or you will be uncomfortably
circumstanced. Poor Thorpe is in town: I dread the sight of him; his
honest heart would feel so much. I have written to him and my father.
Her duplicity hurts me more than all; till the very last, if I reasoned
with her, she declared herself as much attached to me as ever, and
laughed at my fears. I am ashamed to think how long I bore with it;
but if ever man had reason to believe himself loved, I was that man. I
cannot understand even now what she would be at, for there could be no
need of my being played off to make her secure of Tilney. We parted
at last by mutual consent--happy for me had we never met! I can never
expect to know such another woman! Dearest Catherine, beware how you
give your heart.
"Believe me," &c.
Catherine had not read three lines before her sudden change of
countenance, and short exclamations of sorrowing wonder, declared her to
be receiving unpleasant news; and Henry, earnestly watching her through
the whole letter, saw plainly that it ended no better than it began. He
was prevented, however, from even looking his surprise by his father's
entrance. They went to breakfast directly; but Catherine could hardly
eat anything. Tears filled her eyes, and even ran down her cheeks as she
sat. The letter was one moment in her hand, then in her lap, and then in
her pocket; and she looked as if she knew not what she did. The general,
between his cocoa and his newspaper, had luckily no leisure for noticing
her; but to the other two her distress was equally visible. As soon
as she dared leave the table she hurried away to her own room; but the
housemaids were busy in it, and she was obliged to come down again.
She turned into the drawing-room for privacy, but Henry and Eleanor had
likewise retreated thither, and were at that moment deep in consultation
about her. She drew back, trying to beg their pardon, but was, with
gentle violence, forced to return; and the others withdrew, after
Eleanor had affectionately expressed a wish of being of use or comfort
to her.
After half an hour's free indulgence of grief and reflection, Catherine
felt equal to encountering her friends; but whether she should make
her distress known to them was another consideration. Perhaps, if
particularly questioned, she might just give an idea--just distantly
hint at it--but not more. To expose a friend, such a friend as Isabella
had been to her--and then their own brother so closely concerned in it!
She believed she must waive the subject altogether. Henry and Eleanor
were by themselves in the breakfast-room; and each, as she entered it,
looked at her anxiously. Catherine took her place at the table, and,
after a short silence, Eleanor said, "No bad news from Fullerton, I
hope? Mr. and Mrs. Morland--your brothers and sisters--I hope they are
none of them ill?"
"No, I thank you" (sighing as she spoke); "they are all very well. My
letter was from my brother at Oxford."
Nothing further was said for a few minutes; and then speaking through
her tears, she added, "I do not think I shall ever wish for a letter
again!"
"I am sorry," said Henry, closing the book he had just opened; "if I
had suspected the letter of containing anything unwelcome, I should have
given it with very different feelings."
"It contained something worse than anybody could suppose! Poor James is
so unhappy! You will soon know why."
"To have so kind-hearted, so affectionate a sister," replied Henry
warmly, "must be a comfort to him under any distress."
"I have one favour to beg," said Catherine, shortly afterwards, in an
agitated manner, "that, if your brother should be coming here, you will
give me notice of it, that I may go away."
"Our brother! Frederick!"
"Yes; I am sure I should be very sorry to leave you so soon, but
something has happened that would make it very dreadful for me to be in
the same house with Captain Tilney."
Eleanor's work was suspended while she gazed with increasing
astonishment; but Henry began to suspect the truth, and something, in
which Miss Thorpe's name was included, passed his lips.
"How quick you are!" cried Catherine: "you have guessed it, I declare!
And yet, when we talked about it in Bath, you little thought of its
ending so. Isabella--no wonder now I have not heard from her--Isabella
has deserted my brother, and is to marry yours! Could you have believed
there had been such inconstancy and fickleness, and everything that is
bad in the world?"
"I hope, so far as concerns my brother, you are misinformed. I hope
he has not had any material share in bringing on Mr. Morland's
disappointment. His marrying Miss Thorpe is not probable. I think you
must be deceived so far. I am very sorry for Mr. Morland--sorry that
anyone you love should be unhappy; but my surprise would be greater at
Frederick's marrying her than at any other part of the story."
"It is very true, however; you shall read James's letter yourself.
Stay--There is one part--" recollecting with a blush the last line.
"Will you take the trouble of reading to us the passages which concern
my brother?"
"No, read it yourself," cried Catherine, whose second thoughts were
clearer. "I do not know what I was thinking of" (blushing again that she
had blushed before); "James only means to give me good advice."
He gladly received the letter, and, having read it through, with close
attention, returned it saying, "Well, if it is to be so, I can only
say that I am sorry for it. Frederick will not be the first man who has
chosen a wife with less sense than his family expected. I do not envy
his situation, either as a lover or a son."
Miss Tilney, at Catherine's invitation, now read the letter likewise,
and, having expressed also her concern and surprise, began to inquire
into Miss Thorpe's connections and fortune.
"Her mother is a very good sort of woman," was Catherine's answer.
"What was her father?"
"A lawyer, I believe. They live at Putney."
"Are they a wealthy family?"
"No, not very. I do not believe Isabella has any fortune at all: but
that will not signify in your family. Your father is so very liberal!
He told me the other day that he only valued money as it allowed him to
promote the happiness of his children." The brother and sister looked
at each other. "But," said Eleanor, after a short pause, "would it be to
promote his happiness, to enable him to marry such a girl? She must be
an unprincipled one, or she could not have used your brother so. And how
strange an infatuation on Frederick's side! A girl who, before his eyes,
is violating an engagement voluntarily entered into with another man! Is
not it inconceivable, Henry? Frederick too, who always wore his heart so
proudly! Who found no woman good enough to be loved!"
"That is the most unpromising circumstance, the strongest presumption
against him. When I think of his past declarations, I give him up.
Moreover, I have too good an opinion of Miss Thorpe's prudence to
suppose that she would part with one gentleman before the other
was secured. It is all over with Frederick indeed! He is a deceased
man--defunct in understanding. Prepare for your sister-in-law, Eleanor,
and such a sister-in-law as you must delight in! Open, candid, artless,
guileless, with affections strong but simple, forming no pretensions,
and knowing no disguise."
"Such a sister-in-law, Henry, I should delight in," said Eleanor with a
smile.
"But perhaps," observed Catherine, "though she has behaved so ill by our
family, she may behave better by yours. Now she has really got the man
she likes, she may be constant."
"Indeed I am afraid she will," replied Henry; "I am afraid she will
be very constant, unless a baronet should come in her way; that is
Frederick's only chance. I will get the Bath paper, and look over the
arrivals."
"You think it is all for ambition, then? And, upon my word, there are
some things that seem very like it. I cannot forget that, when she first
knew what my father would do for them, she seemed quite disappointed
that it was not more. I never was so deceived in anyone's character in
my life before."
"Among all the great variety that you have known and studied."
"My own disappointment and loss in her is very great; but, as for poor
James, I suppose he will hardly ever recover it."
"Your brother is certainly very much to be pitied at present; but we
must not, in our concern for his sufferings, undervalue yours. You feel,
I suppose, that in losing Isabella, you lose half yourself: you feel a
void in your heart which nothing else can occupy. Society is becoming
irksome; and as for the amusements in which you were wont to share at
Bath, the very idea of them without her is abhorrent. You would not,
for instance, now go to a ball for the world. You feel that you have no
longer any friend to whom you can speak with unreserve, on whose regard
you can place dependence, or whose counsel, in any difficulty, you could
rely on. You feel all this?"
"No," said Catherine, after a few moments' reflection, "I do not--ought
I? To say the truth, though I am hurt and grieved, that I cannot still
love her, that I am never to hear from her, perhaps never to see her
again, I do not feel so very, very much afflicted as one would have
thought."
"You feel, as you always do, what is most to the credit of human nature.
Such feelings ought to be investigated, that they may know themselves."
Catherine, by some chance or other, found her spirits so very much
relieved by this conversation that she could not regret her being led
on, though so unaccountably, to mention the circumstance which had
produced it. | Catherine has had an epiphany and realizes how she let her romantic imagination run away from her. Catherine is very embarrassed but Henry is more attentive than usual towards her that evening, realizing that she is upset and ashamed of herself. Catherine starts to recover and decides that she's learned a valuable lesson about using common sense and reason instead of relying on romantic imagination. She traces her problems back to the Gothic literature she read in Bath and decides that it was a bad influence on her. She decides that England is a civilized country where Gothic horrors do not happen. Those other European countries are still suspect, though. Catherine gets back to the real world and begins to worry about James and Isabella, since she's has no news from them. Nine days pass. Catherine finally receives a letter from James. James writes that he and Isabella have broken up and hints that Isabella has run off with Captain Tilney. James cautions Catherine about giving her heart away too freely, since he learned the hard way with the duplicitous Isabella. Catherine is horrified by this news and starts crying at the breakfast table. The General is reading the newspaper and doesn't notice. Henry and Eleanor are concerned, but give Catherine some time to herself before they ask what the matter is. Catherine tells them what happened after Henry wagers a guess and lets him read the letter. Henry and Eleanor are totally confused and can't believe that their brother would actually involve himself with Isabella. Henry says that Captain Tilney has behaved like a moron and he's done for now. Both the Tilney siblings are worried about their father's reaction to this scandal. Catherine exclaims that she can't believe how deceived she was by Isabella, but she's comforted by the Tilneys and takes this news in stride. |
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the
good will of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was
found to be intolerable and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a
wish of being better acquainted with _them_, was expressed towards the
two eldest. By Jane this attention was received with the greatest
pleasure; but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of
every body, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them;
though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in
all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was
generally evident whenever they met, that he _did_ admire her; and to
_her_ it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference
which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a
way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it
was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane
united with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a
uniform cheerfulness of manner, which would guard her from the
suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss
Lucas.
"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose
on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be
so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill
from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and
it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the
dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every
attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all
_begin_ freely--a slight preference is natural enough; but there are
very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without
encouragement. In nine cases out of ten, a woman had better shew _more_
affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he
may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."
"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If _I_ can
perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton indeed not to
discover it too."
"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."
"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal
it, he must find it out."
"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But though Bingley and Jane
meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and as they
always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that
every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should
therefore make the most of every half hour in which she can command his
attention. When she is secure of him, there will be leisure for falling
in love as much as she chuses."
"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in
question but the desire of being well married; and if I were determined
to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But
these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she
cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard, nor of its
reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four
dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house,
and has since dined in company with him four times. This is not quite
enough to make her understand his character."
"Not as you represent it. Had she merely _dined_ with him, she might
only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must
remember that four evenings have been also spent together--and four
evenings may do a great deal."
"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both
like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other
leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."
"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if
she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a
chance of happiness, as if she were to be studying his character for a
twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If
the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other, or
ever so similar before-hand, it does not advance their felicity in the
least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to
have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as
possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your
life."
"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not
sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself."
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth
was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some
interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely
allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the
ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no
sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she had
hardly a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered
uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To
this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had
detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry
in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and
pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those
of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of
this she was perfectly unaware;--to her he was only the man who made
himself agreeable no where, and who had not thought her handsome enough
to dance with.
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing
with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so
drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were
assembled.
"What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my
conversation with Colonel Forster?"
"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."
"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see
what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by
being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have
any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such
a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she
turned to him and said,
"Did not you think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well
just now, when I was teazing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at
Meryton?"
"With great energy;--but it is a subject which always makes a lady
energetic."
"You are severe on us."
"It will be _her_ turn soon to be teazed," said Miss Lucas. "I am going
to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."
"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!--always wanting me
to play and sing before any body and every body!--If my vanity had taken
a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would
really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of
hearing the very best performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however,
she added, "Very well; if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing
at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which every body here is of
course familiar with--'Keep your breath to cool your porridge,'--and I
shall keep mine to swell my song."
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song
or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she
would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her
sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in
the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always
impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her
application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited
manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she
had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with
much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the
end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by
Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who with
some of the Lucases and two or three officers joined eagerly in dancing
at one end of the room.
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of
passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too
much engrossed by his own thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas
was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began.
"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy!--There
is nothing like dancing after all.--I consider it as one of the first
refinements of polished societies."
"Certainly, Sir;--and it has the advantage also of being in vogue
amongst the less polished societies of the world.--Every savage can
dance."
Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully;" he
continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group;--"and I doubt
not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."
"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, Sir."
"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do
you often dance at St. James's?"
"Never, sir."
"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"
"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it."
"You have a house in town, I conclude?"
Mr. Darcy bowed.
"I had once some thoughts of fixing in town myself--for I am fond of
superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of
London would agree with Lady Lucas."
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to
make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was
struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to
her,
"My dear Miss Eliza, why are not you dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow
me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You
cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you."
And taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though
extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly
drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,
"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you
not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."
Mr. Darcy with grave propriety requested to be allowed the honour of her
hand; but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all
shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me
the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the
amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us
for one half hour."
"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.
"He is indeed--but considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we
cannot wonder at his complaisance; for who would object to such a
partner?"
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not
injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some
complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley,
"I can guess the subject of your reverie."
"I should imagine not."
"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings
in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion.
I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the
nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would
I give to hear your strictures on them!"
"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more
agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure
which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he
would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity,
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment.
How long has she been such a favourite?--and pray when am I to wish you
joy?"
"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's
imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love
to matrimony in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."
"Nay, if you are so serious about it, I shall consider the matter as
absolutely settled. You will have a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and
of course she will be always at Pemberley with you."
He listened to her with perfect indifference, while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner, and as his composure convinced her
that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two
thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed in
default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's
fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply
the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and
had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Philips, who had been a clerk to their
father, and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in
London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted
thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and
to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family,
Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions;
their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing
better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning
hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news
the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with
news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the
neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the
head quarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Philips were now productive of the most interesting
intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the
officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret,
and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Philips
visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a source of felicity
unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr.
Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their
mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of
an ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr.
Bennet coolly observed,
"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two
of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but
I am now convinced."
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect
indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and
her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the
next morning to London.
"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so
ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly
of any body's children, it should not be of my own however."
"If my children are silly I must hope to be always sensible of it."
"Yes--but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."
"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I
had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must
so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly
foolish."
"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of
their father and mother.--When they get to our age I dare say they will
not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I
liked a red coat myself very well--and indeed so I do still at my heart;
and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should
want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel
Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his
regimentals."
"Mama," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain
Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first
came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a
note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited
for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was
eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
"Well, Jane, who is it from? what is it about? what does he say? Well,
Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."
"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.
"My dear Friend,
"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and
me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our
lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never
end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on the receipt of
this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.
Yours ever,
"CAROLINE BINGLEY."
"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of
_that_."
"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."
"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.
"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to
rain; and then you must stay all night."
"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that
they would not offer to send her home."
"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton;
and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."
"I had much rather go in the coach."
"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are
wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are not they?"
"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."
"But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose
will be answered."
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses
were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her
mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad
day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it
rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was
delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission;
Jane certainly could not come back.
"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet, more than
once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next
morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her
contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield
brought the following note for Elizabeth:
"My dearest Lizzy,
"I FIND myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be
imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will
not hear of my returning home till I am better. They insist also on
my seeing Mr. Jones--therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear
of his having been to me--and excepting a sore-throat and head-ache
there is not much the matter with me.
"Yours, &c."
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note
aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness, if she
should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of
Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."
"Oh! I am not at all afraid of her dying. People do not die of little
trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays
there, it is all very well. I would go and see her, if I could have the
carriage."
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though
the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horse-woman, walking
was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a
thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get
there."
"I shall be very fit to see Jane--which is all I want."
"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for the
horses?"
"No, indeed. I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing,
when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner."
"I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary, "but every
impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion,
exertion should always be in proportion to what is required."
"We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and
Lydia.--Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set
off together.
"If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along, "perhaps we may
see something of Captain Carter before he goes."
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one
of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing
field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing
over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within
view of the house, with weary ancles, dirty stockings, and a face
glowing with the warmth of exercise.
She was shewn into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were
assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of
surprise.--That she should have walked three miles so early in the day,
in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs.
Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her
in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them;
and in their brother's manners there was something better than
politeness; there was good humour and kindness.--Mr. Darcy said very
little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between
admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion,
and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The
latter was thinking only of his breakfast.
Her enquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss
Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish and not well
enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her
immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving
alarm or inconvenience, from expressing in her note how much she longed
for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal,
however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together,
could attempt little beside expressions of gratitude for the
extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended
her.
When breakfast was over, they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth
began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and
solicitude they shewed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having
examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a
violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it;
advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice
was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head
ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment, nor were
the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had in fact
nothing to do elsewhere.
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go; and very
unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only
wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern
in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer
of the chaise into an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the
present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was
dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay, and bring
back a supply of clothes.
At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half past six
Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil enquiries which then
poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the
much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very
favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing
this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how
shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked
being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their
indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them, restored
Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her original dislike.
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could
regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his
attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling
herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the
others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was
engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr.
Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to
eat, drink, and play at cards, who when he found her prefer a plain dish
to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley
began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were
pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence;
she had no conversation, no style, no taste, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst
thought the same, and added,
"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent
walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really
looked almost wild."
"She did indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very
nonsensical to come at all! Why must _she_ be scampering about the
country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair so untidy, so blowsy!"
"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep
in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to
hide it, not doing its office."
"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was
all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably
well, when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat
quite escaped my notice."
"_You_ observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am
inclined to think that you would not wish to see _your sister_ make such
an exhibition."
"Certainly not."
"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is,
above her ancles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! what could she mean by
it? It seems to me to shew an abominable sort of conceited independence,
a most country town indifference to decorum."
"It shews an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said
Bingley.
"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley, in a half whisper,
"that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine
eyes."
"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise."--A
short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again.
"I have an excessive regard for Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet
girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such
a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no
chance of it."
"I think I have heard you say, that their uncle is an attorney in
Meryton."
"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."
"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
"If they had uncles enough to fill _all_ Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it
would not make them one jot less agreeable."
"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any
consideration in the world," replied Darcy.
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their
hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of
their dear friend's vulgar relations.
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they repaired to her room on
leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee.
She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till
late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her asleep, and
when it appeared to her rather right than pleasant that she should go
down stairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole
party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting
them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the
excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay
below with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular."
"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great
reader and has no pleasure in anything else."
"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am
_not_ a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."
"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and
I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well."
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards a table
where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her
others; all that his library afforded.
"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own
credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more
than I ever look into."
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those
in the room.
"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left
so small a collection of books.--What a delightful library you have at
Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"
"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many
generations."
"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying
books."
"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as
these."
"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of
that noble place. Charles, when you build _your_ house, I wish it may be
half as delightful as Pemberley."
"I wish it may."
"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that
neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a
finer county in England than Derbyshire."
"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."
"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."
"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get
Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."
Elizabeth was so much caught by what passed, as to leave her very little
attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near
the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest
sister, to observe the game.
"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will
she be as tall as I am?"
"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or
rather taller."
"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me
so much. Such a countenance, such manners! and so extremely
accomplished for her age! Her performance on the piano-forte is
exquisite."
"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience
to be so very accomplished, as they all are."
"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"
"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover skreens and net
purses. I scarcely know any one who cannot do all this, and I am sure I
never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being
informed that she was very accomplished."
"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has
too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no
otherwise than by netting a purse, or covering a skreen. But I am very
far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I
cannot boast of knowing more than half a dozen, in the whole range of my
acquaintance, that are really accomplished."
"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.
"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your
idea of an accomplished woman."
"Yes; I do comprehend a great deal in it."
"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really
esteemed accomplished, who does not greatly surpass what is usually met
with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing,
dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all
this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of
walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word
will be but half deserved."
"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet
add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by
extensive reading."
"I am no longer surprised at your knowing _only_ six accomplished women.
I rather wonder now at your knowing _any_."
"Are you so severe upon your own sex, as to doubt the possibility of all
this?"
"_I_ never saw such a woman. _I_ never saw such capacity, and taste, and
application, and elegance, as you describe, united."
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her
implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who
answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with
bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all
conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the
room.
"Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is
one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other
sex, by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it
succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."
"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed,
"there is meanness in _all_ the arts which ladies sometimes condescend
to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is
despicable."
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to
continue the subject.
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and
that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones's being sent for
immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could
be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most
eminent physicians. This, she would not hear of; but she was not so
unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled
that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet
were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters
declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness,
however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to
his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every
possible attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the
morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the
enquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid,
and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his
sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a
note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her
own judgment of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and
its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her
two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been
very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was
not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her
restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She
would not listen therefore to her daughter's proposal of being carried
home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think
it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss
Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughters all
attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes
that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
"Indeed I have, Sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be
moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass
a little longer on your kindness."
"Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am
sure, will not hear of her removal."
"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility,
"that Miss Bennet shall receive every possible attention while she
remains with us."
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgments.
"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not
know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a
vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is
always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest
temper I ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to
_her_. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect
over that gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is
equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry I
hope, though you have but a short lease."
"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I
should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five
minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here."
"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.
"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.
"Oh! yes--I understand you perfectly."
"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen
through I am afraid is pitiful."
"That is as it happens. It does not necessarily follow that a deep,
intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."
"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in
the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."
"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that you were a
studier of character. It must be an amusing study."
"Yes; but intricate characters are the _most_ amusing. They have at
least that advantage."
"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but few subjects for
such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined
and unvarying society."
"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be
observed in them for ever."
"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a
country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of _that_
going on in the country as in town."
Every body was surprised; and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment,
turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete
victory over him, continued her triumph.
"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country for
my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal
pleasanter, is not it, Mr. Bingley?"
"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and
when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their
advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."
"Aye--that is because you have the right disposition. But that
gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing
at all."
"Indeed, Mama, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her
mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there were not
such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in town, which
you must acknowledge to be true."
"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with
many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few
neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four and twenty families."
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his
countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eye towards
Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of
saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if
Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since _her_ coming away.
"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir
William is, Mr. Bingley--is not he? so much the man of fashion! so
genteel and so easy!--He has always something to say to every
body.--_That_ is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy
themselves very important and never open their mouths, quite mistake the
matter."
"Did Charlotte dine with you?"
"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince pies. For
my part, Mr. Bingley, _I_ always keep servants that can do their own
work; _my_ daughters are brought up differently. But every body is to
judge for themselves, and the Lucases are very good sort of girls, I
assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that _I_ think
Charlotte so _very_ plain--but then she is our particular friend."
"She seems a very pleasant young woman," said Bingley.
"Oh! dear, yes;--but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself
has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast
of my own child, but to be sure, Jane--one does not often see any body
better looking. It is what every body says. I do not trust my own
partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a gentleman at my
brother Gardiner's in town, so much in love with her, that my
sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away.
But however he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he
wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."
"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has
been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first
discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"
"I have been used to consider poetry as the _food_ of love," said Darcy.
"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Every thing nourishes what is
strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I
am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth
tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to
speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs.
Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to
Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was
unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be
civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part
indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and
soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of
her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to
each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the
youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming
into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion
and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose
affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high
animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
attentions of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners and her own
easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very
equal therefore to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and
abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most
shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this
sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear.
"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when
your sister is recovered, you shall if you please name the very day of
the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing while she is ill."
Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes--it would be much better to
wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter
would be at Meryton again. And when you have given _your_ ball," she
added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel
Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not."
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned
instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the
remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however,
could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of _her_, in spite of
all Miss Bingley's witticisms on _fine eyes_. | Jane and Elizabeth begin spending more time with the residents of Netherfield. Caroline Bingley and Mrs. Hurst seem fond of Jane, and the attraction between Mr. Bingley and Jane continues to grow. Meanwhile, Elizabeth finds Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst to be self-important but approves of their brother and the relationship that appears to be developing between him and Jane. As for Mr. Darcy, Elizabeth continues to view him as proud and reserved. She is unaware that his original assessment of her has changed and that he has begun to be unwillingly drawn to her. When he mentions Elizabeth's "fine eyes" to Miss Bingley, Miss Bingley jealously teases him about wanting to marry Elizabeth. One morning, Jane receives a request from Caroline Bingley to come to Netherfield for dinner. Observing that it looks like rain, Mrs. Bennet sends Jane to Netherfield on horseback rather than in a carriage so that she will have to spend the night at Netherfield rather than ride home in the rain. The ploy works, and the next morning, the Bennets receive a note from Jane informing them that she is ill from getting soaked as she rode to Netherfield the previous day and will have to remain at Netherfield until she is better. Although Mrs. Bennet is satisfied at the thought of Jane spending more time in Mr. Bingley's home, Elizabeth is concerned and decides to walk the three miles to Netherfield to see for herself how her sister is faring. When Elizabeth reaches Netherfield, she finds Jane to be sicker than her letter implied, and Miss Bingley reluctantly invites her to stay with Jane. Although Elizabeth spends most of her time at Netherfield with Jane, she eats dinner with the others and joins them in the drawing room later in the evening. While Elizabeth is in their company, Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst are polite to her, but when she is absent, the two women take delight in criticizing her relatives and the fact that she walked all the way to Netherfield to see Jane. Despite the ladies' disparagement of Elizabeth, Mr. Bingley and Mr. Darcy voice their approval of her. The next day Mrs. Bennet, Kitty, and Lydia visit Netherfield to check on Jane. While they are there, Elizabeth is embarrassed by the gauche behavior of her family. Mrs. Bennet fawns over Mr. Bingley while simultaneously being blatantly rude to Mr. Darcy, while Lydia is overly forward with Mr. Bingley, reminding him that he promised to give a ball. Mr. Bingley good-naturedly agrees that he will give a ball as soon as Jane is better. |
For a year Jo and her Professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met
occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the
price of paper was accounted for, Laurie said. The second year began
rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and Aunt March
died suddenly. But when their first sorrow was over--for they loved
the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue--they found they had cause
for rejoicing, for she had left Plumfield to Jo, which made all sorts
of joyful things possible.
"It's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course
you intend to sell it," said Laurie, as they were all talking the
matter over some weeks later.
"No, I don't," was Jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle,
whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
"You don't mean to live there?"
"Yes, I do."
"But, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of
money to keep it in order. The garden and orchard alone need two or
three men, and farming isn't in Bhaer's line, I take it."
"He'll try his hand at it there, if I propose it."
"And you expect to live on the produce of the place? Well, that sounds
paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
"The crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and Jo laughed.
"Of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
"Boys. I want to open a school for little lads--a good, happy,
homelike school, with me to take care of them and Fritz to teach them."
"That's a truly Joian plan for you! Isn't that just like her?" cried
Laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
"I like it," said Mrs. March decidedly.
"So do I," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for
trying the Socratic method of education on modern youth.
"It will be an immense care for Jo," said Meg, stroking the head of her
one all-absorbing son.
"Jo can do it, and be happy in it. It's a splendid idea. Tell us all
about it," cried Mr. Laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers
a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.
"I knew you'd stand by me, sir. Amy does too--I see it in her eyes,
though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she
speaks. Now, my dear people," continued Jo earnestly, "just understand
that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan. Before
my Fritz came, I used to think how, when I'd made my fortune, and no
one needed me at home, I'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor,
forlorn little lads who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and
make life jolly for them before it was too late. I see so many going
to ruin for want of help at the right minute, I love so to do anything
for them, I seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their
troubles, and oh, I should so like to be a mother to them!"
Mrs. March held out her hand to Jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in
her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not
seen for a long while.
"I told my plan to Fritz once, and he said it was just what he would
like, and agreed to try it when we got rich. Bless his dear heart,
he's been doing it all his life--helping poor boys, I mean, not getting
rich, that he'll never be. Money doesn't stay in his pocket long
enough to lay up any. But now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved
me better than I ever deserved, I'm rich, at least I feel so, and we
can live at Plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school.
It's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture
strong and plain. There's plenty of room for dozens inside, and
splendid grounds outside. They could help in the garden and orchard.
Such work is healthy, isn't it, sir? Then Fritz could train and teach
in his own way, and Father will help him. I can feed and nurse and pet
and scold them, and Mother will be my stand-by. I've always longed for
lots of boys, and never had enough, now I can fill the house full and
revel in the little dears to my heart's content. Think what luxury--
Plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me."
As Jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off
into a gale of merriment, and Mr. Laurence laughed till they thought
he'd have an apoplectic fit.
"I don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be
heard. "Nothing could be more natural and proper than for my Professor
to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate."
"She is putting on airs already," said Laurie, who regarded the idea in
the light of a capital joke. "But may I inquire how you intend to
support the establishment? If all the pupils are little ragamuffins,
I'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, Mrs.
Bhaer."
"Now don't be a wet-blanket, Teddy. Of course I shall have rich
pupils, also--perhaps begin with such altogether. Then, when I've got
a start, I can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish. Rich
people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor. I've
seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones
pushed forward, when it's real cruelty. Some are naughty through
mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers. Besides, the best
have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they
need most patience and kindness. People laugh at them, and hustle them
about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at
once from pretty children into fine young men. They don't complain
much--plucky little souls--but they feel it. I've been through
something of it, and I know all about it. I've a special interest in
such young bears, and like to show them that I see the warm, honest,
well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the
topsy-turvy heads. I've had experience, too, for haven't I brought up
one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"
"I'll testify that you tried to do it," said Laurie with a grateful
look.
"And I've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady,
sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying
up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars. But you are not
merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them
yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times.
I am proud of you, Teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone
feels it, though you won't let them say so. Yes, and when I have my
flock, I'll just point to you, and say 'There's your model, my lads'."
Poor Laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he was,
something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise
made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
"I say, Jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish
way. "You have all done more for me than I can ever thank you for,
except by doing my best not to disappoint you. You have rather cast me
off lately, Jo, but I've had the best of help, nevertheless. So, if
I've got on at all, you may thank these two for it," and he laid one
hand gently on his grandfather's head, and the other on Amy's golden
one, for the three were never far apart.
"I do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the
world!" burst out Jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind
just then. "When I have one of my own, I hope it will be as happy as
the three I know and love the best. If John and my Fritz were only
here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more
quietly. And that night when she went to her room after a blissful
evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of
happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed
always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of Beth.
It was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen
in an unusually rapid and delightful manner. Almost before she knew
where she was, Jo found herself married and settled at Plumfield. Then
a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished
surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for Mr. Laurence was
continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the
Bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for
its support. In this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud Jo,
and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.
Of course it was uphill work at first, and Jo made queer mistakes, but
the wise Professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most
rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end. How Jo did enjoy her
'wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear Aunt March would have lamented
had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered
Plumfield overrun with Toms, Dicks, and Harrys! There was a sort of
poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the
terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely
on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved,
and played cricket in the big field where the irritable 'cow with a
crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed. It
became a sort of boys' paradise, and Laurie suggested that it should be
called the 'Bhaer-garten', as a compliment to its master and
appropriate to its inhabitants.
It never was a fashionable school, and the Professor did not lay up a
fortune, but it was just what Jo intended it to be--'a happy, homelike
place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness'. Every room
in the big house was soon full. Every little plot in the garden soon
had its owner. A regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet
animals were allowed. And three times a day, Jo smiled at her Fritz
from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy
young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding
words, and grateful hearts, full of love for 'Mother Bhaer'. She had
boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels,
by any means, and some of them caused both Professor and Professorin
much trouble and anxiety. But her faith in the good spot which exists
in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little
ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal
boy could hold out long with Father Bhaer shining on him as
benevolently as the sun, and Mother Bhaer forgiving him seventy times
seven. Very precious to Jo was the friendship of the lads, their
penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching
little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even
their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.
There were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys,
boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a
merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was
welcome to the 'Bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his
admission would ruin the school.
Yes, Jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much
anxiety, and a perpetual racket. She enjoyed it heartily and found the
applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for
now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers
and admirers. As the years went on, two little lads of her own came to
increase her happiness--Rob, named for Grandpa, and Teddy, a
happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny
temper as well as his mother's lively spirit. How they ever grew up
alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and
aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough
nurses loved and served them well.
There were a great many holidays at Plumfield, and one of the most
delightful was the yearly apple-picking. For then the Marches,
Laurences, Brookes and Bhaers turned out in full force and made a day
of it. Five years after Jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals
occurred, a mellow October day, when the air was full of an
exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance
healthily in the veins. The old orchard wore its holiday attire.
Goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls. Grasshoppers skipped
briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a
feast. Squirrels were busy with their small harvesting. Birds
twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree
stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the
first shake. Everybody was there. Everybody laughed and sang, climbed
up and tumbled down. Everybody declared that there never had been such
a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave
themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there
were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.
Mr. March strolled placidly about, quoting Tusser, Cowley, and
Columella to Mr. Laurence, while enjoying...
The gentle apple's winey juice.
The Professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout
Teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made
a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the
way of ground and lofty tumbling. Laurie devoted himself to the little
ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took Daisy up among
the bird's nests, and kept adventurous Rob from breaking his neck.
Mrs. March and Meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of Pomonas,
sorting the contributions that kept pouring in, while Amy with a
beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the various groups,
and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little
crutch beside him.
Jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned
up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her
arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up. Little Teddy
bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and Jo never
felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad,
galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by
his indulgent papa, who labored under the Germanic delusion that babies
could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and
their own small shoes. She knew that little Ted would turn up again in
time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back
with a hearty welcome, for Jo loved her babies tenderly.
At four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while
the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises. Then Jo and
Meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the
grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day.
The land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for
the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of
refreshment as they liked--freedom being the sauce best beloved by the
boyish soul. They availed themselves of the rare privilege to the
fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk
while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by
eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over
the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of
bird. The little girls had a private tea party, and Ted roved among
the edibles at his own sweet will.
When no one could eat any more, the Professor proposed the first
regular toast, which was always drunk at such times--"Aunt March, God
bless her!" A toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot
how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been
taught to keep her memory green.
"Now, Grandma's sixtieth birthday! Long life to her, with three times
three!"
That was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering
once begun, it was hard to stop it. Everybody's health was proposed,
from Mr. Laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the
astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search
of its young master. Demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented
the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were
transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow. Funny presents,
some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were
ornaments to Grandma's--for the children's gifts were all their own.
Every stitch Daisy's patient little fingers had put into the
handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to Mrs. March.
Demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut,
Rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was
soothing, and no page of the costly book Amy's child gave her was so
fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words--"To dear
Grandma, from her little Beth."
During the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when
Mrs. March had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while
Teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the Professor suddenly began to
sing. Then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and
from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys
sang with all their hearts the little song that Jo had written, Laurie
set to music, and the Professor trained his lads to give with the best
effect. This was something altogether new, and it proved a grand
success, for Mrs. March couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on
shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall Franz
and Emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.
After this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving Mrs. March and
her daughters under the festival tree.
"I don't think I ever ought to call myself 'unlucky Jo' again, when my
greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said Mrs. Bhaer,
taking Teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was
rapturously churning.
"And yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long
ago. Do you remember our castles in the air?" asked Amy, smiling as
she watched Laurie and John playing cricket with the boys.
"Dear fellows! It does my heart good to see them forget business and
frolic for a day," answered Jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all
mankind. "Yes, I remember, but the life I wanted then seems selfish,
lonely, and cold to me now. I haven't given up the hope that I may
write a good book yet, but I can wait, and I'm sure it will be all the
better for such experiences and illustrations as these," and Jo pointed
from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the
Professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one
of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her
mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in
her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face
which never could grow old to them.
"My castle was the most nearly realized of all. I asked for splendid
things, to be sure, but in my heart I knew I should be satisfied, if I
had a little home, and John, and some dear children like these. I've
got them all, thank God, and am the happiest woman in the world," and
Meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender
and devout content.
"My castle is very different from what I planned, but I would not alter
it, though, like Jo, I don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or
confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty. I've
begun to model a figure of baby, and Laurie says it is the best thing
I've ever done. I think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so
that, whatever happens, I may at least keep the image of my little
angel."
As Amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping
child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little
creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over Amy's
sunshine. This cross was doing much for both father and mother, for
one love and sorrow bound them closely together. Amy's nature was
growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender. Laurie was growing more
serious, strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth,
good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and
sorrow, from the most blessed for ...
Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and sad and dreary.
"She is growing better, I am sure of it, my dear. Don't despond, but
hope and keep happy," said Mrs. March, as tenderhearted Daisy stooped
from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale
one.
"I never ought to, while I have you to cheer me up, Marmee, and Laurie
to take more than half of every burden," replied Amy warmly. "He never
lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so
devoted to Beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that I can't
love him enough. So, in spite of my one cross, I can say with Meg,
'Thank God, I'm a happy woman.'"
"There's no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that I'm far
happier than I deserve," added Jo, glancing from her good husband to
her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her. "Fritz is
getting gray and stout. I'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am
thirty. We never shall be rich, and Plumfield may burn up any night,
for that incorrigible Tommy Bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under
the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already.
But in spite of these unromantic facts, I have nothing to complain of,
and never was so jolly in my life. Excuse the remark, but living among
boys, I can't help using their expressions now and then."
"Yes, Jo, I think your harvest will be a good one," began Mrs. March,
frightening away a big black cricket that was staring Teddy out of
countenance.
"Not half so good as yours, Mother. Here it is, and we never can thank
you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried Jo,
with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.
"I hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said Amy
softly.
"A large sheaf, but I know there's room in your heart for it, Marmee
dear," added Meg's tender voice.
Touched to the heart, Mrs. March could only stretch out her arms, as if
to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and
voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility...
"Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a
greater happiness than this!" | Harvest Time Oh, my girls, however long you may live, I never can wish you a greater happiness than this. Jo and Bhaer spend a year apart, pining for each other. Aunt March then dies unexpectedly, leaving her house, Plumfield, to Jo. Jo decides to turn it into a school for rich and poor boys alike. The family decides that it is a good idea. After several years, the school is up and running successfully. Mr. Laurence helps by paying some tuition for poor boys. In October, they have an apple-picking festival. The Marches, Brookes, Laurences, and Bhaers all arrive for a day of fun. They also all celebrate Marmee's sixtieth birthday. All of the sisters revel in their good fortune and count their blessings, congratulating Marmee on such a successful life. Jo says that she still hopes to write another novel but that she is very happy. Amy frets that her daughter, Beth, is ill, but plans to enjoy her for as long as she has her. Everyone expresses gratitude for the wonderful life they all share. |
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of
Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned
in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through
a beautiful wood, stretching over a wide extent.
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for
half a mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable
eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by
Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which
the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome, stone
building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high
woody hills;--and in front, a stream of some natural importance was
swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks
were neither formal, nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She
had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural
beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were
all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt, that
to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehensions of
meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been
mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the
hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to
wonder at her being where she was.
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking, elderly woman, much less
fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They
followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well-proportioned
room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went
to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, from
which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the
distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was
good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered
on its banks, and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace
it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms, these objects were
taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to
be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable
to the fortune of their proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration
of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of
splendor, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With
these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of
viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and
welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt.--But no,"--recollecting
herself,--"that could never be: my uncle and aunt would have been lost
to me: I should not have been allowed to invite them."
This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something like regret.
She longed to enquire of the housekeeper, whether her master were really
absent, but had not courage for it. At length, however, the question was
asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds
replied, that he was, adding, "but we expect him to-morrow, with a
large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own
journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached, and saw
the likeness of Mr. Wickham suspended, amongst several other miniatures,
over the mantle-piece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it.
The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was the picture of a
young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been
brought up by him at his own expence.--"He is now gone into the army,"
she added, "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not
return it.
"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures,
"is my master--and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the
other--about eight years ago."
"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner,
looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell
us whether it is like or not."
Mrs. Reynolds's respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this
intimation of her knowing her master.
"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
Elizabeth coloured, and said--"A little."
"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, Ma'am?"
"Yes, very handsome."
"I am sure _I_ know none so handsome; but in the gallery up stairs you
will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late
master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to
be then. He was very fond of them."
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn
when she was only eight years old.
"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mr. Gardiner.
"Oh! yes--the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so
accomplished!--She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a
new instrument just come down for her--a present from my master; she
comes here to-morrow with him."
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were easy and pleasant, encouraged her
communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either
from pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her
master and his sister.
"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
"Not so much as I could wish, Sir; but I dare say he may spend half his
time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."
"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
"Yes, Sir; but I do not know when _that_ will be. I do not know who is
good enough for him."
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is
very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
"I say no more than the truth, and what every body will say that knows
him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far;
and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added,
"I have never had a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him
ever since he was four years old."
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her
ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man, had been her firmest
opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more,
and was grateful to her uncle for saying,
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in
having such a master."
"Yes, Sir, I know I am. If I was to go through the world, I could not
meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are
good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he
was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted, boy in the
world."
Elizabeth almost stared at her.--"Can this be Mr. Darcy!" thought she.
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
"Yes, Ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him--just
as affable to the poor."
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs.
Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subject
of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the
furniture, in vain. Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family
prejudice, to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her
master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his
many merits, as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever
lived. Not like the wild young men now-a-days, who think of nothing but
themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but what will
give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never
saw any thing of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle
away like other young men."
"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt, as they walked, "is not
quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
"Perhaps we might be deceived."
"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
On reaching the spacious lobby above, they were shewn into a very
pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and
lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but
just done, to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the
room, when last at Pemberley.
"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards
one of the windows.
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter
the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added.--"Whatever
can give his sister any pleasure, is sure to be done in a moment. There
is nothing he would not do for her."
The picture gallery, and two or three of the principal bed-rooms, were
all that remained to be shewn. In the former were many good paintings;
but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already
visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss
Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and
also more intelligible.
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have
little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked on in quest
of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it
arrested her--and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, with
such a smile over the face, as she remembered to have sometimes seen,
when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture in
earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the
gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them, that it had been taken in his
father's life time.
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle
sensation towards the original, than she had ever felt in the height of
their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds
was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise
of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she
considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!--How
much of pleasure or pain it was in his power to bestow!--How much of
good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought
forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she
stood before the canvas, on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes
upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of
gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and
softened its impropriety of expression.
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen,
they returned down stairs, and taking leave of the housekeeper, were
consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall door.
As they walked across the lawn towards the river, Elizabeth turned back
to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was
conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself
suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his
appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes
instantly met, and the cheeks of each were overspread with the deepest
blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immoveable from
surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party,
and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least
of perfect civility.
She had instinctively turned away; but, stopping on his approach,
received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be
overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture
they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two
that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on
beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little
aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused,
scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she
returned to his civil enquiries after her family. Amazed at the
alteration in his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he
uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the
impropriety of her being found there, recurring to her mind, the few
minutes in which they continued together, were some of the most
uncomfortable of her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he
spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his
enquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her stay
in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the
distraction of his thoughts.
At length, every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few
moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took
leave.
The others then joined her, and expressed their admiration of his
figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and, wholly engrossed by her own
feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and
vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged
thing in the world! How strange must it appear to him! In what a
disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if
she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come?
or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been
only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his
discrimination, for it was plain that he was that moment arrived, that
moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and
again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so
strikingly altered,--what could it mean? That he should even speak to
her was amazing!--but to speak with such civility, to enquire after her
family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified,
never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting.
What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosing's Park, when
he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, nor how to
account for it.
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and
every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer
reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time
before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered
mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed
to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she
distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that
one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then
was. She longed to know what at that moment was passing in his mind; in
what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of every thing,
she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil, only because he
felt himself at ease; yet there had been _that_ in his voice, which was
not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing
her, she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with
composure.
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind
roused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while,
ascended some of the higher grounds; whence, in spots where the opening
of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of
the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods
overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner
expressed a wish of going round the whole Park, but feared it might be
beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile, they were told, that it was ten
miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed
circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among
hanging woods, to the edge of the water, in one of its narrowest parts.
They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of
the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and
the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the
stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered
it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed
the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner,
who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of
returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was,
therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house
on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their
progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the
taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the
occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man
about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this
slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was
quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy
approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk being here less
sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they
met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an
interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with
calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed,
she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. This idea
lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the
turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance she saw,
that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his
politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place;
but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when
some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of
Pemberley from her, might be mischievously construed. Her colour
changed, and she said no more.
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked
her, if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends.
This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and
she could hardly suppress a smile, at his being now seeking the
acquaintance of some of those very people, against whom his pride had
revolted, in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought
she, "when he knows who they are! He takes them now for people of
fashion."
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their
relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore
it; and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he
could from such disgraceful companions. That he was _surprised_ by the
connexion was evident; he sustained it however with fortitude, and so
far from going away, turned back with them, and entered into
conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased,
could not but triumph. It was consoling, that he should know she had
some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most
attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every
expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence,
his taste, or his good manners.
The conversation soon turned upon fishing, and she heard Mr. Darcy
invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he
chose, while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same
time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of
the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was
walking arm in arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of her
wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the
compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was
extreme; and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From
what can it proceed? It cannot be for _me_, it cannot be for _my_ sake
that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not
work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love
me."
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two
gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the
brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious
water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in
Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found
Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred
her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on
together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to
know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the
place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been
very unexpected--"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that
you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we
left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in
the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all; and said that
business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours
before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They
will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some
who will claim an acquaintance with you,--Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly
driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been last mentioned
between them; and if she might judge from his complexion, _his_ mind was
not very differently engaged.
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a
pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you,--Will you allow
me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance
during your stay at Lambton?"
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great
for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt
that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her,
must be the work of her brother, and without looking farther, it was
satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made
him think really ill of her.
They now walked on in silence; each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth
was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and
pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her, was a compliment of
the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had
reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a
mile behind.
He then asked her to walk into the house--but she declared herself not
tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time, much might
have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but
there seemed an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that
she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with
great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly--and her patience
and her ideas were nearly worn out before the tete-a-tete was over. On
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up, they were all pressed to go into the
house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted
on each side with the utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies
into the carriage, and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking
slowly towards the house.
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them
pronounced him to be infinitely superior to any thing they had expected.
"He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.
"There _is_ something a little stately in him to be sure," replied her
aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now
say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud,
_I_ have seen nothing of it."
"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more
than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such
attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."
"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham;
or rather he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are
perfectly good. But how came you to tell us that he was so
disagreeable?"
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked
him better when they met in Kent than before, and that she had never
seen him so pleasant as this morning.
"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied
her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him
at his word about fishing, as he might change his mind another day, and
warn me off his grounds."
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely mistaken his character, but said
nothing.
"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really
should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by
any body, as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured
look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when
he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance, that
would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But to be sure,
the good lady who shewed us the house, did give him a most flaming
character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a
liberal master, I suppose, and _that_ in the eye of a servant
comprehends every virtue."
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of
his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as
guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his
relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different
construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor
Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In
confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary
transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming
her authority, but stating it to be such as might be relied on.
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now
approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to
the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out
to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs, to think of
any thing else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk, they had
no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former
acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of an
intercourse renewed after many years discontinuance.
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth
much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing
but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and above
all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister. | As she arrives at Pemberley with the Gardiners, Elizabeth is thoroughly enchanted by the architecture and surrounding natural beauty of the place. For a moment she thinks it would be pleasant to be the mistress of Pemberley. They are greeted by the housekeeper, who shows them around; Elizabeth is impressed with all she sees. She also listens carefully to the housekeeper who generously praises Darcy as a sweet-tempered and benevolent young man. She claims he is an excellent landlord, unselfish, kind, and humane; she also explains that he is a devoted brother to his sister. Elizabeth momentarily feels sorry for having rebuffed Darcy. Then she thinks about his letter and his criticism of her low relations, which make her angry again. The tour of the house is interrupted by the unexpected appearance of Darcy. Elizabeth is a bundle of nerves because she does not want Darcy to think that she has thrown herself in his way. He, however, seems calm and unaffected by her presence even though he speaks kindly to her. Elizabeth, after regaining her composure, introduces Darcy to the Gardiners; she cannot suppress her pleasure in showing him that some members of her family are intelligent and sensible. Darcy, showing no signs of his previous arrogance, is very cordial to the Gardiners; he even invites Mr. Gardiner to fish in his stream. He then suggests that Elizabeth meet his sister. The Gardiners find the charming Darcy far from being an insolent and disagreeable man; they tell Elizabeth that they are amazed that he could have been cruel to Wickham. Without disclosing the source of her information, Elizabeth exonerates Darcy by telling the truth that she has learned from Darcy. It is obvious that Elizabeth is becoming less prejudiced. She spends the rest of the day thinking about Darcy and his sister, Georgiana. |
SCENE III.
The court of TITUS' house
Enter Lucius, MARCUS, and the GOTHS, with AARON prisoner,
and his CHILD in the arms of an attendant
LUCIUS. Uncle Marcus, since 'tis my father's mind
That I repair to Rome, I am content.
FIRST GOTH. And ours with thine, befall what fortune will.
LUCIUS. Good uncle, take you in this barbarous Moor,
This ravenous tiger, this accursed devil;
Let him receive no sust'nance, fetter him,
Till he be brought unto the Empress' face
For testimony of her foul proceedings.
And see the ambush of our friends be strong;
I fear the Emperor means no good to us.
AARON. Some devil whisper curses in my ear,
And prompt me that my tongue may utter forth
The venomous malice of my swelling heart!
LUCIUS. Away, inhuman dog, unhallowed slave!
Sirs, help our uncle to convey him in.
Exeunt GOTHS with AARON. Flourish within
The trumpets show the Emperor is at hand.
Sound trumpets. Enter SATURNINUS and
TAMORA, with AEMILIUS, TRIBUNES, SENATORS, and others
SATURNINUS. What, hath the firmament more suns than one?
LUCIUS. What boots it thee to call thyself a sun?
MARCUS. Rome's Emperor, and nephew, break the parle;
These quarrels must be quietly debated.
The feast is ready which the careful Titus
Hath ordain'd to an honourable end,
For peace, for love, for league, and good to Rome.
Please you, therefore, draw nigh and take your places.
SATURNINUS. Marcus, we will.
[A table brought in. The company sit down]
Trumpets sounding, enter TITUS
like a cook, placing the dishes, and LAVINIA
with a veil over her face; also YOUNG LUCIUS, and others
TITUS. Welcome, my lord; welcome, dread Queen;
Welcome, ye warlike Goths; welcome, Lucius;
And welcome all. Although the cheer be poor,
'Twill fill your stomachs; please you eat of it.
SATURNINUS. Why art thou thus attir'd, Andronicus?
TITUS. Because I would be sure to have all well
To entertain your Highness and your Empress.
TAMORA. We are beholding to you, good Andronicus.
TITUS. An if your Highness knew my heart, you were.
My lord the Emperor, resolve me this:
Was it well done of rash Virginius
To slay his daughter with his own right hand,
Because she was enforc'd, stain'd, and deflower'd?
SATURNINUS. It was, Andronicus.
TITUS. Your reason, mighty lord.
SATURNINUS. Because the girl should not survive her shame,
And by her presence still renew his sorrows.
TITUS. A reason mighty, strong, and effectual;
A pattern, precedent, and lively warrant
For me, most wretched, to perform the like.
Die, die, Lavinia, and thy shame with thee; [He kills her]
And with thy shame thy father's sorrow die!
SATURNINUS. What hast thou done, unnatural and unkind?
TITUS. Kill'd her for whom my tears have made me blind.
I am as woeful as Virginius was,
And have a thousand times more cause than he
To do this outrage; and it now is done.
SATURNINUS. What, was she ravish'd? Tell who did the deed.
TITUS. Will't please you eat? Will't please your Highness
feed?
TAMORA. Why hast thou slain thine only daughter thus?
TITUS. Not I; 'twas Chiron and Demetrius.
They ravish'd her, and cut away her tongue;
And they, 'twas they, that did her all this wrong.
SATURNINUS. Go, fetch them hither to us presently.
TITUS. Why, there they are, both baked in this pie,
Whereof their mother daintily hath fed,
Eating the flesh that she herself hath bred.
'Tis true, 'tis true: witness my knife's sharp point.
[He stabs the EMPRESS]
SATURNINUS. Die, frantic wretch, for this accursed deed!
[He stabs TITUS]
LUCIUS. Can the son's eye behold his father bleed?
There's meed for meed, death for a deadly deed.
[He stabs SATURNINUS. A great tumult. LUCIUS,
MARCUS, and their friends go up into the balcony]
MARCUS. You sad-fac'd men, people and sons of Rome,
By uproars sever'd, as a flight of fowl
Scatter'd by winds and high tempestuous gusts?
O, let me teach you how to knit again
This scattered corn into one mutual sheaf,
These broken limbs again into one body;
Lest Rome herself be bane unto herself,
And she whom mighty kingdoms curtsy to,
Like a forlorn and desperate castaway,
Do shameful execution on herself.
But if my frosty signs and chaps of age,
Grave witnesses of true experience,
Cannot induce you to attend my words,
[To Lucius] Speak, Rome's dear friend, as erst our ancestor,
When with his solemn tongue he did discourse
To love-sick Dido's sad attending ear
The story of that baleful burning night,
When subtle Greeks surpris'd King Priam's Troy.
Tell us what Sinon hath bewitch'd our ears,
Or who hath brought the fatal engine in
That gives our Troy, our Rome, the civil wound.
My heart is not compact of flint nor steel;
Nor can I utter all our bitter grief,
But floods of tears will drown my oratory
And break my utt'rance, even in the time
When it should move ye to attend me most,
And force you to commiseration.
Here's Rome's young Captain, let him tell the tale;
While I stand by and weep to hear him speak.
LUCIUS. Then, gracious auditory, be it known to you
That Chiron and the damn'd Demetrius
Were they that murd'red our Emperor's brother;
And they it were that ravished our sister.
For their fell faults our brothers were beheaded,
Our father's tears despis'd, and basely cozen'd
Of that true hand that fought Rome's quarrel out
And sent her enemies unto the grave.
Lastly, myself unkindly banished,
The gates shut on me, and turn'd weeping out,
To beg relief among Rome's enemies;
Who drown'd their enmity in my true tears,
And op'd their arms to embrace me as a friend.
I am the turned forth, be it known to you,
That have preserv'd her welfare in my blood
And from her bosom took the enemy's point,
Sheathing the steel in my advent'rous body.
Alas! you know I am no vaunter, I;
My scars can witness, dumb although they are,
That my report is just and full of truth.
But, soft! methinks I do digress too much,
Citing my worthless praise. O, pardon me!
For when no friends are by, men praise themselves.
MARCUS. Now is my turn to speak. Behold the child.
[Pointing to the CHILD in an attendant's arms]
Of this was Tamora delivered,
The issue of an irreligious Moor,
Chief architect and plotter of these woes.
The villain is alive in Titus' house,
Damn'd as he is, to witness this is true.
Now judge what cause had Titus to revenge
These wrongs unspeakable, past patience,
Or more than any living man could bear.
Now have you heard the truth: what say you, Romans?
Have we done aught amiss, show us wherein,
And, from the place where you behold us pleading,
The poor remainder of Andronici
Will, hand in hand, all headlong hurl ourselves,
And on the ragged stones beat forth our souls,
And make a mutual closure of our house.
Speak, Romans, speak; and if you say we shall,
Lo, hand in hand, Lucius and I will fall.
AEMILIUS. Come, come, thou reverend man of Rome,
And bring our Emperor gently in thy hand,
Lucius our Emperor; for well I know
The common voice do cry it shall be so.
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's royal Emperor!
MARCUS. Go, go into old Titus' sorrowful house,
And hither hale that misbelieving Moor
To be adjudg'd some direful slaught'ring death,
As punishment for his most wicked life. Exeunt some
attendants. LUCIUS, MARCUS, and the others descend
ALL. Lucius, all hail, Rome's gracious governor!
LUCIUS. Thanks, gentle Romans! May I govern so
To heal Rome's harms and wipe away her woe!
But, gentle people, give me aim awhile,
For nature puts me to a heavy task.
Stand all aloof; but, uncle, draw you near
To shed obsequious tears upon this trunk.
O, take this warm kiss on thy pale cold lips. [Kisses TITUS]
These sorrowful drops upon thy blood-stain'd face,
The last true duties of thy noble son!
MARCUS. Tear for tear and loving kiss for kiss
Thy brother Marcus tenders on thy lips.
O, were the sum of these that I should pay
Countless and infinite, yet would I pay them!
LUCIUS. Come hither, boy; come, come, come, and learn of us
To melt in showers. Thy grandsire lov'd thee well;
Many a time he danc'd thee on his knee,
Sung thee asleep, his loving breast thy pillow;
Many a story hath he told to thee,
And bid thee bear his pretty tales in mind
And talk of them when he was dead and gone.
MARCUS. How many thousand times hath these poor lips,
When they were living, warm'd themselves on thine!
O, now, sweet boy, give them their latest kiss!
Bid him farewell; commit him to the grave;
Do them that kindness, and take leave of them.
BOY. O grandsire, grandsire! ev'n with all my heart
Would I were dead, so you did live again!
O Lord, I cannot speak to him for weeping;
My tears will choke me, if I ope my mouth.
Re-enter attendants with AARON
A ROMAN. You sad Andronici, have done with woes;
Give sentence on the execrable wretch
That hath been breeder of these dire events.
LUCIUS. Set him breast-deep in earth, and famish him;
There let him stand and rave and cry for food.
If any one relieves or pities him,
For the offence he dies. This is our doom.
Some stay to see him fast'ned in the earth.
AARON. Ah, why should wrath be mute and fury dumb?
I am no baby, I, that with base prayers
I should repent the evils I have done;
Ten thousand worse than ever yet I did
Would I perform, if I might have my will.
If one good deed in all my life I did,
I do repent it from my very soul.
LUCIUS. Some loving friends convey the Emperor hence,
And give him burial in his father's grave.
My father and Lavinia shall forthwith
Be closed in our household's monument.
As for that ravenous tiger, Tamora,
No funeral rite, nor man in mourning weed,
No mournful bell shall ring her burial;
But throw her forth to beasts and birds to prey.
Her life was beastly and devoid of pity,
And being dead, let birds on her take pity. Exeunt | Lucius arrives in Rome at his fathers bidding, accompanied by the Goths and the imprisoned Aaron. Saturninus, Tamora and their officials arrive at the banquet prepared by Titus. Just after the banquet begins Titus kills Lavinia in order to free her from her sufferings. He then kills Tamora. Saturninus kills Titus and is in turn killed by Lucius. Marcus and Lucius address the people of Rome and Lucius relates all the wrongs that had been done unto his family by Tamora and her sons. They show Aarons son, unharmed, and ask the people of Rome for their verdict on the deaths of Tamora and the Emperor. The people of Rome proclaim Lucius as their emperor. The Andronici bid a tearful farewell to the dead Titus. Lucius punishes Aaron by having him buried breast - deep in earth and starved, he orders Saturninus to be buried in the latters fathers grave, and declares that Tamora deserves no funeral and orders her body to be fed to animals. He then declares that henceforth the state will be protected from the likes of Aaron and the chaos his type brings. |
Marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like
impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of
taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from
the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the Miss Steeles, or to
encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her
behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on
their side, Elinor principally attributed that preference of herself
which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of
Lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of
striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank
communication of her sentiments.
Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and
as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable;
but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and
illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of
information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from
Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to
advantage. Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities
which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with
less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of
rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her
assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no
lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity
with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in
conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made
every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly
valueless.
"You will think my question an odd one, I dare say," said Lucy to her
one day, as they were walking together from the park to the
cottage--"but pray, are you personally acquainted with your
sister-in-law's mother, Mrs. Ferrars?"
Elinor DID think the question a very odd one, and her countenance
expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen Mrs. Ferrars.
"Indeed!" replied Lucy; "I wonder at that, for I thought you must have
seen her at Norland sometimes. Then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what
sort of a woman she is?"
"No," returned Elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of Edward's
mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent
curiosity-- "I know nothing of her."
"I am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a
way," said Lucy, eyeing Elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps
there may be reasons--I wish I might venture; but however I hope you
will do me the justice of believing that I do not mean to be
impertinent."
Elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in
silence. It was broken by Lucy, who renewed the subject again by
saying, with some hesitation,
"I cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious. I am sure I
would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person
whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours. And I am sure I
should not have the smallest fear of trusting YOU; indeed, I should be
very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable
situation as I am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble YOU.
I am sorry you do not happen to know Mrs. Ferrars."
"I am sorry I do NOT," said Elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could
be of any use to YOU to know my opinion of her. But really I never
understood that you were at all connected with that family, and
therefore I am a little surprised, I confess, at so serious an inquiry
into her character."
"I dare say you are, and I am sure I do not at all wonder at it. But
if I dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised. Mrs.
Ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present--but the time MAY
come--how soon it will come must depend upon herself--when we may be
very intimately connected."
She looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side
glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"Good heavens!" cried Elinor, "what do you mean? Are you acquainted
with Mr. Robert Ferrars? Can you be?" And she did not feel much
delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"No," replied Lucy, "not to Mr. ROBERT Ferrars--I never saw him in my
life; but," fixing her eyes upon Elinor, "to his eldest brother."
What felt Elinor at that moment? Astonishment, that would have been as
painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the
assertion attended it. She turned towards Lucy in silent amazement,
unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though
her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no
danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
"You may well be surprised," continued Lucy; "for to be sure you could
have had no idea of it before; for I dare say he never dropped the
smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always
meant to be a great secret, and I am sure has been faithfully kept so
by me to this hour. Not a soul of all my relations know of it but
Anne, and I never should have mentioned it to you, if I had not felt
the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and I really
thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about Mrs. Ferrars
must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained. And I do not think
Mr. Ferrars can be displeased, when he knows I have trusted you,
because I know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your
family, and looks upon yourself and the other Miss Dashwoods quite as
his own sisters."--She paused.
Elinor for a few moments remained silent. Her astonishment at what she
heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself
to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner,
which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude-- "May I ask
if your engagement is of long standing?"
"We have been engaged these four years."
"Four years!"
"Yes."
Elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"I did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the
other day."
"Our acquaintance, however, is of many years date. He was under my
uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."
"Your uncle!"
"Yes; Mr. Pratt. Did you never hear him talk of Mr. Pratt?"
"I think I have," replied Elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which
increased with her increase of emotion.
"He was four years with my uncle, who lives at Longstaple, near
Plymouth. It was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me
was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was
formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he
was almost always with us afterwards. I was very unwilling to enter
into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of
his mother; but I was too young, and loved him too well, to be so
prudent as I ought to have been.-- Though you do not know him so well
as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible
he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."
"Certainly," answered Elinor, without knowing what she said; but after
a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of Edward's
honour and love, and her companion's falsehood--"Engaged to Mr. Edward
Ferrars!--I confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me,
that really--I beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake
of person or name. We cannot mean the same Mr. Ferrars."
"We can mean no other," cried Lucy, smiling. "Mr. Edward Ferrars, the
eldest son of Mrs. Ferrars, of Park Street, and brother of your
sister-in-law, Mrs. John Dashwood, is the person I mean; you must allow
that I am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who
all my happiness depends."
"It is strange," replied Elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that I
should never have heard him even mention your name."
"No; considering our situation, it was not strange. Our first care has
been to keep the matter secret.-- You knew nothing of me, or my family,
and, therefore, there could be no OCCASION for ever mentioning my name
to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's
suspecting any thing, THAT was reason enough for his not mentioning it."
She was silent.--Elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not
sink with it.
"Four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.
"Yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait. Poor
Edward! It puts him quite out of heart." Then taking a small miniature
from her pocket, she added, "To prevent the possibility of mistake, be
so good as to look at this face. It does not do him justice, to be
sure, but yet I think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was
drew for.--I have had it above these three years."
She put it into her hands as she spoke; and when Elinor saw the
painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or
her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she
could have none of its being Edward's face. She returned it almost
instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
"I have never been able," continued Lucy, "to give him my picture in
return, which I am very much vexed at, for he has been always so
anxious to get it! But I am determined to set for it the very first
opportunity."
"You are quite in the right," replied Elinor calmly. They then
proceeded a few paces in silence. Lucy spoke first.
"I am sure," said she, "I have no doubt in the world of your faithfully
keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to
us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it,
I dare say. I shall have no fortune, and I fancy she is an exceeding
proud woman."
"I certainly did not seek your confidence," said Elinor; "but you do me
no more than justice in imagining that I may be depended on. Your
secret is safe with me; but pardon me if I express some surprise at so
unnecessary a communication. You must at least have felt that my being
acquainted with it could not add to its safety."
As she said this, she looked earnestly at Lucy, hoping to discover
something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest
part of what she had been saying; but Lucy's countenance suffered no
change.
"I was afraid you would think I was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this. I have not known you long to be
sure, personally at least, but I have known you and all your family by
description a great while; and as soon as I saw you, I felt almost as
if you was an old acquaintance. Besides in the present case, I really
thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular
inquiries about Edward's mother; and I am so unfortunate, that I have
not a creature whose advice I can ask. Anne is the only person that
knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a
great deal more harm than good, for I am in constant fear of her
betraying me. She does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must
perceive, and I am sure I was in the greatest fright in the world
t'other day, when Edward's name was mentioned by Sir John, lest she
should out with it all. You can't think how much I go through in my
mind from it altogether. I only wonder that I am alive after what I
have suffered for Edward's sake these last four years. Every thing in
such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom--we can hardly
meet above twice a-year. I am sure I wonder my heart is not quite
broke."
Here she took out her handkerchief; but Elinor did not feel very
compassionate.
"Sometimes." continued Lucy, after wiping her eyes, "I think whether it
would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely." As
she said this, she looked directly at her companion. "But then at
other times I have not resolution enough for it.-- I cannot bear the
thoughts of making him so miserable, as I know the very mention of such
a thing would do. And on my own account too--so dear as he is to me--I
don't think I could be equal to it. What would you advise me to do in
such a case, Miss Dashwood? What would you do yourself?"
"Pardon me," replied Elinor, startled by the question; "but I can give
you no advice under such circumstances. Your own judgment must direct
you."
"To be sure," continued Lucy, after a few minutes silence on both
sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor
Edward is so cast down by it! Did you not think him dreadful
low-spirited when he was at Barton? He was so miserable when he left
us at Longstaple, to go to you, that I was afraid you would think him
quite ill."
"Did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"
"Oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us. Did you think he
came directly from town?"
"No," replied Elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh
circumstance in favour of Lucy's veracity; "I remember he told us, that
he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near Plymouth." She
remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing
farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to
their names.
"Did not you think him sadly out of spirits?" repeated Lucy.
"We did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."
"I begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the
matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than
a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.-- Poor fellow!--I
am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched
spirits. I heard from him just before I left Exeter;" taking a letter
from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to Elinor. "You
know his hand, I dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not
written so well as usual.--He was tired, I dare say, for he had just
filled the sheet to me as full as possible."
Elinor saw that it WAS his hand, and she could doubt no longer. This
picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been
accidentally obtained; it might not have been Edward's gift; but a
correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a
positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few
moments, she was almost overcome--her heart sunk within her, and she
could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she
struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that
her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
"Writing to each other," said Lucy, returning the letter into her
pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations. Yes, I
have one other comfort in his picture, but poor Edward has not even
THAT. If he had but my picture, he says he should be easy. I gave him
a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at Longstaple last, and
that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
Perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"
"I did," said Elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was
concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt
before. She was mortified, shocked, confounded.
Fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the
conversation could be continued no farther. After sitting with them a
few minutes, the Miss Steeles returned to the Park, and Elinor was then
at liberty to think and be wretched.
[At this point in the first and second editions, Volume 1 ends.] | Marianne cannot stand the Miss Steeles and is cold toward them out of ill-spirits and dislike, so Elinor becomes the preferred companion of Lucy. Elinor thinks Lucy decent company, though she lacks education and refinement, has an insincere tendency to flatter people. Lucy inquires of Mrs. Ferrars, which strikes Elinor as odd; Elinor asks of her acquaintance with the Ferrars family, and Lucy reveals that she is engaged to Edward. The engagement, though, is a secret to all but Lucy's sister and now Elinor; Elinor questions Lucy to try and prove that this is not true, but it turns out that it was Lucy that Edward had visited in Plymouth before his arrival at Barton, and Lucy says she gave him a ring with a lock of hair, which Elinor and Marianne had noticed him wearing. Elinor is overcome by grief at this discovery, but she must keep this knowledge a secret, and hide her great disappointment as best she can. |
Just as in the churchyard with Miles, the whole thing was upon us. Much
as I had made of the fact that this name had never once, between us,
been sounded, the quick, smitten glare with which the child's face now
received it fairly likened my breach of the silence to the smash of a
pane of glass. It added to the interposing cry, as if to stay the blow,
that Mrs. Grose, at the same instant, uttered over my violence--the
shriek of a creature scared, or rather wounded, which, in turn, within a
few seconds, was completed by a gasp of my own. I seized my colleague's
arm. "She's there, she's there!"
Miss Jessel stood before us on the opposite bank exactly as she had
stood the other time, and I remember, strangely, as the first feeling
now produced in me, my thrill of joy at having brought on a proof. She
was there, and I was justified; she was there, and I was neither cruel
nor mad. She was there for poor scared Mrs. Grose, but she was there
most for Flora; and no moment of my monstrous time was perhaps so
extraordinary as that in which I consciously threw out to her--with
the sense that, pale and ravenous demon as she was, she would catch and
understand it--an inarticulate message of gratitude. She rose erect on
the spot my friend and I had lately quitted, and there was not, in all
the long reach of her desire, an inch of her evil that fell short. This
first vividness of vision and emotion were things of a few seconds,
during which Mrs. Grose's dazed blink across to where I pointed struck
me as a sovereign sign that she too at last saw, just as it carried my
own eyes precipitately to the child. The revelation then of the manner
in which Flora was affected startled me, in truth, far more than it
would have done to find her also merely agitated, for direct dismay
was of course not what I had expected. Prepared and on her guard as our
pursuit had actually made her, she would repress every betrayal; and I
was therefore shaken, on the spot, by my first glimpse of the particular
one for which I had not allowed. To see her, without a convulsion of
her small pink face, not even feign to glance in the direction of the
prodigy I announced, but only, instead of that, turn at ME an expression
of hard, still gravity, an expression absolutely new and unprecedented
and that appeared to read and accuse and judge me--this was a stroke
that somehow converted the little girl herself into the very presence
that could make me quail. I quailed even though my certitude that
she thoroughly saw was never greater than at that instant, and in the
immediate need to defend myself I called it passionately to witness.
"She's there, you little unhappy thing--there, there, THERE, and you see
her as well as you see me!" I had said shortly before to Mrs. Grose
that she was not at these times a child, but an old, old woman, and that
description of her could not have been more strikingly confirmed than in
the way in which, for all answer to this, she simply showed me, without
a concession, an admission, of her eyes, a countenance of deeper and
deeper, of indeed suddenly quite fixed, reprobation. I was by this
time--if I can put the whole thing at all together--more appalled at
what I may properly call her manner than at anything else, though it was
simultaneously with this that I became aware of having Mrs. Grose
also, and very formidably, to reckon with. My elder companion, the next
moment, at any rate, blotted out everything but her own flushed face and
her loud, shocked protest, a burst of high disapproval. "What a dreadful
turn, to be sure, miss! Where on earth do you see anything?"
I could only grasp her more quickly yet, for even while she spoke the
hideous plain presence stood undimmed and undaunted. It had already
lasted a minute, and it lasted while I continued, seizing my colleague,
quite thrusting her at it and presenting her to it, to insist with my
pointing hand. "You don't see her exactly as WE see?--you mean to say
you don't now--NOW? She's as big as a blazing fire! Only look, dearest
woman, LOOK--!" She looked, even as I did, and gave me, with her deep
groan of negation, repulsion, compassion--the mixture with her pity of
her relief at her exemption--a sense, touching to me even then, that she
would have backed me up if she could. I might well have needed that, for
with this hard blow of the proof that her eyes were hopelessly sealed
I felt my own situation horribly crumble, I felt--I saw--my livid
predecessor press, from her position, on my defeat, and I was conscious,
more than all, of what I should have from this instant to deal with in
the astounding little attitude of Flora. Into this attitude Mrs. Grose
immediately and violently entered, breaking, even while there pierced
through my sense of ruin a prodigious private triumph, into breathless
reassurance.
"She isn't there, little lady, and nobody's there--and you never see
nothing, my sweet! How can poor Miss Jessel--when poor Miss Jessel's
dead and buried? WE know, don't we, love?"--and she appealed, blundering
in, to the child. "It's all a mere mistake and a worry and a joke--and
we'll go home as fast as we can!"
Our companion, on this, had responded with a strange, quick primness of
propriety, and they were again, with Mrs. Grose on her feet, united, as
it were, in pained opposition to me. Flora continued to fix me with
her small mask of reprobation, and even at that minute I prayed God to
forgive me for seeming to see that, as she stood there holding tight
to our friend's dress, her incomparable childish beauty had suddenly
failed, had quite vanished. I've said it already--she was literally,
she was hideously, hard; she had turned common and almost ugly. "I don't
know what you mean. I see nobody. I see nothing. I never HAVE. I think
you're cruel. I don't like you!" Then, after this deliverance, which
might have been that of a vulgarly pert little girl in the street, she
hugged Mrs. Grose more closely and buried in her skirts the dreadful
little face. In this position she produced an almost furious wail. "Take
me away, take me away--oh, take me away from HER!"
"From ME?" I panted.
"From you--from you!" she cried.
Even Mrs. Grose looked across at me dismayed, while I had nothing to
do but communicate again with the figure that, on the opposite bank,
without a movement, as rigidly still as if catching, beyond the
interval, our voices, was as vividly there for my disaster as it was not
there for my service. The wretched child had spoken exactly as if she
had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and
I could therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly
shake my head at her. "If I had ever doubted, all my doubt would at
present have gone. I've been living with the miserable truth, and now
it has only too much closed round me. Of course I've lost you: I've
interfered, and you've seen--under HER dictation"--with which I faced,
over the pool again, our infernal witness--"the easy and perfect way to
meet it. I've done my best, but I've lost you. Goodbye." For Mrs.
Grose I had an imperative, an almost frantic "Go, go!" before which, in
infinite distress, but mutely possessed of the little girl and clearly
convinced, in spite of her blindness, that something awful had occurred
and some collapse engulfed us, she retreated, by the way we had come, as
fast as she could move.
Of what first happened when I was left alone I had no subsequent memory.
I only knew that at the end of, I suppose, a quarter of an hour, an
odorous dampness and roughness, chilling and piercing my trouble, had
made me understand that I must have thrown myself, on my face, on the
ground and given way to a wildness of grief. I must have lain there long
and cried and sobbed, for when I raised my head the day was almost done.
I got up and looked a moment, through the twilight, at the gray pool and
its blank, haunted edge, and then I took, back to the house, my dreary
and difficult course. When I reached the gate in the fence the boat,
to my surprise, was gone, so that I had a fresh reflection to make on
Flora's extraordinary command of the situation. She passed that night,
by the most tacit, and I should add, were not the word so grotesque a
false note, the happiest of arrangements, with Mrs. Grose. I saw
neither of them on my return, but, on the other hand, as by an ambiguous
compensation, I saw a great deal of Miles. I saw--I can use no other
phrase--so much of him that it was as if it were more than it had ever
been. No evening I had passed at Bly had the portentous quality of
this one; in spite of which--and in spite also of the deeper depths of
consternation that had opened beneath my feet--there was literally, in
the ebbing actual, an extraordinarily sweet sadness. On reaching the
house I had never so much as looked for the boy; I had simply gone
straight to my room to change what I was wearing and to take in, at
a glance, much material testimony to Flora's rupture. Her little
belongings had all been removed. When later, by the schoolroom fire, I
was served with tea by the usual maid, I indulged, on the article of my
other pupil, in no inquiry whatever. He had his freedom now--he might
have it to the end! Well, he did have it; and it consisted--in part at
least--of his coming in at about eight o'clock and sitting down with me
in silence. On the removal of the tea things I had blown out the candles
and drawn my chair closer: I was conscious of a mortal coldness and felt
as if I should never again be warm. So, when he appeared, I was sitting
in the glow with my thoughts. He paused a moment by the door as if to
look at me; then--as if to share them--came to the other side of the
hearth and sank into a chair. We sat there in absolute stillness; yet he
wanted, I felt, to be with me. | Flora looks shocked at the governess's words. Mrs. Grose suddenly gives a cry, and the governess turns to see Miss Jessel standing on the opposite bank of the lake. She feels a thrill to know that she finally has proof. She points across the lake, and Mrs. Grose looks there, but Flora's eyes remain fixed on the governess in an expression of accusation. The governess is certain Flora can also see Miss Jessel, and she sees this cold calm with which the child looks at her as proof of her evilness. She shouts at the child that Miss Jessel is there and she knows it. Mrs. Grose, though, shocks her when she asks where she sees anything. The governess tries to point Miss Jessel out, describing her and yelling at the woman to look, but Mrs. Grose cannot see her. The governess is shocked and terrified. Mrs. Grose turns to Flora, reassuring the child that there is no one there and that Miss Jessel is dead and buried, and turns to take Flora home. Flora now appears ugly to the governess, and she screams that she doesn't see anyone there and that she never has - saying also that she doesn't like the governess and crying to Mrs. Grose to take her away from the governess. The governess is certain that these words are controlled by someone else, and she finally says she's lost Flora, telling Mrs. Grose to take the child and go. The governess has no memory of what happened next but finds herself fifteen minutes later lying on the ground, where she must have thrown herself crying. She gets up and goes to the house, where she does not see Flora or Mrs. Grose that night. Flora's things have all been taken out of her room. She sits in the schoolroom, taking her tea, and does not even bother to ask the servants where Miles is. When he finally comes in and sits down at eight o'clock, they say nothing to each other. |
THE FALL OF A CHIEFTAIN
There never was such an overturn in this world. Each of these six men
was as though he had been struck. But with Silver the blow passed almost
instantly. Every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a
racer, on that money; well, he was brought up in a single second, dead;
and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the
others had had time to realize the disappointment.
"Jim," he whispered, "take that, and stand by for trouble."
And he passed me a double-barreled pistol.
At the same time he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps
had put the hollow between us two and the other five. Then he looked at
me and nodded, as much as to say: "Here is a narrow corner," as, indeed,
I thought it was. His looks were now quite friendly, and I was so
revolted at these constant changes that I could not forbear whispering:
"So you've changed sides again."
There was no time left for him to answer in. The buccaneers, with oaths
and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit, and to dig
with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so. Morgan
found a piece of gold. He held it up with a perfect spout of oaths. It
was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a
quarter of a minute.
"Two guineas!" roared Merry, shaking it at Silver. "That's your seven
hundred thousand pounds, is it? You're the man for bargains, ain't you?
You're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!"
"Dig away, boys," said Silver, with the coolest insolence; "you'll find
some pig-nuts, and I shouldn't wonder."
"Pig-nuts!" repeated Merry, in a scream. "Mates, do you hear that? I
tell you now, that man there knew it all along. Look in the face of him,
and you'll see it wrote there."
"Ah, Merry," remarked Silver, "standing for cap'n again? You're a
pushing lad, to be sure."
But this time every one was entirely in Merry's favor. They began to
scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them. One
thing I observed, which looked well for us; they all got out upon the
opposite side from Silver.
Well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit
between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow.
Silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and
looked as cool as ever I saw him. He was brave, and no mistake.
At last, Merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.
"Mates," says he, "there's two of them alone there; one's the old
cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the
other's that cub that I mean to have the heart of. Now, mates--"
He was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a
charge. But just then--crack! crack! crack!--three musket-shots flashed
out of the thicket. Merry tumbled headforemost into the excavation; the
man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum, and fell all his length
upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other
three turned and ran for it with all their might.
Before you could wink Long John had fired two barrels of a pistol into
the struggling Merry; and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the
last agony, "George," said he, "I reckon I settled you."
At the same moment the doctor, Gray, and Ben Gunn joined us, with
smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.
"Forward!" cried the doctor. "Double quick, my lads. We must head 'em
off the boats."
And we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to
the chest.
I tell you, but Silver was anxious to keep up with us. The work that man
went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were
fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equaled; and so thinks the
doctor. As it was, he was already thirty yards behind us, and on the
verge of strangling, when we reached the brow of the slope.
"Doctor," he hailed, "see there! no hurry!"
Sure enough there was no hurry. In a more open part of the plateau we
could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as
they had started, right for Mizzen-mast Hill. We were already between
them and the boats, and so we four sat down to breathe, while Long John,
mopping his face, came slowly up with us.
"Thank ye kindly, doctor," says he. "You came in in about the nick, I
guess, for me and Hawkins. And so it's you, Ben Gunn!" he added. "Well,
you're a nice one, to be sure."
"I'm Ben Gunn, I am," replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his
embarrassment. "And," he added, after a long pause, "how do, Mr. Silver!
Pretty well, I thank ye, says you."
"Ben, Ben," murmured Silver, "to think as you've done me!"
The doctor sent back Gray for one of the pickaxes deserted, in their
flight, by the mutineers; and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to
where the boats were lying, related, in a few words, what had taken
place. It was a story that profoundly interested Silver, and Ben Gunn,
the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.
Ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the
skeleton. It was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he
had dug it up (it was the haft of his pickax that lay broken in the
excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from
the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at
the northeast angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in
safety since two months before the arrival of the _Hispaniola_.
When the doctor had wormed this secret from him, on the afternoon of the
attack, and when, next morning, he saw the anchorage deserted, he had
gone to Silver, given him the chart, which was now useless; given him
the stores, for Ben Gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat
salted by himself; given anything and everything to get a chance of
moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be
clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money.
"As for you, Jim," he said, "it went against my heart, but I did what I
thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not
one of these, whose fault was it?"
That morning, finding that I was to be involved in the horrid
disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way
to the cave, and, leaving squire to guard the captain, had taken Gray
and the maroon, and started, making the diagonal across the island, to
be at hand beside the pine. Soon, however, he saw that our party had the
start of him; and Ben Gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in
front to do his best alone. Then it had occurred to him to work upon the
superstitions of his former shipmates; and he was so far successful that
Gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the
arrival of the treasure-hunters.
"Ah," said Silver, "it was fortunate for me that I had Hawkins here. You
would have let old John be cut to bits, and never given it a thought,
doctor."
"Not a thought," replied Doctor Livesey, cheerily.
And by this time we had reached the gigs. The doctor, with the pickax,
demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other, and set
out to go round by the sea for North Inlet.
This was a run of eight or nine miles. Silver, though he was almost
killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and
we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea. Soon we passed out of
the straits and doubled the southeast corner of the island, round which,
four days ago, we had towed the _Hispaniola_.
As we passed the two-pointed hill we could see the black mouth of Ben
Gunn's cave, and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket. It was
the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in
which the voice of Silver joined as heartily as any.
Three miles farther, just inside the mouth of North Inlet, what should
we meet but the _Hispaniola_, cruising by herself! The last flood had
lifted her, and had there been much wind, or a strong tide current, as
in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found
her stranded beyond help. As it was, there was little amiss, beyond the
wreck of the mainsail. Another anchor was got ready, and dropped in a
fathom and a half of water. We all pulled round again to Rum Cove, the
nearest point for Ben Gunn's treasure-house; and then Gray,
single-handed, returned with the gig to the _Hispaniola_, where he was
to pass the night on guard.
A gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave. At the
top, the squire met us. To me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of
my escapade, either in the way of blame or praise. At Silver's polite
salute he somewhat flushed.
"John Silver," he said, "you're a prodigious villain and impostor--a
monstrous impostor, sir. I am told I am not to prosecute you. Well,
then, I will not. But the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like
millstones."
"Thank you kindly, sir," replied Long John, again saluting.
"I dare you to thank me!" cried the squire. "It is a gross dereliction
of my duty. Stand back!"
And thereupon we all entered the cave. It was a large, airy place, with
a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns. The
floor was sand. Before a big fire lay Captain Smollett; and in a far
corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, I beheld great heaps
of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold. That was Flint's
treasure that we had come so far to seek, and that had cost already the
lives of seventeen men from the _Hispaniola_. How many it had cost in
the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the
deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon,
what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell. Yet
there were still three upon that island--Silver, and old Morgan, and Ben
Gunn--who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in
vain to share in the reward.
"Come in, Jim," said the captain. "You're a good boy in your line, Jim;
but I don't think you and me'll go to sea again. You're too much of the
born favorite for me. Is that you, John Silver? What brings you here,
man?"
"Come back to my dooty, sir," returned Silver.
"Ah!" said the captain, and that was all he said.
What a supper I had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and
what a meal it was, with Ben Gunn's salted goat, and some delicacies and
a bottle of old wine from the _Hispaniola_. Never, I am sure, were
people gayer or happier. And there was Silver, sitting back almost out
of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when
anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter--the same
bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out. | The world had come to an end for the pirates. The treasure for which they had sailed all the way has gone. Silver is quick to recall to this. He passes a double barrel pistol to Jim. He asks Jim to get into cover and cautions Jim. Jim hears the buccaneers saying that Silver had changed sides again. The pirates dig the pit to see if they can find the already unearthed treasure. Morgan finds two gold guineas. Merry holds it aloft pointing it at Silver asking him if it is the seven hundred thousand pounds he had promised. Silver, unperturbed by his taunt, asks them to dig hard to find some pig-nuts. He asks if George is again attempting to Captain the crew. But by now the crew is against Silver. George Merry gets ready to make a speech. He slowly raises his arm to signal an attack on Silver when three bullet shots from the thicket hit him. His men flee for life. Silver gives the final touches to the body as he empties two barrels of pistol into the fallen man. The Doctor, Gray and Ben Gunn appears from the thicket. They think that the other pirates had fled towards the boat. Dr. Livesey and the gang follow. Silver keeps pace with them. They slow down when they find out that the men are not running towards the boat. The Doctor narrates the story of Ben Gunn finding the treasure long ago and that it was safe. He tells them that he had traded the map only after he met Ben Gunn. Silver thanks his stars to have Jim by his side. Failing which, the Doctor accepts, he would have been dead. When they reach the sea, they get in a gig boat and make their way to the North Dulet. They see the Squire standing by Ben Gunn. When they reach the north inlet, they see the Hispaniola cruising by herself. Gray handles the ship alone and after pulling it over to Ben Gunns cave, guarded it the whole night. They enter the cave. Captain Smollet is lying beside the fire and the light from the blaze flickers the pile of Flints treasure. Jim is dumbstruck to see the amount of wealth accumulated in the form of gold bars and coins. The Captain welcomes Jim. Silver is asked what he was up to this time, to which he promptly replies that he is back to his old duty. They sit down and have supper. Jim recalls this moment as the happiest one he has had in the whole journey. |
While Sir Walter and Elizabeth were assiduously pushing their good
fortune in Laura Place, Anne was renewing an acquaintance of a very
different description.
She had called on her former governess, and had heard from her of there
being an old school-fellow in Bath, who had the two strong claims on
her attention of past kindness and present suffering. Miss Hamilton,
now Mrs Smith, had shewn her kindness in one of those periods of her
life when it had been most valuable. Anne had gone unhappy to school,
grieving for the loss of a mother whom she had dearly loved, feeling
her separation from home, and suffering as a girl of fourteen, of
strong sensibility and not high spirits, must suffer at such a time;
and Miss Hamilton, three years older than herself, but still from the
want of near relations and a settled home, remaining another year at
school, had been useful and good to her in a way which had considerably
lessened her misery, and could never be remembered with indifference.
Miss Hamilton had left school, had married not long afterwards, was
said to have married a man of fortune, and this was all that Anne had
known of her, till now that their governess's account brought her
situation forward in a more decided but very different form.
She was a widow and poor. Her husband had been extravagant; and at his
death, about two years before, had left his affairs dreadfully
involved. She had had difficulties of every sort to contend with, and
in addition to these distresses had been afflicted with a severe
rheumatic fever, which, finally settling in her legs, had made her for
the present a cripple. She had come to Bath on that account, and was
now in lodgings near the hot baths, living in a very humble way, unable
even to afford herself the comfort of a servant, and of course almost
excluded from society.
Their mutual friend answered for the satisfaction which a visit from
Miss Elliot would give Mrs Smith, and Anne therefore lost no time in
going. She mentioned nothing of what she had heard, or what she
intended, at home. It would excite no proper interest there. She only
consulted Lady Russell, who entered thoroughly into her sentiments, and
was most happy to convey her as near to Mrs Smith's lodgings in
Westgate Buildings, as Anne chose to be taken.
The visit was paid, their acquaintance re-established, their interest
in each other more than re-kindled. The first ten minutes had its
awkwardness and its emotion. Twelve years were gone since they had
parted, and each presented a somewhat different person from what the
other had imagined. Twelve years had changed Anne from the blooming,
silent, unformed girl of fifteen, to the elegant little woman of
seven-and-twenty, with every beauty except bloom, and with manners as
consciously right as they were invariably gentle; and twelve years had
transformed the fine-looking, well-grown Miss Hamilton, in all the glow
of health and confidence of superiority, into a poor, infirm, helpless
widow, receiving the visit of her former protegee as a favour; but all
that was uncomfortable in the meeting had soon passed away, and left
only the interesting charm of remembering former partialities and
talking over old times.
Anne found in Mrs Smith the good sense and agreeable manners which she
had almost ventured to depend on, and a disposition to converse and be
cheerful beyond her expectation. Neither the dissipations of the
past--and she had lived very much in the world--nor the restrictions of
the present, neither sickness nor sorrow seemed to have closed her
heart or ruined her spirits.
In the course of a second visit she talked with great openness, and
Anne's astonishment increased. She could scarcely imagine a more
cheerless situation in itself than Mrs Smith's. She had been very fond
of her husband: she had buried him. She had been used to affluence:
it was gone. She had no child to connect her with life and happiness
again, no relations to assist in the arrangement of perplexed affairs,
no health to make all the rest supportable. Her accommodations were
limited to a noisy parlour, and a dark bedroom behind, with no
possibility of moving from one to the other without assistance, which
there was only one servant in the house to afford, and she never
quitted the house but to be conveyed into the warm bath. Yet, in spite
of all this, Anne had reason to believe that she had moments only of
languor and depression, to hours of occupation and enjoyment. How
could it be? She watched, observed, reflected, and finally determined
that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A
submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply
resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of
mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily
from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of
herself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of
Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which,
by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost
every other want.
There had been a time, Mrs Smith told her, when her spirits had nearly
failed. She could not call herself an invalid now, compared with her
state on first reaching Bath. Then she had, indeed, been a pitiable
object; for she had caught cold on the journey, and had hardly taken
possession of her lodgings before she was again confined to her bed and
suffering under severe and constant pain; and all this among strangers,
with the absolute necessity of having a regular nurse, and finances at
that moment particularly unfit to meet any extraordinary expense. She
had weathered it, however, and could truly say that it had done her
good. It had increased her comforts by making her feel herself to be
in good hands. She had seen too much of the world, to expect sudden or
disinterested attachment anywhere, but her illness had proved to her
that her landlady had a character to preserve, and would not use her
ill; and she had been particularly fortunate in her nurse, as a sister
of her landlady, a nurse by profession, and who had always a home in
that house when unemployed, chanced to be at liberty just in time to
attend her. "And she," said Mrs Smith, "besides nursing me most
admirably, has really proved an invaluable acquaintance. As soon as I
could use my hands she taught me to knit, which has been a great
amusement; and she put me in the way of making these little
thread-cases, pin-cushions and card-racks, which you always find me so
busy about, and which supply me with the means of doing a little good
to one or two very poor families in this neighbourhood. She had a
large acquaintance, of course professionally, among those who can
afford to buy, and she disposes of my merchandise. She always takes
the right time for applying. Everybody's heart is open, you know, when
they have recently escaped from severe pain, or are recovering the
blessing of health, and Nurse Rooke thoroughly understands when to
speak. She is a shrewd, intelligent, sensible woman. Hers is a line
for seeing human nature; and she has a fund of good sense and
observation, which, as a companion, make her infinitely superior to
thousands of those who having only received 'the best education in the
world,' know nothing worth attending to. Call it gossip, if you will,
but when Nurse Rooke has half an hour's leisure to bestow on me, she is
sure to have something to relate that is entertaining and profitable:
something that makes one know one's species better. One likes to hear
what is going on, to be au fait as to the newest modes of being
trifling and silly. To me, who live so much alone, her conversation, I
assure you, is a treat."
Anne, far from wishing to cavil at the pleasure, replied, "I can easily
believe it. Women of that class have great opportunities, and if they
are intelligent may be well worth listening to. Such varieties of
human nature as they are in the habit of witnessing! And it is not
merely in its follies, that they are well read; for they see it
occasionally under every circumstance that can be most interesting or
affecting. What instances must pass before them of ardent,
disinterested, self-denying attachment, of heroism, fortitude,
patience, resignation: of all the conflicts and all the sacrifices
that ennoble us most. A sick chamber may often furnish the worth of
volumes."
"Yes," said Mrs Smith more doubtingly, "sometimes it may, though I fear
its lessons are not often in the elevated style you describe. Here and
there, human nature may be great in times of trial; but generally
speaking, it is its weakness and not its strength that appears in a
sick chamber: it is selfishness and impatience rather than generosity
and fortitude, that one hears of. There is so little real friendship
in the world! and unfortunately" (speaking low and tremulously) "there
are so many who forget to think seriously till it is almost too late."
Anne saw the misery of such feelings. The husband had not been what he
ought, and the wife had been led among that part of mankind which made
her think worse of the world than she hoped it deserved. It was but a
passing emotion however with Mrs Smith; she shook it off, and soon
added in a different tone--
"I do not suppose the situation my friend Mrs Rooke is in at present,
will furnish much either to interest or edify me. She is only nursing
Mrs Wallis of Marlborough Buildings; a mere pretty, silly, expensive,
fashionable woman, I believe; and of course will have nothing to report
but of lace and finery. I mean to make my profit of Mrs Wallis,
however. She has plenty of money, and I intend she shall buy all the
high-priced things I have in hand now."
Anne had called several times on her friend, before the existence of
such a person was known in Camden Place. At last, it became necessary
to speak of her. Sir Walter, Elizabeth and Mrs Clay, returned one
morning from Laura Place, with a sudden invitation from Lady Dalrymple
for the same evening, and Anne was already engaged, to spend that
evening in Westgate Buildings. She was not sorry for the excuse. They
were only asked, she was sure, because Lady Dalrymple being kept at
home by a bad cold, was glad to make use of the relationship which had
been so pressed on her; and she declined on her own account with great
alacrity--"She was engaged to spend the evening with an old
schoolfellow." They were not much interested in anything relative to
Anne; but still there were questions enough asked, to make it
understood what this old schoolfellow was; and Elizabeth was
disdainful, and Sir Walter severe.
"Westgate Buildings!" said he, "and who is Miss Anne Elliot to be
visiting in Westgate Buildings? A Mrs Smith. A widow Mrs Smith; and
who was her husband? One of five thousand Mr Smiths whose names are to
be met with everywhere. And what is her attraction? That she is old
and sickly. Upon my word, Miss Anne Elliot, you have the most
extraordinary taste! Everything that revolts other people, low
company, paltry rooms, foul air, disgusting associations are inviting
to you. But surely you may put off this old lady till to-morrow: she
is not so near her end, I presume, but that she may hope to see another
day. What is her age? Forty?"
"No, sir, she is not one-and-thirty; but I do not think I can put off
my engagement, because it is the only evening for some time which will
at once suit her and myself. She goes into the warm bath to-morrow,
and for the rest of the week, you know, we are engaged."
"But what does Lady Russell think of this acquaintance?" asked
Elizabeth.
"She sees nothing to blame in it," replied Anne; "on the contrary, she
approves it, and has generally taken me when I have called on Mrs
Smith."
"Westgate Buildings must have been rather surprised by the appearance
of a carriage drawn up near its pavement," observed Sir Walter. "Sir
Henry Russell's widow, indeed, has no honours to distinguish her arms,
but still it is a handsome equipage, and no doubt is well known to
convey a Miss Elliot. A widow Mrs Smith lodging in Westgate Buildings!
A poor widow barely able to live, between thirty and forty; a mere Mrs
Smith, an every-day Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the
world, to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot, and to be preferred
by her to her own family connections among the nobility of England and
Ireland! Mrs Smith! Such a name!"
Mrs Clay, who had been present while all this passed, now thought it
advisable to leave the room, and Anne could have said much, and did
long to say a little in defence of her friend's not very dissimilar
claims to theirs, but her sense of personal respect to her father
prevented her. She made no reply. She left it to himself to
recollect, that Mrs Smith was not the only widow in Bath between thirty
and forty, with little to live on, and no surname of dignity.
Anne kept her appointment; the others kept theirs, and of course she
heard the next morning that they had had a delightful evening. She had
been the only one of the set absent, for Sir Walter and Elizabeth had
not only been quite at her ladyship's service themselves, but had
actually been happy to be employed by her in collecting others, and had
been at the trouble of inviting both Lady Russell and Mr Elliot; and Mr
Elliot had made a point of leaving Colonel Wallis early, and Lady
Russell had fresh arranged all her evening engagements in order to wait
on her. Anne had the whole history of all that such an evening could
supply from Lady Russell. To her, its greatest interest must be, in
having been very much talked of between her friend and Mr Elliot; in
having been wished for, regretted, and at the same time honoured for
staying away in such a cause. Her kind, compassionate visits to this
old schoolfellow, sick and reduced, seemed to have quite delighted Mr
Elliot. He thought her a most extraordinary young woman; in her
temper, manners, mind, a model of female excellence. He could meet
even Lady Russell in a discussion of her merits; and Anne could not be
given to understand so much by her friend, could not know herself to be
so highly rated by a sensible man, without many of those agreeable
sensations which her friend meant to create.
Lady Russell was now perfectly decided in her opinion of Mr Elliot.
She was as much convinced of his meaning to gain Anne in time as of his
deserving her, and was beginning to calculate the number of weeks which
would free him from all the remaining restraints of widowhood, and
leave him at liberty to exert his most open powers of pleasing. She
would not speak to Anne with half the certainty she felt on the
subject, she would venture on little more than hints of what might be
hereafter, of a possible attachment on his side, of the desirableness
of the alliance, supposing such attachment to be real and returned.
Anne heard her, and made no violent exclamations; she only smiled,
blushed, and gently shook her head.
"I am no match-maker, as you well know," said Lady Russell, "being much
too well aware of the uncertainty of all human events and calculations.
I only mean that if Mr Elliot should some time hence pay his addresses
to you, and if you should be disposed to accept him, I think there
would be every possibility of your being happy together. A most
suitable connection everybody must consider it, but I think it might be
a very happy one."
"Mr Elliot is an exceedingly agreeable man, and in many respects I
think highly of him," said Anne; "but we should not suit."
Lady Russell let this pass, and only said in rejoinder, "I own that to
be able to regard you as the future mistress of Kellynch, the future
Lady Elliot, to look forward and see you occupying your dear mother's
place, succeeding to all her rights, and all her popularity, as well as
to all her virtues, would be the highest possible gratification to me.
You are your mother's self in countenance and disposition; and if I
might be allowed to fancy you such as she was, in situation and name,
and home, presiding and blessing in the same spot, and only superior to
her in being more highly valued! My dearest Anne, it would give me
more delight than is often felt at my time of life!"
Anne was obliged to turn away, to rise, to walk to a distant table,
and, leaning there in pretended employment, try to subdue the feelings
this picture excited. For a few moments her imagination and her heart
were bewitched. The idea of becoming what her mother had been; of
having the precious name of "Lady Elliot" first revived in herself; of
being restored to Kellynch, calling it her home again, her home for
ever, was a charm which she could not immediately resist. Lady Russell
said not another word, willing to leave the matter to its own
operation; and believing that, could Mr Elliot at that moment with
propriety have spoken for himself!--she believed, in short, what Anne
did not believe. The same image of Mr Elliot speaking for himself
brought Anne to composure again. The charm of Kellynch and of "Lady
Elliot" all faded away. She never could accept him. And it was not
only that her feelings were still adverse to any man save one; her
judgement, on a serious consideration of the possibilities of such a
case was against Mr Elliot.
Though they had now been acquainted a month, she could not be satisfied
that she really knew his character. That he was a sensible man, an
agreeable man, that he talked well, professed good opinions, seemed to
judge properly and as a man of principle, this was all clear enough.
He certainly knew what was right, nor could she fix on any one article
of moral duty evidently transgressed; but yet she would have been
afraid to answer for his conduct. She distrusted the past, if not the
present. The names which occasionally dropt of former associates, the
allusions to former practices and pursuits, suggested suspicions not
favourable of what he had been. She saw that there had been bad
habits; that Sunday travelling had been a common thing; that there had
been a period of his life (and probably not a short one) when he had
been, at least, careless in all serious matters; and, though he might
now think very differently, who could answer for the true sentiments of
a clever, cautious man, grown old enough to appreciate a fair
character? How could it ever be ascertained that his mind was truly
cleansed?
Mr Elliot was rational, discreet, polished, but he was not open. There
was never any burst of feeling, any warmth of indignation or delight,
at the evil or good of others. This, to Anne, was a decided
imperfection. Her early impressions were incurable. She prized the
frank, the open-hearted, the eager character beyond all others. Warmth
and enthusiasm did captivate her still. She felt that she could so
much more depend upon the sincerity of those who sometimes looked or
said a careless or a hasty thing, than of those whose presence of mind
never varied, whose tongue never slipped.
Mr Elliot was too generally agreeable. Various as were the tempers in
her father's house, he pleased them all. He endured too well, stood
too well with every body. He had spoken to her with some degree of
openness of Mrs Clay; had appeared completely to see what Mrs Clay was
about, and to hold her in contempt; and yet Mrs Clay found him as
agreeable as any body.
Lady Russell saw either less or more than her young friend, for she saw
nothing to excite distrust. She could not imagine a man more exactly
what he ought to be than Mr Elliot; nor did she ever enjoy a sweeter
feeling than the hope of seeing him receive the hand of her beloved
Anne in Kellynch church, in the course of the following autumn. | Anne hears that an old school friend of hers, Miss Hamilton now Mrs. Smith, is in Bath. After school, Mrs. Smith had married a rich man, but he was extravagant. Two years ago, he had died, leaving her a widow and deeply in debt. Soon afterwards, s he contracted rheumatic fever and was crippled by her illness. Anne decides that she must go visit her old friend, who is now almost entirely excluded from society. When she visits Mrs. Smith, she finds that her friend's good spirits and good manners have not left her, though she is now in an awful situation. Mrs. Smith makes a living by selling her needlework to the wealthier women of Bath. They re-establish their f riendship and Anne promises to visit often. One night, the Elliots receive an invitation to the Dalrymples' place, and Anne tells her family she must decline it because she has an engagement to visit Mrs. Smith. Sir Walter is horrified that Anne should be visiting such a poor neighborhood and is appalled that she chooses to associate with someone so much lower in consequence than herself. The dinner party allows Mr. Elliot and Lady Russell to talk. Mr. Elliot expresses his high regard for Anne's character, and Lady Russell becomes convinced that he means to court Anne and not Elizabeth. This decision pleases Lady Russell immens ely, as she would love to see Anne, her favorite, holding her mother's place as Lady Elliot of Kellynch Hall. She thinks Anne is just like her mother in disposition and virtue. Though Anne loves the idea of becoming the future Lady Elliot, she remains sus picious of Mr. Elliot's motives and character. She finds him agreeable, but neither warm nor open |
SCENE 3.
Plains in Gascony
Enter YORK, with trumpet and many soldiers. A
MESSENGER meets him
YORK. Are not the speedy scouts return'd again
That dogg'd the mighty army of the Dauphin?
MESSENGER. They are return'd, my lord, and give it out
That he is march'd to Bordeaux with his power
To fight with Talbot; as he march'd along,
By your espials were discovered
Two mightier troops than that the Dauphin led,
Which join'd with him and made their march for
Bordeaux.
YORK. A plague upon that villain Somerset
That thus delays my promised supply
Of horsemen that were levied for this siege!
Renowned Talbot doth expect my aid,
And I am louted by a traitor villain
And cannot help the noble chevalier.
God comfort him in this necessity!
If he miscarry, farewell wars in France.
Enter SIR WILLIAM LUCY
LUCY. Thou princely leader of our English strength,
Never so needful on the earth of France,
Spur to the rescue of the noble Talbot,
Who now is girdled with a waist of iron
And hemm'd about with grim destruction.
To Bordeaux, warlike Duke! to Bordeaux, York!
Else, farewell Talbot, France, and England's honour.
YORK. O God, that Somerset, who in proud heart
Doth stop my cornets, were in Talbot's place!
So should we save a valiant gentleman
By forfeiting a traitor and a coward.
Mad ire and wrathful fury makes me weep
That thus we die while remiss traitors sleep.
LUCY. O, send some succour to the distress'd lord!
YORK. He dies; we lose; I break my warlike word.
We mourn: France smiles. We lose: they daily get-
All long of this vile traitor Somerset.
LUCY. Then God take mercy on brave Talbot's soul,
And on his son, young John, who two hours since
I met in travel toward his warlike father.
This seven years did not Talbot see his son;
And now they meet where both their lives are done.
YORK. Alas, what joy shall noble Talbot have
To bid his young son welcome to his grave?
Away! vexation almost stops my breath,
That sund'red friends greet in the hour of death.
Lucy, farewell; no more my fortune can
But curse the cause I cannot aid the man.
Maine, Blois, Poictiers, and Tours, are won away
Long all of Somerset and his delay. Exit with forces
LUCY. Thus, while the vulture of sedition
Feeds in the bosom of such great commanders,
Sleeping neglection doth betray to loss
The conquest of our scarce cold conqueror,
That ever-living man of memory,
Henry the Fifth. Whiles they each other cross,
Lives, honours, lands, and all, hurry to loss. Exit | Talbot might get help, if York and Somerset could just agree. Messengers keep trying to convince them to help Talbot, and each says he can't and blames the other. We find out that Talbot's son has come out to help his father, and they may die together if York and Somerset don't find a way to help. One of the messengers, Sir William Lucy, says the feud between Somerset and York is betraying the memory of Henry V, because it's causing the English to lose what he won. Somerset finally says he'll send some horsemen, but Sir William Lucy fears it will be too late, since they will take six hours to get there. Lucy tells Somerset if Talbot is dead "His fame lives in the world, his shame in you" , likely meaning that Talbot's courage will be remembered, but that Talbot would have been ashamed of Somerset's behavior. |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Bastard.
Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law
My seruices are bound, wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custome, and permit
The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?
For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines
Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My minde as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs
With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?
Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce qualitie,
Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed
Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,
Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,
As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,
And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base
Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards.
Enter Gloucester.
Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?
And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,
Confin'd to exhibition? All this done
Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?
Bast. So please your Lordship, none
Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?
Bast. I know no newes, my Lord
Glou. What Paper were you reading?
Bast. Nothing my Lord
Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of
it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not
such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,
I shall not neede Spectacles
Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter
from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so
much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking
Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir
Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:
The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,
Are too blame
Glou. Let's see, let's see
Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote
this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue
Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the
world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from
vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle
and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes
not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of
this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd
him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the
beloued of your Brother. Edgar.
Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should
enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a
hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?
When came you to this? Who brought it?
Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the
cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of
my Closset
Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?
Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear
it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it
were not
Glou. It is his
Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is
not in the Contents
Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?
Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine
it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers
declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and
the Sonne manage his Reuennew
Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.
Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish
Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile
apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?
Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to
suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can
deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold
run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of
his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that
he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &
to no other pretence of danger
Glou. Thinke you so?
Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you
where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular
assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without
any further delay, then this very Euening
Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke
him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse
after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my
selfe, to be in a due resolution
Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse
as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall
Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend
no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can
reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd
by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,
Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;
in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt
Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the
prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from
byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue
seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,
treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly
to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose
thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted
Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.
Exit
Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that
when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own
behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the
Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,
Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and
Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,
and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary
influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting
on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,
to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,
My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons
taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so
that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should
haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:
my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom
o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.
Fa, Sol, La, Me
Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation
are you in?
Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this
other day, what should follow these Eclipses
Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?
Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede
vnhappily.
When saw you my Father last?
Edg. The night gone by
Bast. Spake you with him?
Edg. I, two houres together
Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure
in him, by word, nor countenance?
Edg. None at all,
Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended
him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill
some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,
which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe
of your person, it would scarsely alay
Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong
Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as
I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will
fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,
there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd
Edg. Arm'd, Brother?
Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest
man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told
you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing
like the image, and horror of it, pray you away
Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?
Enter.
Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:
A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,
Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie
My practises ride easie: I see the businesse.
Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,
All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.
Enter. | The scene centers around Edmund, at first alone on stage, crying out against his position as bastard to the material world. He is envious of Edgar, the legitimate son, and wishes to gain what he has by forging a treasonous letter concerning Gloucester from Edgar. Gloucester enters, amazed at the events which have occurred during the last scene. He wishes to know why Edmund is hiding a letter and demands to see it. He shrewdly acts as if he is embarrassed to show it to Gloucester and continually makes excuses for Edgar's apparent behavior. Gloucester reads the letter detailing "Edgar's" call to Edmund to take their father's land from him. Edmund asks that he not make too quick a judgment before they talk to Edgar as perhaps he is simply testing Edmund. He suggests forming a meeting where Edmund can ask Edgar about his proposals while Gloucester listens in secret. Gloucester agrees, musing on the effects of nature and its predictions. He leaves directly before Edgar enters. Edmund brings up the astronomical predictions he had discussed with Gloucester and alerts Edgar that Gloucester is very upset with him, though he knows not why. Edmund offers to take Edgar back to his lodging until he can bring he and Gloucester together and advises him to go armed. Edgar leaves and Edmund notes that he will soon take his due through wit |
SCENE III.
The garden of the castle.
Enter Desdemona, Cassio, and Emilia.
DESDEMONA. Be thou assured, good Cassio, I will do
All my abilities in thy behalf.
EMILIA. Good madam, do. I warrant it grieves my husband
As if the cause were his.
DESDEMONA. O, that's an honest fellow. Do not doubt, Cassio,
But I will have my lord and you again
As friendly as you were.
CASSIO. Bounteous madam,
Whatever shall become of Michael Cassio,
He's never anything but your true servant.
DESDEMONA. I know't: I thank you. You do love my lord:
You have known him long; and be you well assured
He shall in strangeness stand no farther off
Than in a politic distance.
CASSIO. Ay, but, lady,
That policy may either last so long,
Or feed upon such nice and waterish diet,
Or breed itself so out of circumstances,
That I being absent and my place supplied,
My general will forget my love and service.
DESDEMONA. Do not doubt that. Before Emilia here
I give thee warrant of thy place, assure thee,
If I do vow a friendship, I'll perform it
To the last article. My lord shall never rest;
I'll watch him tame and talk him out of patience;
His bed shall seem a school, his board a shrift;
I'll intermingle everything he does
With Cassio's suit. Therefore be merry, Cassio,
For thy solicitor shall rather die
Than give thy cause away.
Enter Othello and Iago, at a distance.
EMILIA. Madam, here comes my lord.
CASSIO. Madam, I'll take my leave.
DESDEMONA. Nay, stay and hear me speak.
CASSIO. Madam, not now. I am very ill at ease,
Unfit for mine own purposes.
DESDEMONA. Well, do your discretion. Exit
Cassio.
IAGO. Ha! I like not that.
OTHELLO. What dost thou say?
IAGO. Nothing, my lord; or if--I know not what.
OTHELLO. Was not that Cassio parted from my wife?
IAGO. Cassio, my lord! No, sure, I cannot think it,
That he would steal away so guilty-like,
Seeing you coming.
OTHELLO. I do believe 'twas he.
DESDEMONA. How now, my lord!
I have been talking with a suitor here,
A man that languishes in your displeasure.
OTHELLO. Who is't you mean?
DESDEMONA. Why, your lieutenant, Cassio. Good my lord,
If I have any grace or power to move you,
His present reconciliation take;
For if he be not one that truly loves you,
That errs in ignorance and not in cunning,
I have no judgement in an honest face.
I prithee, call him back.
OTHELLO. Went he hence now?
DESDEMONA. Ay, sooth; so humbled
That he hath left part of his grief with me
To suffer with him. Good love, call him back.
OTHELLO. Not now, sweet Desdemona; some other time.
DESDEMONA. But shall't be shortly?
OTHELLO. The sooner, sweet, for you.
DESDEMONA. Shall't be tonight at supper?
OTHELLO. No, not tonight.
DESDEMONA. Tomorrow dinner then?
OTHELLO. I shall not dine at home;
I meet the captains at the citadel.
DESDEMONA. Why then tomorrow night, or Tuesday morn,
On Tuesday noon, or night, on Wednesday morn.
I prithee, name the time, but let it not
Exceed three days. In faith, he's penitent;
And yet his trespass, in our common reason--
Save that, they say, the wars must make example
Out of their best--is not almost a fault
To incur a private check. When shall he come?
Tell me, Othello. I wonder in my soul,
What you would ask me, that I should deny,
Or stand so mammering on. What? Michael Cassio,
That came awooing with you, and so many a time
When I have spoke of you dispraisingly
Hath ta'en your part--to have so much to do
To bring him in! Trust me, I could do much--
OTHELLO. Prithee, no more. Let him come when he will;
I will deny thee nothing.
DESDEMONA. Why, this is not a boon;
'Tis as I should entreat you wear your gloves,
Or feed on nourishing dishes, or keep you warm,
Or sue to you to do a peculiar profit
To your own person. Nay, when I have a suit
Wherein I mean to touch your love indeed,
It shall be full of poise and difficult weight,
And fearful to be granted.
OTHELLO. I will deny thee nothing,
Whereon, I do beseech thee, grant me this,
To leave me but a little to myself.
DESDEMONA. Shall I deny you? No. Farewell, my lord.
OTHELLO. Farewell, my Desdemona; I'll come to thee straight.
DESDEMONA. Emilia, come. Be as your fancies teach you;
Whate'er you be, I am obedient.
Exeunt Desdemona and
Emilia.
OTHELLO. Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul,
But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,
Chaos is come again.
IAGO. My noble lord--
OTHELLO. What dost thou say, Iago?
IAGO. Did Michael Cassio, when you woo'd my lady,
Know of your love?
OTHELLO. He did, from first to last. Why dost thou ask?
IAGO. But for a satisfaction of my thought;
No further harm.
OTHELLO. Why of thy thought, Iago?
IAGO. I did not think he had been acquainted with her.
OTHELLO. O, yes, and went between us very oft.
IAGO. Indeed!
OTHELLO. Indeed? ay, indeed. Discern'st thou aught in that?
Is he not honest?
IAGO. Honest, my lord?
OTHELLO. Honest? Ay, honest.
IAGO. My lord, for aught I know.
OTHELLO. What dost thou think?
IAGO. Think, my lord?
OTHELLO. Think, my lord? By heaven, he echoes me,
As if there were some monster in his thought
Too hideous to be shown. Thou dost mean something.
I heard thee say even now, thou like'st not that,
When Cassio left my wife. What didst not like?
And when I told thee he was of my counsel
In my whole course of wooing, thou criedst, "Indeed!"
And didst contract and purse thy brow together,
As if thou then hadst shut up in thy brain
Some horrible conceit. If thou dost love me,
Show me thy thought.
IAGO. My lord, you know I love you.
OTHELLO. I think thou dost;
And for I know thou'rt full of love and honesty
And weigh'st thy words before thou givest them breath,
Therefore these stops of thine fright me the more;
For such things in a false disloyal knave
Are tricks of custom; but in a man that's just
They're close dilations, working from the heart,
That passion cannot rule.
IAGO. For Michael Cassio,
I dare be sworn I think that he is honest.
OTHELLO. I think so too.
IAGO. Men should be what they seem;
Or those that be not, would they might seem none!
OTHELLO. Certain, men should be what they seem.
IAGO. Why then I think Cassio's an honest man.
OTHELLO. Nay, yet there's more in this.
I prithee, speak to me as to thy thinkings,
As thou dost ruminate, and give thy worst of thoughts
The worst of words.
IAGO. Good my lord, pardon me;
Though I am bound to every act of duty,
I am not bound to that all slaves are free to.
Utter my thoughts? Why, say they are vile and false;
As where's that palace whereinto foul things
Sometimes intrude not? Who has a breast so pure,
But some uncleanly apprehensions
Keep leets and law-days, and in session sit
With meditations lawful?
OTHELLO. Thou dost conspire against thy friend, Iago,
If thou but think'st him wrong'd and makest his ear
A stranger to thy thoughts.
IAGO. I do beseech you--
Though I perchance am vicious in my guess,
As, I confess, it is my nature's plague
To spy into abuses, and oft my jealousy
Shapes faults that are not--that your wisdom yet,
From one that so imperfectly conceits,
Would take no notice, nor build yourself a trouble
Out of his scattering and unsure observance.
It were not for your quiet nor your good,
Nor for my manhood, honesty, or wisdom,
To let you know my thoughts.
OTHELLO. What dost thou mean?
IAGO. Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls.
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him
And makes me poor indeed.
OTHELLO. By heaven, I'll know thy thoughts.
IAGO. You cannot, if my heart were in your hand;
Nor shall not, whilst 'tis in my custody.
OTHELLO. Ha!
IAGO. O, beware, my lord, of jealousy!
It is the green-eyed monster, which doth mock
The meat it feeds on. That cuckold lives in bliss
Who, certain of his fate, loves not his wronger;
But O, what damned minutes tells he o'er
Who dotes, yet doubts, suspects, yet strongly loves!
OTHELLO. O misery!
IAGO. Poor and content is rich, and rich enough;
But riches fineless is as poor as winter
To him that ever fears he shall be poor.
Good heaven, the souls of all my tribe defend
From jealousy!
OTHELLO. Why, why is this?
Think'st thou I'ld make a life of jealousy,
To follow still the changes of the moon
With fresh suspicions? No! To be once in doubt
Is once to be resolved. Exchange me for a goat
When I shall turn the business of my soul
To such exsufflicate and blown surmises,
Matching thy inference. 'Tis not to make me jealous
To say my wife is fair, feeds well, loves company,
Is free of speech, sings, plays, and dances well;
Where virtue is, these are more virtuous.
Nor from mine own weak merits will I draw
The smallest fear or doubt of her revolt;
For she had eyes and chose me. No, Iago,
I'll see before I doubt; when I doubt, prove;
And on the proof, there is no more but this--
Away at once with love or jealousy!
IAGO. I am glad of it, for now I shall have reason
To show the love and duty that I bear you
With franker spirit. Therefore, as I am bound,
Receive it from me. I speak not yet of proof.
Look to your wife; observe her well with Cassio;
Wear your eye thus, not jealous nor secure.
I would not have your free and noble nature
Out of self-bounty be abused. Look to't.
I know our country disposition well;
In Venice they do let heaven see the pranks
They dare not show their husbands; their best conscience
Is not to leave't undone, but keep't unknown.
OTHELLO. Dost thou say so?
IAGO. She did deceive her father, marrying you;
And when she seem'd to shake and fear your looks,
She loved them most.
OTHELLO. And so she did.
IAGO. Why, go to then.
She that so young could give out such a seeming,
To seal her father's eyes up close as oak--
He thought 'twas witchcraft--but I am much to blame;
I humbly do beseech you of your pardon
For too much loving you.
OTHELLO. I am bound to thee forever.
IAGO. I see this hath a little dash'd your spirits.
OTHELLO. Not a jot, not a jot.
IAGO. I'faith, I fear it has.
I hope you will consider what is spoke
Comes from my love. But I do see you're moved;
I am to pray you not to strain my speech
To grosser issues nor to larger reach
Than to suspicion.
OTHELLO. I will not.
IAGO. Should you do so, my lord,
My speech should fall into such vile success
Which my thoughts aim not at. Cassio's my worthy friend--
My lord, I see you're moved.
OTHELLO. No, not much moved.
I do not think but Desdemona's honest.
IAGO. Long live she so! and long live you to think so!
OTHELLO. And yet, how nature erring from itself--
IAGO. Ay, there's the point, as--to be bold with you--
Not to affect many proposed matches
Of her own clime, complexion, and degree,
Whereto we see in all things nature tends--
Foh, one may smell in such a will most rank,
Foul disproportion, thoughts unnatural.
But pardon me. I do not in position
Distinctly speak of her; though I may fear,
Her will, recoiling to her better judgement,
May fall to match you with her country forms,
And happily repent.
OTHELLO. Farewell, farewell.
If more thou dost perceive, let me know more;
Set on thy wife to observe. Leave me, Iago.
IAGO. [Going.] My lord, I take my leave.
OTHELLO. Why did I marry? This honest creature doubtless
Sees and knows more, much more, than he unfolds.
IAGO. [Returning.] My lord, I would I might entreat your honor
To scan this thing no further; leave it to time.
Though it be fit that Cassio have his place,
For sure he fills it up with great ability,
Yet, if you please to hold him off awhile,
You shall by that perceive him and his means.
Note if your lady strain his entertainment
With any strong or vehement importunity;
Much will be seen in that. In the meantime,
Let me be thought too busy in my fears--
As worthy cause I have to fear I am--
And hold her free, I do beseech your honor.
OTHELLO. Fear not my government.
IAGO. I once more take my leave.
Exit.
OTHELLO. This fellow's of exceeding honesty,
And knows all qualities, with a learned spirit,
Of human dealings. If I do prove her haggard,
Though that her jesses were my dear heartstrings,
I'ld whistle her off and let her down the wind
To prey at fortune. Haply, for I am black
And have not those soft parts of conversation
That chamberers have, or for I am declined
Into the vale of years--yet that's not much--
She's gone. I am abused, and my relief
Must be to loathe her. O curse of marriage,
That we can call these delicate creatures ours,
And not their appetites! I had rather be a toad,
And live upon the vapor of a dungeon,
Than keep a corner in the thing I love
For others' uses. Yet, 'tis the plague of great ones:
Prerogatived are they less than the base;
'Tis destiny unshunnable, like death.
Even then this forked plague is fated to us
When we do quicken. Desdemona comes:
Re-enter Desdemona and Emilia.
If she be false, O, then heaven mocks itself!
I'll not believe't.
DESDEMONA. How now, my dear Othello!
Your dinner, and the generous islanders
By you invited, do attend your presence.
OTHELLO. I am to blame.
DESDEMONA. Why do you speak so faintly?
Are you not well?
OTHELLO. I have a pain upon my forehead here.
DESDEMONA. Faith, that's with watching; 'twill away again.
Let me but bind it hard, within this hour
It will be well.
OTHELLO. Your napkin is too little;
He puts the handkerchief from him, and she drops it.
Let it alone. Come, I'll go in with you.
DESDEMONA. I am very sorry that you are not well.
Exeunt Othello and
Desdemona.
EMILIA. I am glad I have found this napkin;
This was her first remembrance from the Moor.
My wayward husband hath a hundred times
Woo'd me to steal it; but she so loves the token,
For he conjured her she should ever keep it,
That she reserves it evermore about her
To kiss and talk to. I'll have the work ta'en out,
And give't Iago. What he will do with it
Heaven knows, not I;
I nothing but to please his fantasy.
Re-enter Iago.
IAGO. How now, what do you here alone?
EMILIA. Do not you chide; I have a thing for you.
IAGO. A thing for me? It is a common thing--
EMILIA. Ha!
IAGO. To have a foolish wife.
EMILIA. O, is that all? What will you give me now
For that same handkerchief?
IAGO. What handkerchief?
EMILIA. What handkerchief?
Why, that the Moor first gave to Desdemona,
That which so often you did bid me steal.
IAGO. Hast stol'n it from her?
EMILIA. No, faith; she let it drop by negligence,
And, to the advantage, I being here took't up.
Look, here it is.
IAGO. A good wench; give it me.
EMILIA. What will you do with't, that you have been so earnest
To have me filch it?
IAGO. [Snatching it.] Why, what is that to you?
EMILIA. If't be not for some purpose of import,
Give't me again. Poor lady, she'll run mad
When she shall lack it.
IAGO. Be not acknown on't; I have use for it.
Go, leave me. Exit
Emilia.
I will in Cassio's lodging lose this napkin,
And let him find it. Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ; this may do something.
The Moor already changes with my poison:
Dangerous conceits are in their natures poisons,
Which at the first are scarce found to distaste,
But with a little act upon the blood
Burn like the mines of sulphur. I did say so.
Look, where he comes!
Re-enter Othello.
Not poppy, nor mandragora,
Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,
Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep
Which thou owedst yesterday.
OTHELLO. Ha, ha, false to me?
IAGO. Why, how now, general! No more of that.
OTHELLO. Avaunt! be gone! Thou hast set me on the rack.
I swear 'tis better to be much abused
Than but to know't a little.
IAGO. How now, my lord?
OTHELLO. What sense had I of her stol'n hours of lust?
I saw't not, thought it not, it harm'd not me;
I slept the next night well, was free and merry;
I found not Cassio's kisses on her lips.
He that is robb'd, not wanting what is stol'n,
Let him not know't and he's not robb'd at all.
IAGO. I am sorry to hear this.
OTHELLO. I had been happy if the general camp,
Pioners and all, had tasted her sweet body,
So I had nothing known. O, now forever
Farewell the tranquil mind! Farewell content!
Farewell the plumed troop and the big wars
That make ambition virtue! O, farewell,
Farewell the neighing steed and the shrill trump,
The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife,
The royal banner, and all quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war!
And O you mortal engines, whose rude throats
The immortal Jove's dread clamors counterfeit,
Farewell! Othello's occupation's gone!
IAGO. Is't possible, my lord?
OTHELLO. Villain, be sure thou prove my love a whore;
Be sure of it. Give me the ocular proof;
Or, by the worth of man's eternal soul,
Thou hadst been better have been born a dog
Than answer my waked wrath!
IAGO. Is't come to this?
OTHELLO. Make me to see't; or at the least so prove it,
That the probation bear no hinge nor loop
To hang a doubt on; or woe upon thy life!
IAGO. My noble lord--
OTHELLO. If thou dost slander her and torture me,
Never pray more; abandon all remorse;
On horror's head horrors accumulate;
Do deeds to make heaven weep, all earth amazed;
For nothing canst thou to damnation add
Greater than that.
IAGO. O grace! O heaven defend me!
Are you a man? have you a soul or sense?
God be wi' you; take mine office. O wretched fool,
That livest to make thine honesty a vice!
O monstrous world! Take note, take note, O world,
To be direct and honest is not safe.
I thank you for this profit, and from hence
I'll love no friend sith love breeds such offense.
OTHELLO. Nay, stay; thou shouldst be honest.
IAGO. I should be wise; for honesty's a fool,
And loses that it works for.
OTHELLO. By the world,
I think my wife be honest, and think she is not;
I think that thou art just, and think thou art not.
I'll have some proof. Her name, that was as fresh
As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black
As mine own face. If there be cords or knives,
Poison or fire, or suffocating streams,
I'll not endure it. Would I were satisfied!
IAGO. I see, sir, you are eaten up with passion;
I do repent me that I put it to you.
You would be satisfied?
OTHELLO. Would? Nay, I will.
IAGO. And may. But, how? how satisfied, my lord?
Would you, the supervisor, grossly gape on?
Behold her topp'd?
OTHELLO. Death and damnation! O!
IAGO. It were a tedious difficulty, I think,
To bring them to that prospect. Damn them then,
If ever mortal eyes do see them bolster
More than their own! What then? how then?
What shall I say? Where's satisfaction?
It is impossible you should see this
Were they as prime as goats, as hot as monkeys,
As salt as wolves in pride, and fools as gross
As ignorance made drunk. But yet, I say,
If imputation and strong circumstances,
Which lead directly to the door of truth,
Will give you satisfaction, you may have't.
OTHELLO. Give me a living reason she's disloyal.
IAGO. I do not like the office;
But sith I am enter'd in this cause so far,
Prick'd to't by foolish honesty and love,
I will go on. I lay with Cassio lately
And, being troubled with a raging tooth,
I could not sleep.
There are a kind of men so loose of soul,
That in their sleeps will mutter their affairs;
One of this kind is Cassio.
In sleep I heard him say, "Sweet Desdemona,
Let us be wary, let us hide our loves";
And then, sir, would he gripe and wring my hand,
Cry, "O sweet creature!" and then kiss me hard,
As if he pluck'd up kisses by the roots,
That grew upon my lips; then laid his leg
Over my thigh, and sigh'd and kiss'd; and then
Cried, "Cursed fate that gave thee to the Moor!"
OTHELLO. O monstrous! monstrous!
IAGO. Nay, this was but his dream.
OTHELLO. But this denoted a foregone conclusion.
'Tis a shrewd doubt, though it be but a dream.
IAGO. And this may help to thicken other proofs
That do demonstrate thinly.
OTHELLO. I'll tear her all to pieces.
IAGO. Nay, but be wise; yet we see nothing done;
She may be honest yet. Tell me but this;
Have you not sometimes seen a handkerchief
Spotted with strawberries in your wife's hand?
OTHELLO. I gave her such a one; 'twas my first gift.
IAGO. I know not that; but such a handkerchief--
I am sure it was your wife's--did I today
See Cassio wipe his beard with.
OTHELLO. If it be that--
IAGO. If it be that, or any that was hers,
It speaks against her with the other proofs.
OTHELLO. O, that the slave had forty thousand lives!
One is too poor, too weak for my revenge.
Now do I see 'tis true. Look here, Iago,
All my fond love thus do I blow to heaven.
'Tis gone.
Arise, black vengeance, from thy hollow hell!
Yield up, O love, thy crown and hearted throne
To tyrannous hate! Swell, bosom, with thy fraught,
For 'tis of aspics' tongues!
IAGO. Yet be content.
OTHELLO. O, blood, blood, blood!
IAGO. Patience, I say; your mind perhaps may change.
OTHELLO. Never, Iago. Like to the Pontic Sea,
Whose icy current and compulsive course
Ne'er feels retiring ebb, but keeps due on
To the Propontic and the Hellespont,
Even so my bloody thoughts, with violent pace,
Shall ne'er look back, ne'er ebb to humble love,
Till that a capable and wide revenge
Swallow them up. Now, by yond marble heaven,
In the due reverence of a sacred vow
Kneels.
I here engage my words.
IAGO. Do not rise yet.
Kneels.
Witness, you ever-burning lights above,
You elements that clip us round about,
Witness that here Iago doth give up
The execution of his wit, hands, heart,
To wrong'd Othello's service! Let him command,
And to obey shall be in me remorse,
What bloody business ever. They
rise.
OTHELLO. I greet thy love,
Not with vain thanks, but with acceptance bounteous,
And will upon the instant put thee to't:
Within these three days let me hear thee say
That Cassio's not alive.
IAGO. My friend is dead, 'tis done at your request;
But let her live.
OTHELLO. Damn her, lewd minx! O, damn her!
Come, go with me apart; I will withdraw,
To furnish me with some swift means of death
For the fair devil. Now art thou my lieutenant.
IAGO. I am your own forever.
Exeunt. | Cassio speaks to Desdemona, asking her to intercede with Othello on his behalf. Desdemona willingly agrees, knowing that Cassio is an old friend of Othello's. She promises to speak of him with her husband repeatedly until the quarrel is patched up and Cassio is recalled. When Othello and Iago enter, Cassio, who is embarrassed because of his antics the previous night, embraces Desdemona and departs. Iago seizes the opportunity to make an undermining comment -- "Ha, I like not that" -- that rankles in Othello's mind. Desdemona speaks of Cassio, and Othello, to please her, agrees to see him, but he is distracted by his private thoughts. In a conversation with Iago, in which Iago continues to imply that he knows something that he refuses to divulge, Othello denies that he would give himself over to jealousy. In his denial, he shows himself most vulnerable. He is consumed with doubt and suspicion. Othello voices his old fears that Brabantio was right, that it was unnatural for Desdemona to love him, that he was too horrible to be loved, and that it could not last. Iago leaves, and Othello contemplates his situation: He could be tricked, married to a woman who is already looking at other men, and he fears that he must wipe her out of his heart. He tries to tell himself that it is not true. When Desdemona re-enters, Othello's aspect is changed; he watches her intently, looking for signs, and brushes away her handkerchief when she seeks to sooth him. They go in to dinner, and Emilia picks up the fallen handkerchief, one that her husband, Iago, often urged her to steal from Desdemona. Emilia decides to have a copy made to give to Iago, but he enters, sees the handkerchief, and snatches it from her. When Othello enters, Iago sees that Othello cannot regain his peace of mind. His speech is fevered, sweeping and frantic; he believes that his wife has been unfaithful to him. Othello then turns on Iago with savage intensity and demands to see the proof of Desdemona's infidelity. Cornered, Iago produces the dream story: Cassio spoke in his sleep, embraced him, called him Desdemona, and cursed the Moor. Iago tells Othello that he has seen Cassio wipe his brow with a handkerchief embroidered with strawberries; Othello recognizes this handkerchief as the one he gave to Desdemona. Othello dismisses love and calls for vengeance. Certainty has freed his mind from doubt and confusion. Now he swears action, and Iago swears to help him. Othello wants Cassio dead, Iago agrees to do it, and then Othello wonders how to kill Desdemona. |
At the moment when that pyramid of fire rose to a prodigious
height into the air, the glare of flame lit up the whole of
Florida; and for a moment day superseded night over a
considerable extent of the country. This immense canopy of fire
was perceived at a distance of one hundred miles out at sea, and
more than one ship's captain entered in his log the appearance
of this gigantic meteor.
The discharge of the Columbiad was accompanied by a
perfect earthquake. Florida was shaken to its very depths.
The gases of the powder, expanded by heat, forced back the
atmospheric strata with tremendous violence, and this
artificial hurricane rushed like a water-spout through the air.
Not a single spectator remained on his feet! Men, women
children, all lay prostrate like ears of corn under a tempest.
There ensued a terrible tumult; a large number of persons were
seriously injured. J. T. Maston, who, despite all dictates of
prudence, had kept in advance of the mass, was pitched back 120
feet, shooting like a projectile over the heads of his
fellow-citizens. Three hundred thousand persons remained deaf
for a time, and as though struck stupefied.
As soon as the first effects were over, the injured, the deaf,
and lastly, the crowd in general, woke up with frenzied cries.
"Hurrah for Ardan! Hurrah for Barbicane! Hurrah for Nicholl!"
rose to the skies. Thousands of persons, noses in air, armed
with telescopes and race-glasses, were questioning space,
forgetting all contusions and emotions in the one idea of
watching for the projectile. They looked in vain! It was no
longer to be seen, and they were obliged to wait for telegrams
from Long's Peak. The director of the Cambridge Observatory was
at his post on the Rocky Mountains; and to him, as a skillful
and persevering astronomer, all observations had been confided.
But an unforeseen phenomenon came in to subject the public
impatience to a severe trial.
The weather, hitherto so fine, suddenly changed; the sky became
heavy with clouds. It could not have been otherwise after the
terrible derangement of the atmospheric strata, and the dispersion
of the enormous quantity of vapor arising from the combustion of
200,000 pounds of pyroxyle!
On the morrow the horizon was covered with clouds-- a thick and
impenetrable curtain between earth and sky, which unhappily
extended as far as the Rocky Mountains. It was a fatality!
But since man had chosen so to disturb the atmosphere, he was
bound to accept the consequences of his experiment.
Supposing, now, that the experiment had succeeded, the travelers
having started on the 1st of December, at 10h. 46m. 40s. P.M.,
were due on the 4th at 0h. P.M. at their destination. So that
up to that time it would have been very difficult after all to
have observed, under such conditions, a body so small as the shell.
Therefore they waited with what patience they might.
From the 4th to the 6th of December inclusive, the weather
remaining much the same in America, the great European
instruments of Herschel, Rosse, and Foucault, were constantly
directed toward the moon, for the weather was then magnificent;
but the comparative weakness of their glasses prevented any
trustworthy observations being made.
On the 7th the sky seemed to lighten. They were in hopes now,
but their hope was of but short duration, and at night again
thick clouds hid the starry vault from all eyes.
Matters were now becoming serious, when on the 9th the sun
reappeared for an instant, as if for the purpose of teasing
the Americans. It was received with hisses; and wounded, no
doubt, by such a reception, showed itself very sparing of its rays.
On the 10th, no change! J. T. Maston went nearly mad, and great
fears were entertained regarding the brain of this worthy
individual, which had hitherto been so well preserved within his
gutta-percha cranium.
But on the 11th one of those inexplicable tempests peculiar to
those intertropical regions was let loose in the atmosphere.
A terrific east wind swept away the groups of clouds which had
been so long gathering, and at night the semi-disc of the orb of
night rode majestically amid the soft constellations of the sky. | The launch has some nasty side-effects. For one, there's an earthquake in Florida, which knocks the crowd over "like ears of corn before a storm" . Meanwhile, the sky is now completely "covered with clouds" and doesn't clear up for some time, making it impossible to track to capsule's progress. Finally, the sky clears up, allowing the Gun Club to view their hard work in action. |
There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the
Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with
her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought
(except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy;
from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had
given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five
o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza
Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and
obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had
come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women,
and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that
the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she
disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for
the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more
than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not
possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature
had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary
effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand.
The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she
went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady.
The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a
large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax
flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures
on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome
than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment
only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned
at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got
up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her
extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect
was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision
that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully,
seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her
falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these
dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the
room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of
handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It
made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot
she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to
her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to
Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were
never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off
not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was
different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and
Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her
habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she
had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a
peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw
that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the
whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her
young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a
cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their
last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had
been irritated then, she was reconciled now.
"You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes
this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after
noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let
her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished
never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here,
and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see
why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've
been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There
was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply
and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could
not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not
been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long
with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon
that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable.
It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I
can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the
chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well;
still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good
woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I
stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not
in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged
it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my
business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a
maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears
a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see
Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't
find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most
coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly
like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says
it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of
heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame
Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the
signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me
go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you
that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was
of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I
requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she
supposed I would treat you!"
So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had
long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases
and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's
ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not
proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse
in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle
modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely
new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in
the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in
the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person
who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a
very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was
tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of
women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the
conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed
on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had
the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with
a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her
will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying
herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice
refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say
she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able
only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom.
Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large
clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might
have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and
saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge,
this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a
moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with
her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side
of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she
saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon.
She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become
a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in
which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry
staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool,
as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the
bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if
she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during
which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that
would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous
vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world
standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to
think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to
leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there
for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last
seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of
helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame
Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see
what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse
her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the
opportunity to defend herself.
"I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to
England to-night."
"Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and
looking up at her.
"I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying."
"Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance
to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?"
"Yes; without my husband."
Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the
general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry
he's dying. Shall you see his mother?"
"Yes; she has returned from America."
"She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have
changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a
moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!"
"I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered.
"Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I
know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I
don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but
I should like to give my love to the place."
Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time."
While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and
admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet
smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump
white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she
had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss
Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly
and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her
myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle.
"Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be
here."
"You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing
laugh.
She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long
staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean;
so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine
gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor;
then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and
embraced.
"She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she
placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement
to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child
look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment.
"She looks pale," Isabel answered.
"That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la
maison," said the good sister.
Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was
perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they
think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to
accommodate.
"We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine
remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and
whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with
a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender
of a personality, the authority of the Church.
When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid
her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while
Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and
looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've
everything I have at home."
"It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what
she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had
come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend
to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to
bid you good-bye. I'm going to England."
Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?"
"I don't know when I shall come back."
"Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had
no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment.
"My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see
him," Isabel said.
"Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa
go?"
"No; I shall go alone."
For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she
thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never
by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed
them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel
was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands
and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet
even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle
stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have
stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the
saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted
heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would
(for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon,
so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her
own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on.
"Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel
explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you."
"Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often."
"I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing
with me. I can't amuse you."
"I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes."
"Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England."
"You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy.
"Not very. But it doesn't matter."
"That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to
come out."
"I wish indeed you might."
"Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently.
Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come
away with me now?" she asked.
Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?"
"No; it's my own proposal."
"I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?"
"I don't think he knew I was coming."
"He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are
very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some
very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for
yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished
me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal."
"What have you thought?"
"Well, that I must never displease papa."
"You knew that before."
"Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said
Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into
her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been
vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels!
Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated
easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her
look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's
momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only
her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others,
but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no
vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of
sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her
pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful.
Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles!
Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave
Rome to-night."
Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's
face. "You look strange, you frighten me."
"Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel.
"Perhaps you won't come back?"
"Perhaps not. I can't tell."
"Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!"
Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do
for you?" she asked.
"I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you."
"You can always think of me."
"Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy.
"What are you afraid of?"
"Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me."
"You must not say that," Isabel observed.
"Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it
more easily."
Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my
child."
Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two
sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor
to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked
as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I
don't like Madame Merle!"
Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't
like Madame Merle."
Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a
reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite
gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it
appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which
Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she
reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she
called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards.
"Yes--I'll come back."
Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of
the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't
go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you."
At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking
if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion
assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her
desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm
very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said
in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en
pensez-vous?"
"About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you."
"We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she
pushed open the door of the parlour.
Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so
absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame
Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been
thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full
possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she
said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy."
Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame
Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says
it's enough."
"Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about
poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that
he's really at his last?"
"I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a
probability."
"I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are
you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her
utterance.
"Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you."
She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred
to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit
of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never
guessed it?"
"He has done me many services."
"Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman."
"HE made me--?"
Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more
triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required
to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She
stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes.
"I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money."
"Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He
brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!"
Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by
lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what
you know."
"I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that."
Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment
with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I
believed it was you I had to thank!"
Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud
penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so."
"Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again."
Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly
remarked while Isabel passed out. | Isabel decides to visit Pansy before going to see Ralph. She runs into Madame Merle at the convent. Madame Merle suddenly knows that Isabel has changed: she knows her secret. Isabel tells Madame Merle that she is going to Gardencourt to see Ralph after leaving the convent. Isabel tells Pansy that she is leaving for England, and doesn't know when she will return. Pansy is devastated - she knows that her only ally may be leaving forever. She longs to escape from the convent. In a moment of passion, Isabel asks Pansy to come away to England with her, but Pansy can't go against her father's wishes, even if she wants to. Pansy says that she had done a lot of thinking, and that she is more willing than ever to obey her father. Isabel can tell that she has given up on Edward Rosier. Pansy, again showing insight we didn't know she had, says that she does not like Madame Merle. Isabel tells her that she must never repeat that thought. Isabel promises to return and visit Pansy. Madame Merle waits for Isabel, and springs upon her as she leaves. Madame Merle tells Isabel that Ralph was the one who gave her the inheritance money. Isabel retorts that it is Madame Merle she has to thank for her misery, not whoever gave her the money. Madame Merle concedes that Isabel is unhappy, but claims that she is far less happy. Isabel doesn't deny it; she only says she wishes never to see Madame Merle again. Resigned, Madame Merle decides that she will go to America - the implication is that her new journey will be some kind of penance for her past sins. |
Early as day comes in the beginning of July, it was still dark when we
reached our destination, a cleft in the head of a great mountain, with a
water running through the midst, and upon the one hand a shallow cave
in a rock. Birches grew there in a thin, pretty wood, which a little
farther on was changed into a wood of pines. The burn was full of trout;
the wood of cushat-doves; on the open side of the mountain beyond,
whaups would be always whistling, and cuckoos were plentiful. From the
mouth of the cleft we looked down upon a part of Mamore, and on the
sea-loch that divides that country from Appin; and this from so great
a height as made it my continual wonder and pleasure to sit and behold
them.
The name of the cleft was the Heugh of Corrynakiegh; and although from
its height and being so near upon the sea, it was often beset with
clouds, yet it was on the whole a pleasant place, and the five days we
lived in it went happily.
We slept in the cave, making our bed of heather bushes which we cut for
that purpose, and covering ourselves with Alan's great-coat. There was a
low concealed place, in a turning of the glen, where we were so bold as
to make fire: so that we could warm ourselves when the clouds set in,
and cook hot porridge, and grill the little trouts that we caught with
our hands under the stones and overhanging banks of the burn. This was
indeed our chief pleasure and business; and not only to save our meal
against worse times, but with a rivalry that much amused us, we spent
a great part of our days at the water-side, stripped to the waist and
groping about or (as they say) guddling for these fish. The largest we
got might have been a quarter of a pound; but they were of good flesh
and flavour, and when broiled upon the coals, lacked only a little salt
to be delicious.
In any by-time Alan must teach me to use my sword, for my ignorance
had much distressed him; and I think besides, as I had sometimes
the upper-hand of him in the fishing, he was not sorry to turn to an
exercise where he had so much the upper-hand of me. He made it somewhat
more of a pain than need have been, for he stormed at me all through the
lessons in a very violent manner of scolding, and would push me so close
that I made sure he must run me through the body. I was often tempted
to turn tail, but held my ground for all that, and got some profit of
my lessons; if it was but to stand on guard with an assured countenance,
which is often all that is required. So, though I could never in the
least please my master, I was not altogether displeased with myself.
In the meanwhile, you are not to suppose that we neglected our chief
business, which was to get away.
"It will be many a long day," Alan said to me on our first morning,
"before the red-coats think upon seeking Corrynakiegh; so now we must
get word sent to James, and he must find the siller for us."
"And how shall we send that word?" says I. "We are here in a desert
place, which yet we dare not leave; and unless ye get the fowls of the
air to be your messengers, I see not what we shall be able to do."
"Ay?" said Alan. "Ye're a man of small contrivance, David."
Thereupon he fell in a muse, looking in the embers of the fire; and
presently, getting a piece of wood, he fashioned it in a cross, the four
ends of which he blackened on the coals. Then he looked at me a little
shyly.
"Could ye lend me my button?" says he. "It seems a strange thing to ask
a gift again, but I own I am laith to cut another."
I gave him the button; whereupon he strung it on a strip of his
great-coat which he had used to bind the cross; and tying in a little
sprig of birch and another of fir, he looked upon his work with
satisfaction.
"Now," said he, "there is a little clachan" (what is called a hamlet
in the English) "not very far from Corrynakiegh, and it has the name of
Koalisnacoan. There there are living many friends of mine whom I could
trust with my life, and some that I am no just so sure of. Ye see,
David, there will be money set upon our heads; James himsel' is to set
money on them; and as for the Campbells, they would never spare siller
where there was a Stewart to be hurt. If it was otherwise, I would go
down to Koalisnacoan whatever, and trust my life into these people's
hands as lightly as I would trust another with my glove."
"But being so?" said I.
"Being so," said he, "I would as lief they didnae see me. There's bad
folk everywhere, and what's far worse, weak ones. So when it comes dark
again, I will steal down into that clachan, and set this that I have
been making in the window of a good friend of mine, John Breck Maccoll,
a bouman* of Appin's."
*A bouman is a tenant who takes stock from the landlord and
shares with him the increase.
"With all my heart," says I; "and if he finds it, what is he to think?"
"Well," says Alan, "I wish he was a man of more penetration, for by my
troth I am afraid he will make little enough of it! But this is what
I have in my mind. This cross is something in the nature of the
crosstarrie, or fiery cross, which is the signal of gathering in our
clans; yet he will know well enough the clan is not to rise, for there
it is standing in his window, and no word with it. So he will say to
himsel', THE CLAN IS NOT TO RISE, BUT THERE IS SOMETHING. Then he will
see my button, and that was Duncan Stewart's. And then he will say to
himsel', THE SON OF DUNCAN IS IN THE HEATHER, AND HAS NEED OF ME."
"Well," said I, "it may be. But even supposing so, there is a good deal
of heather between here and the Forth."
"And that is a very true word," says Alan. "But then John Breck will see
the sprig of birch and the sprig of pine; and he will say to himsel' (if
he is a man of any penetration at all, which I misdoubt), ALAN WILL BE
LYING IN A WOOD WHICH IS BOTH OF PINES AND BIRCHES. Then he will think
to himsel', THAT IS NOT SO VERY RIFE HEREABOUT; and then he will come
and give us a look up in Corrynakiegh. And if he does not, David, the
devil may fly away with him, for what I care; for he will no be worth
the salt to his porridge."
"Eh, man," said I, drolling with him a little, "you're very ingenious!
But would it not be simpler for you to write him a few words in black
and white?"
"And that is an excellent observe, Mr. Balfour of Shaws," says Alan,
drolling with me; "and it would certainly be much simpler for me to
write to him, but it would be a sore job for John Breck to read it. He
would have to go to the school for two-three years; and it's possible we
might be wearied waiting on him."
So that night Alan carried down his fiery cross and set it in the
bouman's window. He was troubled when he came back; for the dogs had
barked and the folk run out from their houses; and he thought he had
heard a clatter of arms and seen a red-coat come to one of the doors. On
all accounts we lay the next day in the borders of the wood and kept a
close look-out, so that if it was John Breck that came we might be ready
to guide him, and if it was the red-coats we should have time to get
away.
About noon a man was to be spied, straggling up the open side of the
mountain in the sun, and looking round him as he came, from under his
hand. No sooner had Alan seen him than he whistled; the man turned and
came a little towards us: then Alan would give another "peep!" and the
man would come still nearer; and so by the sound of whistling, he was
guided to the spot where we lay.
He was a ragged, wild, bearded man, about forty, grossly disfigured with
the small pox, and looked both dull and savage. Although his English
was very bad and broken, yet Alan (according to his very handsome use,
whenever I was by) would suffer him to speak no Gaelic. Perhaps the
strange language made him appear more backward than he really was; but
I thought he had little good-will to serve us, and what he had was the
child of terror.
Alan would have had him carry a message to James; but the bouman would
hear of no message. "She was forget it," he said in his screaming voice;
and would either have a letter or wash his hands of us.
I thought Alan would be gravelled at that, for we lacked the means of
writing in that desert.
But he was a man of more resources than I knew; searched the wood until
he found the quill of a cushat-dove, which he shaped into a pen; made
himself a kind of ink with gunpowder from his horn and water from the
running stream; and tearing a corner from his French military commission
(which he carried in his pocket, like a talisman to keep him from the
gallows), he sat down and wrote as follows:
"DEAR KINSMAN,--Please send the money by the bearer to the place he kens
of.
"Your affectionate cousin,
"A. S."
This he intrusted to the bouman, who promised to make what manner of
speed he best could, and carried it off with him down the hill.
He was three full days gone, but about five in the evening of the third,
we heard a whistling in the wood, which Alan answered; and presently the
bouman came up the water-side, looking for us, right and left. He seemed
less sulky than before, and indeed he was no doubt well pleased to have
got to the end of such a dangerous commission.
He gave us the news of the country; that it was alive with red-coats;
that arms were being found, and poor folk brought in trouble daily; and
that James and some of his servants were already clapped in prison at
Fort William, under strong suspicion of complicity. It seemed it was
noised on all sides that Alan Breck had fired the shot; and there was a
bill issued for both him and me, with one hundred pounds reward.
This was all as bad as could be; and the little note the bouman had
carried us from Mrs. Stewart was of a miserable sadness. In it she
besought Alan not to let himself be captured, assuring him, if he fell
in the hands of the troops, both he and James were no better than dead
men. The money she had sent was all that she could beg or borrow, and
she prayed heaven we could be doing with it. Lastly, she said, she
enclosed us one of the bills in which we were described.
This we looked upon with great curiosity and not a little fear, partly
as a man may look in a mirror, partly as he might look into the barrel
of an enemy's gun to judge if it be truly aimed. Alan was advertised as
"a small, pock-marked, active man of thirty-five or thereby, dressed
in a feathered hat, a French side-coat of blue with silver buttons,
and lace a great deal tarnished, a red waistcoat and breeches of black,
shag;" and I as "a tall strong lad of about eighteen, wearing an
old blue coat, very ragged, an old Highland bonnet, a long homespun
waistcoat, blue breeches; his legs bare, low-country shoes, wanting the
toes; speaks like a Lowlander, and has no beard."
Alan was well enough pleased to see his finery so fully remembered and
set down; only when he came to the word tarnish, he looked upon his lace
like one a little mortified. As for myself, I thought I cut a miserable
figure in the bill; and yet was well enough pleased too, for since I had
changed these rags, the description had ceased to be a danger and become
a source of safety.
"Alan," said I, "you should change your clothes."
"Na, troth!" said Alan, "I have nae others. A fine sight I would be, if
I went back to France in a bonnet!"
This put a second reflection in my mind: that if I were to separate
from Alan and his tell-tale clothes I should be safe against arrest, and
might go openly about my business. Nor was this all; for suppose I was
arrested when I was alone, there was little against me; but suppose I
was taken in company with the reputed murderer, my case would begin to
be grave. For generosity's sake I dare not speak my mind upon this head;
but I thought of it none the less.
I thought of it all the more, too, when the bouman brought out a green
purse with four guineas in gold, and the best part of another in small
change. True, it was more than I had. But then Alan, with less than
five guineas, had to get as far as France; I, with my less than two, not
beyond Queensferry; so that taking things in their proportion, Alan's
society was not only a peril to my life, but a burden on my purse.
But there was no thought of the sort in the honest head of my companion.
He believed he was serving, helping, and protecting me. And what could I
do but hold my peace, and chafe, and take my chance of it?
"It's little enough," said Alan, putting the purse in his pocket, "but
it'll do my business. And now, John Breck, if ye will hand me over my
button, this gentleman and me will be for taking the road."
But the bouman, after feeling about in a hairy purse that hung in front
of him in the Highland manner (though he wore otherwise the Lowland
habit, with sea-trousers), began to roll his eyes strangely, and at last
said, "Her nainsel will loss it," meaning he thought he had lost it.
"What!" cried Alan, "you will lose my button, that was my father's
before me? Now I will tell you what is in my mind, John Breck: it is
in my mind this is the worst day's work that ever ye did since ye was
born."
And as Alan spoke, he set his hands on his knees and looked at the
bouman with a smiling mouth, and that dancing light in his eyes that
meant mischief to his enemies.
Perhaps the bouman was honest enough; perhaps he had meant to cheat and
then, finding himself alone with two of us in a desert place, cast back
to honesty as being safer; at least, and all at once, he seemed to find
that button and handed it to Alan.
"Well, and it is a good thing for the honour of the Maccolls," said
Alan, and then to me, "Here is my button back again, and I thank you for
parting with it, which is of a piece with all your friendships to me."
Then he took the warmest parting of the bouman. "For," says he, "ye have
done very well by me, and set your neck at a venture, and I will always
give you the name of a good man."
Lastly, the bouman took himself off by one way; and Alan and I (getting our
chattels together) struck into another to resume our flight. | Alan and David move stealthily through the mountains in the dark until they reach a cave with a stream close by. In this pleasant hideout they spend five days cooking porridge, grilling trout and sleeping on heather beds. Alan decides to send word to James of the Glens about his safety. In the night he visits the house of John Breck to leave a sign, a blackened cross with his silver button on it, in the window. The next day Breck comes to visit Alan. Alan sends a written message to James through Breck. Three days later, Breck returns with the news of James' arrest. He also gives Alan a packet containing some money sent by Mrs. Stewart. David and Alan soon depart for their destination. |
CHAPTER XIII
Ah why did Fate his steps decoy
In stormy paths to roam,
Remote from all congenial joy!
BEATTIE
Emily, mean while, was still suffering anxiety as to the fate of
Valancourt; but Theresa, having, at length, found a person, whom she
could entrust on her errand to the steward, informed her, that the
messenger would return on the following day; and Emily promised to be at
the cottage, Theresa being too lame to attend her.
In the evening, therefore, Emily set out alone for the cottage, with a
melancholy foreboding, concerning Valancourt, while, perhaps, the gloom
of the hour might contribute to depress her spirits. It was a grey
autumnal evening towards the close of the season; heavy mists partially
obscured the mountains, and a chilling breeze, that sighed among the
beech woods, strewed her path with some of their last yellow leaves.
These, circling in the blast and foretelling the death of the year,
gave an image of desolation to her mind, and, in her fancy, seemed to
announce the death of Valancourt. Of this she had, indeed, more than
once so strong a presentiment, that she was on the point of returning
home, feeling herself unequal to an encounter with the certainty she
anticipated, but, contending with her emotions, she so far commanded
them, as to be able to proceed.
While she walked mournfully on, gazing on the long volumes of vapour,
that poured upon the sky, and watching the swallows, tossed along the
wind, now disappearing among tempestuous clouds, and then emerging,
for a moment, in circles upon the calmer air, the afflictions and
vicissitudes of her late life seemed pourtrayed in these fleeting
images;--thus had she been tossed upon the stormy sea of misfortune for
the last year, with but short intervals of peace, if peace that could be
called, which was only the delay of evils. And now, when she had escaped
from so many dangers, was become independent of the will of those, who
had oppressed her, and found herself mistress of a large fortune, now,
when she might reasonably have expected happiness, she perceived that
she was as distant from it as ever. She would have accused herself
of weakness and ingratitude in thus suffering a sense of the various
blessings she possessed to be overcome by that of a single misfortune,
had this misfortune affected herself alone; but, when she had wept for
Valancourt even as living, tears of compassion had mingled with those
of regret, and while she lamented a human being degraded to vice, and
consequently to misery, reason and humanity claimed these tears, and
fortitude had not yet taught her to separate them from those of love; in
the present moments, however, it was not the certainty of his guilt, but
the apprehension of his death (of a death also, to which she herself,
however innocently, appeared to have been in some degree instrumental)
that oppressed her. This fear increased, as the means of certainty
concerning it approached; and, when she came within view of Theresa's
cottage, she was so much disordered, and her resolution failed her so
entirely, that, unable to proceed, she rested on a bank, beside her
path; where, as she sat, the wind that groaned sullenly among the lofty
branches above, seemed to her melancholy imagination to bear the sounds
of distant lamentation, and, in the pauses of the gust, she still
fancied she heard the feeble and far-off notes of distress. Attention
convinced her, that this was no more than fancy; but the increasing
gloom, which seemed the sudden close of day, soon warned her to depart,
and, with faltering steps, she again moved toward the cottage. Through
the casement appeared the cheerful blaze of a wood fire, and Theresa,
who had observed Emily approaching, was already at the door to receive
her.
'It is a cold evening, madam,' said she, 'storms are coming on, and I
thought you would like a fire. Do take this chair by the hearth.'
Emily, thanking her for this consideration, sat down, and then, looking
in her face, on which the wood fire threw a gleam, she was struck with
its expression, and, unable to speak, sunk back in her chair with a
countenance so full of woe, that Theresa instantly comprehended the
occasion of it, but she remained silent. 'Ah!' said Emily, at length,
'it is unnecessary for me to ask the result of your enquiry, your
silence, and that look, sufficiently explain it;--he is dead!'
'Alas! my dear young lady,' replied Theresa, while tears filled her
eyes, 'this world is made up of trouble! the rich have their share
as well as the poor! But we must all endeavour to bear what Heaven
pleases.'
'He is dead, then!'--interrupted Emily--'Valancourt is dead!'
'A-well-a-day! I fear he is,' replied Theresa.
'You fear!' said Emily, 'do you only fear?'
'Alas! yes, madam, I fear he is! neither the steward, or any of the
Epourville family, have heard of him since he left Languedoc, and
the Count is in great affliction about him, for he says he was always
punctual in writing, but that now he has not received a line from him,
since he left Languedoc; he appointed to be at home, three weeks ago,
but he has neither come, or written, and they fear some accident has
befallen him. Alas! that ever I should live to cry for his death! I am
old, and might have died without being missed, but he'--Emily was faint,
and asked for some water, and Theresa, alarmed by the voice, in which
she spoke, hastened to her assistance, and, while she held the water to
Emily's lips, continued, 'My dear young mistress, do not take it so to
heart; the Chevalier may be alive and well, for all this; let us hope
the best!'
'O no! I cannot hope,' said Emily, 'I am acquainted with circumstances,
that will not suffer me to hope. I am somewhat better now, and can hear
what you have to say. Tell me, I entreat, the particulars of what you
know.'
'Stay, till you are a little better, mademoiselle, you look sadly!'
'O no, Theresa, tell me all, while I have the power to hear it,' said
Emily, 'tell me all, I conjure you!'
'Well, madam, I will then; but the steward did not say much, for Richard
says he seemed shy of talking about Mons. Valancourt, and what he
gathered was from Gabriel, one of the servants, who said he had heard it
from my lord's gentleman.'
'What did he hear?' said Emily.
'Why, madam, Richard has but a bad memory, and could not remember half
of it, and, if I had not asked him a great many questions, I should have
heard little indeed. But he says that Gabriel said, that he and all the
other servants were in great trouble about M. Valancourt, for that he
was such a kind young gentleman, they all loved him, as well as if he
had been their own brother--and now, to think what was become of him!
For he used to be so courteous to them all, and, if any of them had been
in fault, M. Valancourt was the first to persuade my lord to forgive
them. And then, if any poor family was in distress, M. Valancourt was
the first, too, to relieve them, though some folks, not a great way off,
could have afforded that much better than he. And then, said Gabriel, he
was so gentle to every body, and, for all he had such a noble look with
him, he never would command, and call about him, as some of your quality
people do, and we never minded him the less for that. Nay, says Gabriel,
for that matter, we minded him the more, and would all have run to obey
him at a word, sooner than if some folks had told us what to do at full
length; aye, and were more afraid of displeasing him, too, than of them,
that used rough words to us.'
Emily, who no longer considered it to be dangerous to listen to praise,
bestowed on Valancourt, did not attempt to interrupt Theresa, but sat,
attentive to her words, though almost overwhelmed with grief. 'My Lord,'
continued Theresa, 'frets about M. Valancourt sadly, and the more,
because, they say, he had been rather harsh against him lately. Gabriel
says he had it from my Lord's valet, that M. Valancourt had COMPORTED
himself wildly at Paris, and had spent a great deal of money, more
a great deal than my Lord liked, for he loves money better than M.
Valancourt, who had been led astray sadly. Nay, for that matter, M.
Valancourt had been put into prison at Paris, and my Lord, says Gabriel,
refused to take him out, and said he deserved to suffer; and, when old
Gregoire, the butler, heard of this, he actually bought a walking-stick
to take with him to Paris, to visit his young master; but the next thing
we hear is, that M. Valancourt is coming home. O, it was a joyful day
when he came; but he was sadly altered, and my Lord looked very cool
upon him, and he was very sad, indeed. And, soon after, he went away
again into Languedoc, and, since that time, we have never seen him.'
Theresa paused, and Emily, sighing deeply, remained with her eyes fixed
upon the floor, without speaking. After a long pause, she enquired what
further Theresa had heard. 'Yet why should I ask?' she added; 'what
you have already told is too much. O Valancourt! thou art gone--forever
gone! and I--I have murdered thee!' These words, and the countenance of
despair which accompanied them, alarmed Theresa, who began to fear, that
the shock of the intelligence Emily had just received, had affected her
senses. 'My dear young lady, be composed,' said she, 'and do not say
such frightful words. You murder M. Valancourt,--dear heart!' Emily
replied only by a heavy sigh.
'Dear lady, it breaks my heart to see you look so,' said Theresa, 'do
not sit with your eyes upon the ground, and all so pale and melancholy;
it frightens me to see you.' Emily was still silent, and did not
appear to hear any thing that was said to her. 'Besides, mademoiselle,'
continued Theresa, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet, for what
we know.'
At the mention of his name, Emily raised her eyes, and fixed them, in a
wild gaze, upon Theresa, as if she was endeavouring to understand what
had been said. 'Aye, my dear lady,' said Theresa, mistaking the meaning
of this considerate air, 'M. Valancourt may be alive and merry yet.'
On the repetition of these words, Emily comprehended their import, but,
instead of producing the effect intended, they seemed only to heighten
her distress. She rose hastily from her chair, paced the little room,
with quick steps, and, often sighing deeply, clasped her hands, and
shuddered.
Meanwhile, Theresa, with simple, but honest affection, endeavoured to
comfort her; put more wood on the fire, stirred it up into a brighter
blaze, swept the hearth, set the chair, which Emily had left, in a
warmer situation, and then drew forth from a cupboard a flask of wine.
'It is a stormy night, madam,' said she, 'and blows cold--do come nearer
the fire, and take a glass of this wine; it will comfort you, as it has
done me, often and often, for it is not such wine as one gets every day;
it is rich Languedoc, and the last of six flasks that M. Valancourt sent
me, the night before he left Gascony for Paris. They have served me,
ever since, as cordials, and I never drink it, but I think of him, and
what kind words he said to me when he gave them. Theresa, says he, you
are not young now, and should have a glass of good wine, now and then. I
will send you a few flasks, and, when you taste them, you will sometimes
remember me your friend. Yes--those were his very words--me your
friend!' Emily still paced the room, without seeming to hear what
Theresa said, who continued speaking. 'And I have remembered him, often
enough, poor young gentleman!--for he gave me this roof for a shelter,
and that, which has supported me. Ah! he is in heaven, with my blessed
master, if ever saint was!'
Theresa's voice faltered; she wept, and set down the flask, unable to
pour out the wine. Her grief seemed to recall Emily from her own, who
went towards her, but then stopped, and, having gazed on her, for a
moment, turned suddenly away, as if overwhelmed by the reflection, that
it was Valancourt, whom Theresa lamented.
While she yet paced the room, the still, soft note of an oboe, or flute,
was heard mingling with the blast, the sweetness of which affected
Emily's spirits; she paused a moment in attention; the tender tones,
as they swelled along the wind, till they were lost again in the ruder
gust, came with a plaintiveness, that touched her heart, and she melted
into tears.
'Aye,' said Theresa, drying her eyes, 'there is Richard, our neighbour's
son, playing on the oboe; it is sad enough, to hear such sweet music
now.' Emily continued to weep, without replying. 'He often plays of an
evening,' added Theresa, 'and, sometimes, the young folks dance to the
sound of his oboe. But, dear young lady! do not cry so; and pray take
a glass of this wine,' continued she, pouring some into a glass, and
handing it to Emily, who reluctantly took it.
'Taste it for M. Valancourt's sake,' said Theresa, as Emily lifted the
glass to her lips, 'for he gave it me, you know, madam.' Emily's hand
trembled, and she spilt the wine as she withdrew it from her lips. 'For
whose sake!--who gave the wine?' said she in a faltering voice. 'M.
Valancourt, dear lady. I knew you would be pleased with it. It is the
last flask I have left.'
Emily set the wine upon the table, and burst into tears, while Theresa,
disappointed and alarmed, tried to comfort her; but she only waved her
hand, entreated she might be left alone, and wept the more.
A knock at the cottage door prevented Theresa from immediately obeying
her mistress, and she was going to open it, when Emily, checking her,
requested she would not admit any person; but, afterwards, recollecting,
that she had ordered her servant to attend her home, she said it was
only Philippe, and endeavoured to restrain her tears, while Theresa
opened the door.
A voice, that spoke without, drew Emily's attention. She listened,
turned her eyes to the door, when a person now appeared, and immediately
a bright gleam, that flashed from the fire, discovered--Valancourt!
Emily, on perceiving him, started from her chair, trembled, and, sinking
into it again, became insensible to all around her.
A scream from Theresa now told, that she knew Valancourt, whom her
imperfect sight, and the duskiness of the place had prevented her from
immediately recollecting; but his attention was immediately called from
her to the person, whom he saw, falling from a chair near the fire;
and, hastening to her assistance,--he perceived, that he was supporting
Emily! The various emotions, that seized him upon thus unexpectedly
meeting with her, from whom he had believed he had parted for ever,
and on beholding her pale and lifeless in his arms--may, perhaps, be
imagined, though they could neither be then expressed, or now described,
any more than Emily's sensations, when, at length, she unclosed her
eyes, and, looking up, again saw Valancourt. The intense anxiety, with
which he regarded her, was instantly changed to an expression of mingled
joy and tenderness, as his eye met hers, and he perceived, that she was
reviving. But he could only exclaim, 'Emily!' as he silently watched her
recovery, while she averted her eye, and feebly attempted to withdraw
her hand; but, in these the first moments, which succeeded to the pangs
his supposed death had occasioned her, she forgot every fault, which had
formerly claimed indignation, and beholding Valancourt such as he had
appeared, when he won her early affection, she experienced emotions of
only tenderness and joy. This, alas! was but the sunshine of a few short
moments; recollections rose, like clouds, upon her mind, and, darkening
the illusive image, that possessed it, she again beheld Valancourt,
degraded--Valancourt unworthy of the esteem and tenderness she had once
bestowed upon him; her spirits faltered, and, withdrawing her hand, she
turned from him to conceal her grief, while he, yet more embarrassed and
agitated, remained silent.
A sense of what she owed to herself restrained her tears, and taught
her soon to overcome, in some degree, the emotions of mingled joy and
sorrow, that contended at her heart, as she rose, and, having thanked
him for the assistance he had given her, bade Theresa good evening. As
she was leaving the cottage, Valancourt, who seemed suddenly awakened
as from a dream, entreated, in a voice, that pleaded powerfully for
compassion, a few moments attention. Emily's heart, perhaps, pleaded as
powerfully, but she had resolution enough to resist both, together with
the clamorous entreaties of Theresa, that she would not venture home
alone in the dark, and had already opened the cottage door, when the
pelting storm compelled her to obey their requests.
Silent and embarrassed, she returned to the fire, while Valancourt, with
increasing agitation, paced the room, as if he wished, yet feared, to
speak, and Theresa expressed without restraint her joy and wonder upon
seeing him.
'Dear heart! sir,' said she, 'I never was so surprised and overjoyed in
my life. We were in great tribulation before you came, for we thought
you was dead, and were talking, and lamenting about you, just when you
knocked at the door. My young mistress there was crying, fit to break
her heart--'
Emily looked with much displeasure at Theresa, but, before she could
speak, Valancourt, unable to repress the emotion, which Theresa's
imprudent discovery occasioned, exclaimed, 'O my Emily! am I then
still dear to you! Did you, indeed, honour me with a thought--a tear? O
heavens! you weep--you weep now!'
'Theresa, sir,' said Emily, with a reserved air, and trying to conquer
her tears, 'has reason to remember you with gratitude, and she was
concerned, because she had not lately heard of you. Allow me to thank
you for the kindness you have shewn her, and to say, that, since I am
now upon the spot, she must not be further indebted to you.''
'Emily,' said Valancourt, no longer master of his emotions, 'is it thus
you meet him, whom once you meant to honour with your hand--thus you
meet him, who has loved you--suffered for you?--Yet what do I say?
Pardon me, pardon me, mademoiselle St. Aubert, I know not what I utter.
I have no longer any claim upon your remembrance--I have forfeited every
pretension to your esteem, your love. Yes! let me not forget, that I
once possessed your affections, though to know that I have lost them,
is my severest affliction. Affliction--do I call it!--that is a term of
mildness.'
'Dear heart!' said Theresa, preventing Emily from replying, 'talk of
once having her affections! Why, my dear young lady loves you now,
better than she does any body in the whole world, though she pretends to
deny it.'
'This is insupportable!' said Emily; 'Theresa, you know not what you
say. Sir, if you respect my tranquillity, you will spare me from the
continuance of this distress.'
'I do respect your tranquillity too much, voluntarily to interrupt it,'
replied Valancourt, in whose bosom pride now contended with tenderness;
'and will not be a voluntary intruder. I would have entreated a few
moments attention--yet I know not for what purpose. You have ceased to
esteem me, and to recount to you my sufferings will degrade me more,
without exciting even your pity. Yet I have been, O Emily! I am indeed
very wretched!' added Valancourt, in a voice, that softened from
solemnity into grief.
'What! is my dear young master going out in all this rain!' said
Theresa. 'No, he shall not stir a step. Dear! dear! to see how
gentlefolks can afford to throw away their happiness! Now, if you were
poor people, there would be none of this. To talk of unworthiness,
and not caring about one another, when I know there are not such a
kind-hearted lady and gentleman in the whole province, nor any that love
one another half so well, if the truth was spoken!'
Emily, in extreme vexation, now rose from her chair, 'I must be gone,'
said she, 'the storm is over.'
'Stay, Emily, stay, mademoiselle St. Aubert!' said Valancourt, summoning
all his resolution, 'I will no longer distress you by my presence.
Forgive me, that I did not sooner obey you, and, if you can, sometimes,
pity one, who, in losing you--has lost all hope of peace! May you be
happy, Emily, however wretched I remain, happy as my fondest wish would
have you!'
His voice faltered with the last words, and his countenance changed,
while, with a look of ineffable tenderness and grief, he gazed upon her
for an instant, and then quitted the cottage.
'Dear heart! dear heart!' cried Theresa, following him to the door,
'why, Monsieur Valancourt! how it rains! what a night is this to turn
him out in! Why it will give him his death; and it was but now you was
crying, mademoiselle, because he was dead. Well! young ladies do change
their mind in a minute, as one may say!'
Emily made no reply, for she heard not what was said, while, lost in
sorrow and thought, she remained in her chair by the fire, with her eyes
fixed, and the image of Valancourt still before them.
'M. Valancourt is sadly altered! madam,' said Theresa; 'he looks so thin
to what he used to do, and so melancholy, and then he wears his arm in a
sling.'
Emily raised her eyes at these words, for she had not observed this last
circumstance, and she now did not doubt, that Valancourt had received
the shot of her gardener at Tholouse; with this conviction her pity for
him returning, she blamed herself for having occasioned him to leave the
cottage, during the storm.
Soon after her servants arrived with the carriage, and Emily, having
censured Theresa for her thoughtless conversation to Valancourt, and
strictly charging her never to repeat any hints of the same kind to him,
withdrew to her home, thoughtful and disconsolate.
Meanwhile, Valancourt had returned to a little inn of the village,
whither he had arrived only a few moments before his visit to Theresa's
cottage, on the way from Tholouse to the chateau of the Count de
Duvarney, where he had not been since he bade adieu to Emily at
Chateau-le-Blanc, in the neighbourhood of which he had lingered for a
considerable time, unable to summon resolution enough to quit a place,
that contained the object most dear to his heart. There were times,
indeed, when grief and despair urged him to appear again before Emily,
and, regardless of his ruined circumstances, to renew his suit. Pride,
however, and the tenderness of his affection, which could not long
endure the thought of involving her in his misfortunes, at length, so
far triumphed over passion, that he relinquished this desperate design,
and quitted Chateau-le-Blanc. But still his fancy wandered among the
scenes, which had witnessed his early love, and, on his way to
Gascony, he stopped at Tholouse, where he remained when Emily arrived,
concealing, yet indulging his melancholy in the gardens, where he had
formerly passed with her so many happy hours; often recurring, with vain
regret, to the evening before her departure for Italy, when she had so
unexpectedly met him on the terrace, and endeavouring to recall to his
memory every word and look, which had then charmed him, the arguments
he had employed to dissuade her from the journey, and the tenderness
of their last farewel. In such melancholy recollections he had been
indulging, when Emily unexpectedly arrived to him on this very terrace,
the evening after her arrival at Tholouse. His emotions, on thus
seeing her, can scarcely be imagined; but he so far overcame the first
promptings of love, that he forbore to discover himself, and abruptly
quitted the gardens. Still, however, the vision he had seen haunted his
mind; he became more wretched than before, and the only solace of his
sorrow was to return in the silence of the night; to follow the paths
which he believed her steps had pressed, during the day; and, to watch
round the habitation where she reposed. It was in one of these mournful
wanderings, that he had received by the fire of the gardener, who
mistook him for a robber, a wound in his arm, which had detained him
at Tholouse till very lately, under the hands of a surgeon. There,
regardless of himself and careless of his friends, whose late unkindness
had urged him to believe, that they were indifferent as to his fate,
he remained, without informing them of his situation; and now, being
sufficiently recovered to bear travelling, he had taken La Vallee in
his way to Estuviere, the Count's residence, partly for the purpose of
hearing of Emily, and of being again near her, and partly for that of
enquiring into the situation of poor old Theresa, who, he had reason to
suppose, had been deprived of her stipend, small as it was, and which
enquiry had brought him to her cottage, when Emily happened to be there.
This unexpected interview, which had at once shewn him the tenderness of
her love and the strength of her resolution, renewed all the acuteness
of the despair, that had attended their former separation, and which
no effort of reason could teach him, in these moments, to subdue. Her
image, her look, the tones of her voice, all dwelt on his fancy, as
powerfully as they had late appeared to his senses, and banished from
his heart every emotion, except those of love and despair.
Before the evening concluded, he returned to Theresa's cottage, that
he might hear her talk of Emily, and be in the place, where she had so
lately been. The joy, felt and expressed by that faithful servant, was
quickly changed to sorrow, when she observed, at one moment, his wild
and phrensied look, and, at another, the dark melancholy, that overhung
him.
After he had listened, and for a considerable time, to all she had to
relate, concerning Emily, he gave Theresa nearly all the money he
had about him, though she repeatedly refused it, declaring, that her
mistress had amply supplied her wants; and then, drawing a ring of value
from his finger, he delivered it her with a solemn charge to present
it to Emily, of whom he entreated, as a last favour, that she would
preserve it for his sake, and sometimes, when she looked upon it,
remember the unhappy giver.
Theresa wept, as she received the ring, but it was more from sympathy,
than from any presentiment of evil; and before she could reply,
Valancourt abruptly left the cottage. She followed him to the door,
calling upon his name and entreating him to return; but she received no
answer, and saw him no more. | Meanwhile, Em and Theresa are having a sob-fest over the dearly departed Valancourt. They don't know for certain that he's dead, but they're pretty sure. Em even admits that she's still kind of in love with the guy. Just on cue, in walks Valancourt. The guy's got good timing, we'll give him that. His arm's in a sling from being shot, but he's alive. That's what you get for lurking, Valancourt. Theresa can't help spilling the beans that Em's still in love with him, but Em refuses to admit it. It turns out he was hanging out at a surgeon's, getting his arm treated for a while. |
I PASS over all that happened at school, until the anniversary of my
birthday came round in March. Except that Steerforth was more to be
admired than ever, I remember nothing. He was going away at the end of
the half-year, if not sooner, and was more spirited and independent than
before in my eyes, and therefore more engaging than before; but beyond
this I remember nothing. The great remembrance by which that time is
marked in my mind, seems to have swallowed up all lesser recollections,
and to exist alone.
It is even difficult for me to believe that there was a gap of full
two months between my return to Salem House and the arrival of that
birthday. I can only understand that the fact was so, because I know it
must have been so; otherwise I should feel convinced that there was no
interval, and that the one occasion trod upon the other's heels.
How well I recollect the kind of day it was! I smell the fog that hung
about the place; I see the hoar frost, ghostly, through it; I feel my
rimy hair fall clammy on my cheek; I look along the dim perspective of
the schoolroom, with a sputtering candle here and there to light up the
foggy morning, and the breath of the boys wreathing and smoking in the
raw cold as they blow upon their fingers, and tap their feet upon the
floor. It was after breakfast, and we had been summoned in from the
playground, when Mr. Sharp entered and said:
'David Copperfield is to go into the parlour.'
I expected a hamper from Peggotty, and brightened at the order. Some
of the boys about me put in their claim not to be forgotten in the
distribution of the good things, as I got out of my seat with great
alacrity.
'Don't hurry, David,' said Mr. Sharp. 'There's time enough, my boy,
don't hurry.'
I might have been surprised by the feeling tone in which he spoke, if I
had given it a thought; but I gave it none until afterwards. I hurried
away to the parlour; and there I found Mr. Creakle, sitting at his
breakfast with the cane and a newspaper before him, and Mrs. Creakle
with an opened letter in her hand. But no hamper.
'David Copperfield,' said Mrs. Creakle, leading me to a sofa, and
sitting down beside me. 'I want to speak to you very particularly. I
have something to tell you, my child.'
Mr. Creakle, at whom of course I looked, shook his head without looking
at me, and stopped up a sigh with a very large piece of buttered toast.
'You are too young to know how the world changes every day,' said Mrs.
Creakle, 'and how the people in it pass away. But we all have to learn
it, David; some of us when we are young, some of us when we are old,
some of us at all times of our lives.'
I looked at her earnestly.
'When you came away from home at the end of the vacation,' said Mrs.
Creakle, after a pause, 'were they all well?' After another pause, 'Was
your mama well?'
I trembled without distinctly knowing why, and still looked at her
earnestly, making no attempt to answer.
'Because,' said she, 'I grieve to tell you that I hear this morning your
mama is very ill.'
A mist rose between Mrs. Creakle and me, and her figure seemed to move
in it for an instant. Then I felt the burning tears run down my face,
and it was steady again.
'She is very dangerously ill,' she added.
I knew all now.
'She is dead.'
There was no need to tell me so. I had already broken out into a
desolate cry, and felt an orphan in the wide world.
She was very kind to me. She kept me there all day, and left me alone
sometimes; and I cried, and wore myself to sleep, and awoke and
cried again. When I could cry no more, I began to think; and then the
oppression on my breast was heaviest, and my grief a dull pain that
there was no ease for.
And yet my thoughts were idle; not intent on the calamity that weighed
upon my heart, but idly loitering near it. I thought of our house shut
up and hushed. I thought of the little baby, who, Mrs. Creakle said, had
been pining away for some time, and who, they believed, would die too. I
thought of my father's grave in the churchyard, by our house, and of my
mother lying there beneath the tree I knew so well. I stood upon a chair
when I was left alone, and looked into the glass to see how red my eyes
were, and how sorrowful my face. I considered, after some hours were
gone, if my tears were really hard to flow now, as they seemed to be,
what, in connexion with my loss, it would affect me most to think
of when I drew near home--for I was going home to the funeral. I am
sensible of having felt that a dignity attached to me among the rest of
the boys, and that I was important in my affliction.
If ever child were stricken with sincere grief, I was. But I remember
that this importance was a kind of satisfaction to me, when I walked in
the playground that afternoon while the boys were in school. When I
saw them glancing at me out of the windows, as they went up to their
classes, I felt distinguished, and looked more melancholy, and walked
slower. When school was over, and they came out and spoke to me, I felt
it rather good in myself not to be proud to any of them, and to take
exactly the same notice of them all, as before.
I was to go home next night; not by the mail, but by the heavy
night-coach, which was called the Farmer, and was principally used by
country-people travelling short intermediate distances upon the road. We
had no story-telling that evening, and Traddles insisted on lending me
his pillow. I don't know what good he thought it would do me, for I
had one of my own: but it was all he had to lend, poor fellow, except a
sheet of letter-paper full of skeletons; and that he gave me at parting,
as a soother of my sorrows and a contribution to my peace of mind.
I left Salem House upon the morrow afternoon. I little thought then that
I left it, never to return. We travelled very slowly all night, and
did not get into Yarmouth before nine or ten o'clock in the morning. I
looked out for Mr. Barkis, but he was not there; and instead of him a
fat, short-winded, merry-looking, little old man in black, with rusty
little bunches of ribbons at the knees of his breeches, black stockings,
and a broad-brimmed hat, came puffing up to the coach window, and said:
'Master Copperfield?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Will you come with me, young sir, if you please,' he said, opening the
door, 'and I shall have the pleasure of taking you home.'
I put my hand in his, wondering who he was, and we walked away to a
shop in a narrow street, on which was written OMER, DRAPER, TAILOR,
HABERDASHER, FUNERAL FURNISHER, &c. It was a close and stifling little
shop; full of all sorts of clothing, made and unmade, including
one window full of beaver-hats and bonnets. We went into a little
back-parlour behind the shop, where we found three young women at work
on a quantity of black materials, which were heaped upon the table,
and little bits and cuttings of which were littered all over the floor.
There was a good fire in the room, and a breathless smell of warm black
crape--I did not know what the smell was then, but I know now.
The three young women, who appeared to be very industrious and
comfortable, raised their heads to look at me, and then went on with
their work. Stitch, stitch, stitch. At the same time there came from
a workshop across a little yard outside the window, a regular sound
of hammering that kept a kind of tune: RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat,
RAT--tat-tat, without any variation.
'Well,' said my conductor to one of the three young women. 'How do you
get on, Minnie?'
'We shall be ready by the trying-on time,' she replied gaily, without
looking up. 'Don't you be afraid, father.'
Mr. Omer took off his broad-brimmed hat, and sat down and panted. He was
so fat that he was obliged to pant some time before he could say:
'That's right.'
'Father!' said Minnie, playfully. 'What a porpoise you do grow!'
'Well, I don't know how it is, my dear,' he replied, considering about
it. 'I am rather so.'
'You are such a comfortable man, you see,' said Minnie. 'You take things
so easy.'
'No use taking 'em otherwise, my dear,' said Mr. Omer.
'No, indeed,' returned his daughter. 'We are all pretty gay here, thank
Heaven! Ain't we, father?'
'I hope so, my dear,' said Mr. Omer. 'As I have got my breath now, I
think I'll measure this young scholar. Would you walk into the shop,
Master Copperfield?'
I preceded Mr. Omer, in compliance with his request; and after showing
me a roll of cloth which he said was extra super, and too good mourning
for anything short of parents, he took my various dimensions, and put
them down in a book. While he was recording them he called my attention
to his stock in trade, and to certain fashions which he said had 'just
come up', and to certain other fashions which he said had 'just gone
out'.
'And by that sort of thing we very often lose a little mint of money,'
said Mr. Omer. 'But fashions are like human beings. They come in, nobody
knows when, why, or how; and they go out, nobody knows when, why, or
how. Everything is like life, in my opinion, if you look at it in that
point of view.'
I was too sorrowful to discuss the question, which would possibly have
been beyond me under any circumstances; and Mr. Omer took me back into
the parlour, breathing with some difficulty on the way.
He then called down a little break-neck range of steps behind a door:
'Bring up that tea and bread-and-butter!' which, after some time,
during which I sat looking about me and thinking, and listening to the
stitching in the room and the tune that was being hammered across the
yard, appeared on a tray, and turned out to be for me.
'I have been acquainted with you,' said Mr. Omer, after watching me
for some minutes, during which I had not made much impression on the
breakfast, for the black things destroyed my appetite, 'I have been
acquainted with you a long time, my young friend.'
'Have you, sir?'
'All your life,' said Mr. Omer. 'I may say before it. I knew your
father before you. He was five foot nine and a half, and he lays in
five-and-twen-ty foot of ground.'
'RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat,' across the yard.
'He lays in five and twen-ty foot of ground, if he lays in a fraction,'
said Mr. Omer, pleasantly. 'It was either his request or her direction,
I forget which.'
'Do you know how my little brother is, sir?' I inquired.
Mr. Omer shook his head.
'RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat, RAT--tat-tat.'
'He is in his mother's arms,' said he.
'Oh, poor little fellow! Is he dead?'
'Don't mind it more than you can help,' said Mr. Omer. 'Yes. The baby's
dead.'
My wounds broke out afresh at this intelligence. I left the
scarcely-tasted breakfast, and went and rested my head on another table,
in a corner of the little room, which Minnie hastily cleared, lest I
should spot the mourning that was lying there with my tears. She was
a pretty, good-natured girl, and put my hair away from my eyes with a
soft, kind touch; but she was very cheerful at having nearly finished
her work and being in good time, and was so different from me!
Presently the tune left off, and a good-looking young fellow came across
the yard into the room. He had a hammer in his hand, and his mouth was
full of little nails, which he was obliged to take out before he could
speak.
'Well, Joram!' said Mr. Omer. 'How do you get on?'
'All right,' said Joram. 'Done, sir.'
Minnie coloured a little, and the other two girls smiled at one another.
'What! you were at it by candle-light last night, when I was at the
club, then? Were you?' said Mr. Omer, shutting up one eye.
'Yes,' said Joram. 'As you said we could make a little trip of it, and
go over together, if it was done, Minnie and me--and you.'
'Oh! I thought you were going to leave me out altogether,' said Mr.
Omer, laughing till he coughed.
'--As you was so good as to say that,' resumed the young man, 'why I
turned to with a will, you see. Will you give me your opinion of it?'
'I will,' said Mr. Omer, rising. 'My dear'; and he stopped and turned to
me: 'would you like to see your--'
'No, father,' Minnie interposed.
'I thought it might be agreeable, my dear,' said Mr. Omer. 'But perhaps
you're right.'
I can't say how I knew it was my dear, dear mother's coffin that they
went to look at. I had never heard one making; I had never seen one that
I know of.--but it came into my mind what the noise was, while it was
going on; and when the young man entered, I am sure I knew what he had
been doing.
The work being now finished, the two girls, whose names I had not heard,
brushed the shreds and threads from their dresses, and went into the
shop to put that to rights, and wait for customers. Minnie stayed behind
to fold up what they had made, and pack it in two baskets. This she did
upon her knees, humming a lively little tune the while. Joram, who I had
no doubt was her lover, came in and stole a kiss from her while she was
busy (he didn't appear to mind me, at all), and said her father was gone
for the chaise, and he must make haste and get himself ready. Then he
went out again; and then she put her thimble and scissors in her pocket,
and stuck a needle threaded with black thread neatly in the bosom of her
gown, and put on her outer clothing smartly, at a little glass behind
the door, in which I saw the reflection of her pleased face.
All this I observed, sitting at the table in the corner with my head
leaning on my hand, and my thoughts running on very different things.
The chaise soon came round to the front of the shop, and the baskets
being put in first, I was put in next, and those three followed. I
remember it as a kind of half chaise-cart, half pianoforte-van, painted
of a sombre colour, and drawn by a black horse with a long tail. There
was plenty of room for us all.
I do not think I have ever experienced so strange a feeling in my life
(I am wiser now, perhaps) as that of being with them, remembering how
they had been employed, and seeing them enjoy the ride. I was not angry
with them; I was more afraid of them, as if I were cast away among
creatures with whom I had no community of nature. They were very
cheerful. The old man sat in front to drive, and the two young people
sat behind him, and whenever he spoke to them leaned forward, the one on
one side of his chubby face and the other on the other, and made a great
deal of him. They would have talked to me too, but I held back, and
moped in my corner; scared by their love-making and hilarity, though
it was far from boisterous, and almost wondering that no judgement came
upon them for their hardness of heart.
So, when they stopped to bait the horse, and ate and drank and enjoyed
themselves, I could touch nothing that they touched, but kept my fast
unbroken. So, when we reached home, I dropped out of the chaise behind,
as quickly as possible, that I might not be in their company before
those solemn windows, looking blindly on me like closed eyes once
bright. And oh, how little need I had had to think what would move me to
tears when I came back--seeing the window of my mother's room, and next
it that which, in the better time, was mine!
I was in Peggotty's arms before I got to the door, and she took me into
the house. Her grief burst out when she first saw me; but she controlled
it soon, and spoke in whispers, and walked softly, as if the dead could
be disturbed. She had not been in bed, I found, for a long time. She
sat up at night still, and watched. As long as her poor dear pretty was
above the ground, she said, she would never desert her.
Mr. Murdstone took no heed of me when I went into the parlour where he
was, but sat by the fireside, weeping silently, and pondering in his
elbow-chair. Miss Murdstone, who was busy at her writing-desk, which
was covered with letters and papers, gave me her cold finger-nails, and
asked me, in an iron whisper, if I had been measured for my mourning.
I said: 'Yes.'
'And your shirts,' said Miss Murdstone; 'have you brought 'em home?'
'Yes, ma'am. I have brought home all my clothes.'
This was all the consolation that her firmness administered to me. I do
not doubt that she had a choice pleasure in exhibiting what she called
her self-command, and her firmness, and her strength of mind, and
her common sense, and the whole diabolical catalogue of her unamiable
qualities, on such an occasion. She was particularly proud of her turn
for business; and she showed it now in reducing everything to pen and
ink, and being moved by nothing. All the rest of that day, and from
morning to night afterwards, she sat at that desk, scratching composedly
with a hard pen, speaking in the same imperturbable whisper to
everybody; never relaxing a muscle of her face, or softening a tone of
her voice, or appearing with an atom of her dress astray.
Her brother took a book sometimes, but never read it that I saw. He
would open it and look at it as if he were reading, but would remain for
a whole hour without turning the leaf, and then put it down and walk to
and fro in the room. I used to sit with folded hands watching him, and
counting his footsteps, hour after hour. He very seldom spoke to her,
and never to me. He seemed to be the only restless thing, except the
clocks, in the whole motionless house.
In these days before the funeral, I saw but little of Peggotty, except
that, in passing up or down stairs, I always found her close to the room
where my mother and her baby lay, and except that she came to me every
night, and sat by my bed's head while I went to sleep. A day or
two before the burial--I think it was a day or two before, but I am
conscious of confusion in my mind about that heavy time, with nothing
to mark its progress--she took me into the room. I only recollect that
underneath some white covering on the bed, with a beautiful cleanliness
and freshness all around it, there seemed to me to lie embodied the
solemn stillness that was in the house; and that when she would have
turned the cover gently back, I cried: 'Oh no! oh no!' and held her
hand.
If the funeral had been yesterday, I could not recollect it better. The
very air of the best parlour, when I went in at the door, the bright
condition of the fire, the shining of the wine in the decanters, the
patterns of the glasses and plates, the faint sweet smell of cake, the
odour of Miss Murdstone's dress, and our black clothes. Mr. Chillip is
in the room, and comes to speak to me.
'And how is Master David?' he says, kindly.
I cannot tell him very well. I give him my hand, which he holds in his.
'Dear me!' says Mr. Chillip, meekly smiling, with something shining in
his eye. 'Our little friends grow up around us. They grow out of our
knowledge, ma'am?' This is to Miss Murdstone, who makes no reply.
'There is a great improvement here, ma'am?' says Mr. Chillip.
Miss Murdstone merely answers with a frown and a formal bend: Mr.
Chillip, discomfited, goes into a corner, keeping me with him, and opens
his mouth no more.
I remark this, because I remark everything that happens, not because
I care about myself, or have done since I came home. And now the bell
begins to sound, and Mr. Omer and another come to make us ready. As
Peggotty was wont to tell me, long ago, the followers of my father to
the same grave were made ready in the same room.
There are Mr. Murdstone, our neighbour Mr. Grayper, Mr. Chillip, and
I. When we go out to the door, the Bearers and their load are in the
garden; and they move before us down the path, and past the elms, and
through the gate, and into the churchyard, where I have so often heard
the birds sing on a summer morning.
We stand around the grave. The day seems different to me from every
other day, and the light not of the same colour--of a sadder colour.
Now there is a solemn hush, which we have brought from home with what is
resting in the mould; and while we stand bareheaded, I hear the voice
of the clergyman, sounding remote in the open air, and yet distinct and
plain, saying: 'I am the Resurrection and the Life, saith the Lord!'
Then I hear sobs; and, standing apart among the lookers-on, I see that
good and faithful servant, whom of all the people upon earth I love the
best, and unto whom my childish heart is certain that the Lord will one
day say: 'Well done.'
There are many faces that I know, among the little crowd; faces that I
knew in church, when mine was always wondering there; faces that first
saw my mother, when she came to the village in her youthful bloom. I do
not mind them--I mind nothing but my grief--and yet I see and know them
all; and even in the background, far away, see Minnie looking on, and
her eye glancing on her sweetheart, who is near me.
It is over, and the earth is filled in, and we turn to come away. Before
us stands our house, so pretty and unchanged, so linked in my mind with
the young idea of what is gone, that all my sorrow has been nothing to
the sorrow it calls forth. But they take me on; and Mr. Chillip talks to
me; and when we get home, puts some water to my lips; and when I ask his
leave to go up to my room, dismisses me with the gentleness of a woman.
All this, I say, is yesterday's event. Events of later date have floated
from me to the shore where all forgotten things will reappear, but this
stands like a high rock in the ocean.
I knew that Peggotty would come to me in my room. The Sabbath stillness
of the time (the day was so like Sunday! I have forgotten that) was
suited to us both. She sat down by my side upon my little bed; and
holding my hand, and sometimes putting it to her lips, and sometimes
smoothing it with hers, as she might have comforted my little brother,
told me, in her way, all that she had to tell concerning what had
happened.
'She was never well,' said Peggotty, 'for a long time. She was uncertain
in her mind, and not happy. When her baby was born, I thought at first
she would get better, but she was more delicate, and sunk a little every
day. She used to like to sit alone before her baby came, and then she
cried; but afterwards she used to sing to it--so soft, that I once
thought, when I heard her, it was like a voice up in the air, that was
rising away.
'I think she got to be more timid, and more frightened-like, of late;
and that a hard word was like a blow to her. But she was always the same
to me. She never changed to her foolish Peggotty, didn't my sweet girl.'
Here Peggotty stopped, and softly beat upon my hand a little while.
'The last time that I saw her like her own old self, was the night when
you came home, my dear. The day you went away, she said to me, "I never
shall see my pretty darling again. Something tells me so, that tells the
truth, I know."
'She tried to hold up after that; and many a time, when they told her
she was thoughtless and light-hearted, made believe to be so; but it was
all a bygone then. She never told her husband what she had told me--she
was afraid of saying it to anybody else--till one night, a little more
than a week before it happened, when she said to him: "My dear, I think
I am dying."
'"It's off my mind now, Peggotty," she told me, when I laid her in her
bed that night. "He will believe it more and more, poor fellow, every
day for a few days to come; and then it will be past. I am very tired.
If this is sleep, sit by me while I sleep: don't leave me. God bless
both my children! God protect and keep my fatherless boy!"
'I never left her afterwards,' said Peggotty. 'She often talked to them
two downstairs--for she loved them; she couldn't bear not to love anyone
who was about her--but when they went away from her bed-side, she always
turned to me, as if there was rest where Peggotty was, and never fell
asleep in any other way.
'On the last night, in the evening, she kissed me, and said: "If my baby
should die too, Peggotty, please let them lay him in my arms, and bury
us together." (It was done; for the poor lamb lived but a day beyond
her.) "Let my dearest boy go with us to our resting-place," she said,
"and tell him that his mother, when she lay here, blessed him not once,
but a thousand times."'
Another silence followed this, and another gentle beating on my hand.
'It was pretty far in the night,' said Peggotty, 'when she asked me for
some drink; and when she had taken it, gave me such a patient smile, the
dear!--so beautiful!
'Daybreak had come, and the sun was rising, when she said to me, how
kind and considerate Mr. Copperfield had always been to her, and how
he had borne with her, and told her, when she doubted herself, that
a loving heart was better and stronger than wisdom, and that he was a
happy man in hers. "Peggotty, my dear," she said then, "put me nearer to
you," for she was very weak. "Lay your good arm underneath my neck," she
said, "and turn me to you, for your face is going far off, and I want it
to be near." I put it as she asked; and oh Davy! the time had come when
my first parting words to you were true--when she was glad to lay her
poor head on her stupid cross old Peggotty's arm--and she died like a
child that had gone to sleep!'
Thus ended Peggotty's narration. From the moment of my knowing of the
death of my mother, the idea of her as she had been of late had vanished
from me. I remembered her, from that instant, only as the young mother
of my earliest impressions, who had been used to wind her bright curls
round and round her finger, and to dance with me at twilight in the
parlour. What Peggotty had told me now, was so far from bringing me back
to the later period, that it rooted the earlier image in my mind. It may
be curious, but it is true. In her death she winged her way back to her
calm untroubled youth, and cancelled all the rest.
The mother who lay in the grave, was the mother of my infancy; the
little creature in her arms, was myself, as I had once been, hushed for
ever on her bosom. | I have a memorable birthday. During the next school term, David is summoned to Mr. Creakle's room, where Mrs. Creakle breaks the news to him that his mother has died and that the baby is likely to die too. He is sent home to attend her funeral and is collected by Mr. Omer, the funeral director. Mr. Omer takes David to his shop, where David meets Mr. Omer's daughter, Minnie, and her lover, Mr. Joram. Mr. Omer measures David for his mourning suit. Mr. Joram is making David's mother's coffin, and David sits listening to the nails being hammered in and wondering at the family's cheerfulness. Mr. Omer takes David home, where he finds Mr. Murdstone in silent grief and Miss Murdstone busy at her writing desk. Neither shows any concern for David. Only Peggotty, who watches over Clara's body much of the time, comes and sits with him before he goes to sleep. After the funeral, Peggotty tells David that Clara was unhappy and unwell for some time, and became frailer after having the baby. Clara died blessing David, and with her head on Peggotty's arm. The baby died a day later, and was buried in his mother's arms |
Anne
Never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the Large Family. Never
had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate
acquaintance with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar. The mere fact
of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession.
Everybody wanted to be told over and over again the things which had
happened to her. When one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing
room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic.
It must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that
its coldness and bareness quite sank into insignificance when
Melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things
one could see if one climbed on the table and stuck one's head and
shoulders out of the skylight.
Of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet and the
dream which was true. Sara told it for the first time the day after
she had been found. Several members of the Large Family came to take
tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told
the story in her own way, and the Indian gentleman listened and watched
her. When she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his
knee.
"That is my part," she said. "Now won't you tell your part of it,
Uncle Tom?" He had asked her to call him always "Uncle Tom." "I don't
know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
So he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull and irritable, Ram
Dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there
was one child who passed oftener than any one else; he had begun to be
interested in her--partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal
of a little girl, and partly because Ram Dass had been able to relate
the incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the monkey. He had
described its cheerless look, and the bearing of the child, who seemed
as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and
servants. Bit by bit, Ram Dass had made discoveries concerning the
wretchedness of her life. He had found out how easy a matter it was to
climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had
been the beginning of all that followed.
"Sahib," he had said one day, "I could cross the slates and make the
child a fire when she is out on some errand. When she returned, wet
and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magician had done it."
The idea had been so fanciful that Mr. Carrisford's sad face had
lighted with a smile, and Ram Dass had been so filled with rapture that
he had enlarged upon it and explained to his master how simple it would
be to accomplish numbers of other things. He had shown a childlike
pleasure and invention, and the preparations for the carrying out of
the plan had filled many a day with interest which would otherwise have
dragged wearily. On the night of the frustrated banquet Ram Dass had
kept watch, all his packages being in readiness in the attic which was
his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as
interested as himself in the odd adventure. Ram Dass had been lying
flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the banquet had
come to its disastrous conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness
of Sara's wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept
into the room, while his companion remained outside and handed the
things to him. When Sara had stirred ever so faintly, Ram Dass had
closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor. These and many
other exciting things the children found out by asking a thousand
questions.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "I am so GLAD it was you who were my friend!"
There never were such friends as these two became. Somehow, they
seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way. The Indian gentleman had
never had a companion he liked quite as much as he liked Sara. In a
month's time he was, as Mr. Carmichael had prophesied he would be, a
new man. He was always amused and interested, and he began to find an
actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he
loathed the burden of. There were so many charming things to plan for
Sara. There was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and
it was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her. She
found beautiful new flowers growing in her room, whimsical little gifts
tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening,
they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when Sara went
to find out what it was, there stood a great dog--a splendid Russian
boarhound--with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription.
"I am Boris," it read; "I serve the Princess Sara."
There was nothing the Indian gentleman loved more than the recollection
of the little princess in rags and tatters. The afternoons in which
the Large Family, or Ermengarde and Lottie, gathered to rejoice
together were very delightful. But the hours when Sara and the Indian
gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their
own. During their passing many interesting things occurred.
One evening, Mr. Carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his
companion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.
"What are you 'supposing,' Sara?" he asked.
Sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.
"I WAS supposing," she said; "I was remembering that hungry day, and a
child I saw."
"But there were a great many hungry days," said the Indian gentleman,
with rather a sad tone in his voice. "Which hungry day was it?"
"I forgot you didn't know," said Sara. "It was the day the dream came
true."
Then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she
picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than
herself. She told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible;
but somehow the Indian gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes
with his hand and look down at the carpet.
"And I was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished.
"I was thinking I should like to do something."
"What was it?" said Mr. Carrisford, in a low tone. "You may do
anything you like to do, princess."
"I was wondering," rather hesitated Sara--"you know, you say I have so
much money--I was wondering if I could go to see the bun-woman, and
tell her that if, when hungry children--particularly on those dreadful
days--come and sit on the steps, or look in at the window, she would
just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the
bills to me. Could I do that?"
"You shall do it tomorrow morning," said the Indian gentleman.
"Thank you," said Sara. "You see, I know what it is to be hungry, and
it is very hard when one cannot even PRETEND it away."
"Yes, yes, my dear," said the Indian gentleman. "Yes, yes, it must be.
Try to forget it. Come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and
only remember you are a princess."
"Yes," said Sara, smiling; "and I can give buns and bread to the
populace." And she went and sat on the stool, and the Indian gentleman
(he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small
dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.
The next morning, Miss Minchin, in looking out of her window, saw the
things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing. The Indian gentleman's
carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the next
house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs,
descended the steps to get into it. The little figure was a familiar
one, and reminded Miss Minchin of days in the past. It was followed by
another as familiar--the sight of which she found very irritating. It
was Becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always
accompanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and
belongings. Already Becky had a pink, round face.
A little later the carriage drew up before the door of the baker's
shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman
was putting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.
When Sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her, and,
leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter. For a moment she
looked at Sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted
up.
"I'm sure that I remember you, miss," she said. "And yet--"
"Yes," said Sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and--"
"And you gave five of 'em to a beggar child," the woman broke in on
her. "I've always remembered it. I couldn't make it out at first." She
turned round to the Indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him.
"I beg your pardon, sir, but there's not many young people that notices
a hungry face in that way; and I've thought of it many a time. Excuse
the liberty, miss,"--to Sara--"but you look rosier and--well, better
than you did that--that--"
"I am better, thank you," said Sara. "And--I am much happier--and I
have come to ask you to do something for me."
"Me, miss!" exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully. "Why, bless
you! Yes, miss. What can I do?"
And then Sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposal
concerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.
The woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"Why, bless me!" she said again when she had heard it all; "it'll be a
pleasure to me to do it. I am a working-woman myself and cannot afford
to do much on my own account, and there's sights of trouble on every
side; but, if you'll excuse me, I'm bound to say I've given away many a
bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinking of
you--an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how hungry you looked; an' yet
you gave away your hot buns as if you was a princess."
The Indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and Sara smiled a
little, too, remembering what she had said to herself when she put the
buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap.
"She looked so hungry," she said. "She was even hungrier than I was."
"She was starving," said the woman. "Many's the time she's told me of
it since--how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was
a-tearing at her poor young insides."
"Oh, have you seen her since then?" exclaimed Sara. "Do you know where
she is?"
"Yes, I do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly than ever.
"Why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has been for a month;
an' a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turn out, an' such a
help to me in the shop an' in the kitchen as you'd scarce believe,
knowin' how she's lived."
She stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; and the
next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter. And
actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking
as if she had not been hungry for a long time. She looked shy, but she
had a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage, and the wild look
had gone from her eyes. She knew Sara in an instant, and stood and
looked at her as if she could never look enough.
"You see," said the woman, "I told her to come when she was hungry, and
when she'd come I'd give her odd jobs to do; an' I found she was
willing, and somehow I got to like her; and the end of it was, I've
given her a place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an'
is as thankful as a girl can be. Her name's Anne. She has no other."
The children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then
Sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the counter,
and Anne took it, and they looked straight into each other's eyes.
"I am so glad," Sara said. "And I have just thought of something.
Perhaps Mrs. Brown will let you be the one to give the buns and bread
to the children. Perhaps you would like to do it because you know what
it is to be hungry, too."
"Yes, miss," said the girl.
And, somehow, Sara felt as if she understood her, though she said so
little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she
went out of the shop with the Indian gentleman, and they got into the
carriage and drove away. | Sara tells the children in the Large Family all about her story, which they love--especially the part about the magical things that appeared in her attic room. Mr. Carrisford tells his part of the story and says that Ram Dass thought of the idea of sneaking over to Sara's room and making it magical and warm--and that Mr. Carrisford loved how fanciful the idea was. They become great friends, Sara and Mr. Carrisford. He plans all sorts of fun activities, gives her little gifts, and even buys her a dog named Boris. One day, Sara looks thoughtful and Mr. Carrisford asks her what she's thinking about. She says she's thinking about "the hungry day" when she found the fourpence and bought the buns. She wants to go talk to the baker and ask her if she'll give bread to the poor children and send the bill to Sara. The next morning, Sara and Mr. Carrisford and Becky set out to go to the bakery, and Sara has to remind the baker woman about who she is. Then Sara asks her if she'll give food to the hungry children and let Sara pay for it. When the baker woman hears this, she says that she's already doing a bit of that. Oh, and she took in that hungry child that Sara gave the five buns. The girl now works at the bakery. Sara says that because Anne knows what it's like to be hungry, that she should be the one to give the buns and bread to the children in the future. And ... that's all, folks. Happy endings all around. |
I came to myself in darkness, in great pain, bound hand and foot, and
deafened by many unfamiliar noises. There sounded in my ears a roaring
of water as of a huge mill-dam, the thrashing of heavy sprays, the
thundering of the sails, and the shrill cries of seamen. The whole world
now heaved giddily up, and now rushed giddily downward; and so sick and
hurt was I in body, and my mind so much confounded, that it took me a
long while, chasing my thoughts up and down, and ever stunned again by
a fresh stab of pain, to realise that I must be lying somewhere bound in
the belly of that unlucky ship, and that the wind must have strengthened
to a gale. With the clear perception of my plight, there fell upon me a
blackness of despair, a horror of remorse at my own folly, and a passion
of anger at my uncle, that once more bereft me of my senses.
When I returned again to life, the same uproar, the same confused and
violent movements, shook and deafened me; and presently, to my other
pains and distresses, there was added the sickness of an unused landsman
on the sea. In that time of my adventurous youth, I suffered many
hardships; but none that was so crushing to my mind and body, or lit by
so few hopes, as these first hours aboard the brig.
I heard a gun fire, and supposed the storm had proved too strong for us,
and we were firing signals of distress. The thought of deliverance, even
by death in the deep sea, was welcome to me. Yet it was no such matter;
but (as I was afterwards told) a common habit of the captain's, which
I here set down to show that even the worst man may have his kindlier
side. We were then passing, it appeared, within some miles of Dysart,
where the brig was built, and where old Mrs. Hoseason, the captain's
mother, had come some years before to live; and whether outward or
inward bound, the Covenant was never suffered to go by that place by
day, without a gun fired and colours shown.
I had no measure of time; day and night were alike in that ill-smelling
cavern of the ship's bowels where I lay; and the misery of my situation
drew out the hours to double. How long, therefore, I lay waiting to hear
the ship split upon some rock, or to feel her reel head foremost into
the depths of the sea, I have not the means of computation. But sleep at
length stole from me the consciousness of sorrow.
I was awakened by the light of a hand-lantern shining in my face. A
small man of about thirty, with green eyes and a tangle of fair hair,
stood looking down at me.
"Well," said he, "how goes it?"
I answered by a sob; and my visitor then felt my pulse and temples, and
set himself to wash and dress the wound upon my scalp.
"Ay," said he, "a sore dunt*. What, man? Cheer up! The world's no done;
you've made a bad start of it but you'll make a better. Have you had any
meat?"
* Stroke.
I said I could not look at it: and thereupon he gave me some brandy and
water in a tin pannikin, and left me once more to myself.
The next time he came to see me, I was lying betwixt sleep and waking,
my eyes wide open in the darkness, the sickness quite departed, but
succeeded by a horrid giddiness and swimming that was almost worse
to bear. I ached, besides, in every limb, and the cords that bound me
seemed to be of fire. The smell of the hole in which I lay seemed to
have become a part of me; and during the long interval since his last
visit I had suffered tortures of fear, now from the scurrying of the
ship's rats, that sometimes pattered on my very face, and now from the
dismal imaginings that haunt the bed of fever.
The glimmer of the lantern, as a trap opened, shone in like the heaven's
sunlight; and though it only showed me the strong, dark beams of the
ship that was my prison, I could have cried aloud for gladness. The man
with the green eyes was the first to descend the ladder, and I noticed
that he came somewhat unsteadily. He was followed by the captain.
Neither said a word; but the first set to and examined me, and dressed
my wound as before, while Hoseason looked me in my face with an odd,
black look.
"Now, sir, you see for yourself," said the first: "a high fever, no
appetite, no light, no meat: you see for yourself what that means."
"I am no conjurer, Mr. Riach," said the captain.
"Give me leave, sir," said Riach; "you've a good head upon your
shoulders, and a good Scotch tongue to ask with; but I will leave you no
manner of excuse; I want that boy taken out of this hole and put in the
forecastle."
"What ye may want, sir, is a matter of concern to nobody but yoursel',"
returned the captain; "but I can tell ye that which is to be. Here he
is; here he shall bide."
"Admitting that you have been paid in a proportion," said the other, "I
will crave leave humbly to say that I have not. Paid I am, and none too
much, to be the second officer of this old tub, and you ken very well if
I do my best to earn it. But I was paid for nothing more."
"If ye could hold back your hand from the tin-pan, Mr. Riach, I would
have no complaint to make of ye," returned the skipper; "and instead
of asking riddles, I make bold to say that ye would keep your breath to
cool your porridge. We'll be required on deck," he added, in a sharper
note, and set one foot upon the ladder.
But Mr. Riach caught him by the sleeve.
"Admitting that you have been paid to do a murder----" he began.
Hoseason turned upon him with a flash.
"What's that?" he cried. "What kind of talk is that?"
"It seems it is the talk that you can understand," said Mr. Riach,
looking him steadily in the face.
"Mr. Riach, I have sailed with ye three cruises," replied the captain.
"In all that time, sir, ye should have learned to know me: I'm a stiff
man, and a dour man; but for what ye say the now--fie, fie!--it comes
from a bad heart and a black conscience. If ye say the lad will die----"
"Ay, will he!" said Mr. Riach.
"Well, sir, is not that enough?" said Hoseason. "Flit him where ye
please!"
Thereupon the captain ascended the ladder; and I, who had lain silent
throughout this strange conversation, beheld Mr. Riach turn after him
and bow as low as to his knees in what was plainly a spirit of derision.
Even in my then state of sickness, I perceived two things: that the
mate was touched with liquor, as the captain hinted, and that (drunk or
sober) he was like to prove a valuable friend.
Five minutes afterwards my bonds were cut, I was hoisted on a man's
back, carried up to the forecastle, and laid in a bunk on some
sea-blankets; where the first thing that I did was to lose my senses.
It was a blessed thing indeed to open my eyes again upon the daylight,
and to find myself in the society of men. The forecastle was a roomy
place enough, set all about with berths, in which the men of the watch
below were seated smoking, or lying down asleep. The day being calm and
the wind fair, the scuttle was open, and not only the good daylight, but
from time to time (as the ship rolled) a dusty beam of sunlight shone
in, and dazzled and delighted me. I had no sooner moved, moreover, than
one of the men brought me a drink of something healing which Mr. Riach
had prepared, and bade me lie still and I should soon be well again.
There were no bones broken, he explained: "A clour* on the head was
naething. Man," said he, "it was me that gave it ye!"
* Blow.
Here I lay for the space of many days a close prisoner, and not only got
my health again, but came to know my companions. They were a rough lot
indeed, as sailors mostly are: being men rooted out of all the kindly
parts of life, and condemned to toss together on the rough seas, with
masters no less cruel. There were some among them that had sailed with
the pirates and seen things it would be a shame even to speak of; some
were men that had run from the king's ships, and went with a halter
round their necks, of which they made no secret; and all, as the saying
goes, were "at a word and a blow" with their best friends. Yet I had
not been many days shut up with them before I began to be ashamed of my
first judgment, when I had drawn away from them at the Ferry pier, as
though they had been unclean beasts. No class of man is altogether bad,
but each has its own faults and virtues; and these shipmates of mine
were no exception to the rule. Rough they were, sure enough; and bad, I
suppose; but they had many virtues. They were kind when it occurred to
them, simple even beyond the simplicity of a country lad like me, and
had some glimmerings of honesty.
There was one man, of maybe forty, that would sit on my berthside for
hours and tell me of his wife and child. He was a fisher that had lost
his boat, and thus been driven to the deep-sea voyaging. Well, it is
years ago now: but I have never forgotten him. His wife (who was "young
by him," as he often told me) waited in vain to see her man return; he
would never again make the fire for her in the morning, nor yet keep
the bairn when she was sick. Indeed, many of these poor fellows (as the
event proved) were upon their last cruise; the deep seas and cannibal
fish received them; and it is a thankless business to speak ill of the
dead.
Among other good deeds that they did, they returned my money, which had
been shared among them; and though it was about a third short, I was
very glad to get it, and hoped great good from it in the land I was
going to. The ship was bound for the Carolinas; and you must not suppose
that I was going to that place merely as an exile. The trade was even
then much depressed; since that, and with the rebellion of the colonies
and the formation of the United States, it has, of course, come to
an end; but in those days of my youth, white men were still sold into
slavery on the plantations, and that was the destiny to which my wicked
uncle had condemned me.
The cabin-boy Ransome (from whom I had first heard of these atrocities)
came in at times from the round-house, where he berthed and served, now
nursing a bruised limb in silent agony, now raving against the cruelty
of Mr. Shuan. It made my heart bleed; but the men had a great respect
for the chief mate, who was, as they said, "the only seaman of the whole
jing-bang, and none such a bad man when he was sober." Indeed, I found
there was a strange peculiarity about our two mates: that Mr. Riach was
sullen, unkind, and harsh when he was sober, and Mr. Shuan would not
hurt a fly except when he was drinking. I asked about the captain; but I
was told drink made no difference upon that man of iron.
I did my best in the small time allowed me to make some thing like a
man, or rather I should say something like a boy, of the poor creature,
Ransome. But his mind was scarce truly human. He could remember nothing
of the time before he came to sea; only that his father had made clocks,
and had a starling in the parlour, which could whistle "The North
Countrie;" all else had been blotted out in these years of hardship
and cruelties. He had a strange notion of the dry land, picked up from
sailor's stories: that it was a place where lads were put to some kind
of slavery called a trade, and where apprentices were continually lashed
and clapped into foul prisons. In a town, he thought every second person
a decoy, and every third house a place in which seamen would be drugged
and murdered. To be sure, I would tell him how kindly I had myself been
used upon that dry land he was so much afraid of, and how well fed and
carefully taught both by my friends and my parents: and if he had been
recently hurt, he would weep bitterly and swear to run away; but if
he was in his usual crackbrain humour, or (still more) if he had had a
glass of spirits in the roundhouse, he would deride the notion.
It was Mr. Riach (Heaven forgive him!) who gave the boy drink; and
it was, doubtless, kindly meant; but besides that it was ruin to his
health, it was the pitifullest thing in life to see this unhappy,
unfriended creature staggering, and dancing, and talking he knew not
what. Some of the men laughed, but not all; others would grow as black
as thunder (thinking, perhaps, of their own childhood or their own
children) and bid him stop that nonsense, and think what he was doing.
As for me, I felt ashamed to look at him, and the poor child still comes
about me in my dreams.
All this time, you should know, the Covenant was meeting continual
head-winds and tumbling up and down against head-seas, so that the
scuttle was almost constantly shut, and the forecastle lighted only by a
swinging lantern on a beam. There was constant labour for all hands; the
sails had to be made and shortened every hour; the strain told on the
men's temper; there was a growl of quarrelling all day long from berth
to berth; and as I was never allowed to set my foot on deck, you
can picture to yourselves how weary of my life I grew to be, and how
impatient for a change.
And a change I was to get, as you shall hear; but I must first tell of
a conversation I had with Mr. Riach, which put a little heart in me to
bear my troubles. Getting him in a favourable stage of drink (for indeed
he never looked near me when he was sober), I pledged him to secrecy,
and told him my whole story.
He declared it was like a ballad; that he would do his best to help
me; that I should have paper, pen, and ink, and write one line to Mr.
Campbell and another to Mr. Rankeillor; and that if I had told the
truth, ten to one he would be able (with their help) to pull me through
and set me in my rights.
"And in the meantime," says he, "keep your heart up. You're not the only
one, I'll tell you that. There's many a man hoeing tobacco over-seas
that should be mounting his horse at his own door at home; many and
many! And life is all a variorum, at the best. Look at me: I'm a laird's
son and more than half a doctor, and here I am, man-Jack to Hoseason!"
I thought it would be civil to ask him for his story.
He whistled loud.
"Never had one," said he. "I like fun, that's all." And he skipped out
of the forecastle. | When David regains consciousness, he experiences excruciating pain. The noise of the sea deafens his ears, and the smell of the ship's cabin nauseates him. He feels stiff and realizes his hands and legs are tied up. Restricted in his movements and feeling dizzy in the darkness, he falls down in a swoon. He is awakened by a small man with green eyes. Mr. Riach looks friendly as he washes and dresses David's wounds. He also asks the captain to move David to another part of the ship where the boy can have a berth of his own. In his new lodgings, David meets different kinds of sailors who relate to him their tales of adventure. These men, though involved in illegal activities, are good at heart. Separated from their families and leading a life of danger, they evoke pity in David. Ransom comes to meet David often. He suffers from the cruelties imposed upon him by Mr. Shuan, one of the seamen who grows violent when he is drunk; he often beats Ransom. David tries to soothe his wounded heart and body by telling him stories about his childhood. He also becomes friendly with Mr. Riach and relates to him his tale of his uncle and his kidnapping. Riach tells him to write letters to Mr. Campbell and Mr. Rankeillor about Ebenezer's wickedness. |
The Letter and the Answer
My guardian called me into his room next morning, and then I told him
what had been left untold on the previous night. There was nothing to
be done, he said, but to keep the secret and to avoid another such
encounter as that of yesterday. He understood my feeling and entirely
shared it. He charged himself even with restraining Mr. Skimpole from
improving his opportunity. One person whom he need not name to me, it
was not now possible for him to advise or help. He wished it were,
but no such thing could be. If her mistrust of the lawyer whom she
had mentioned were well-founded, which he scarcely doubted, he
dreaded discovery. He knew something of him, both by sight and by
reputation, and it was certain that he was a dangerous man. Whatever
happened, he repeatedly impressed upon me with anxious affection and
kindness, I was as innocent of as himself and as unable to influence.
"Nor do I understand," said he, "that any doubts tend towards you, my
dear. Much suspicion may exist without that connexion."
"With the lawyer," I returned. "But two other persons have come into
my mind since I have been anxious. Then I told him all about Mr.
Guppy, who I feared might have had his vague surmises when I little
understood his meaning, but in whose silence after our last interview
I expressed perfect confidence.
"Well," said my guardian. "Then we may dismiss him for the present.
Who is the other?"
I called to his recollection the French maid and the eager offer of
herself she had made to me.
"Ha!" he returned thoughtfully. "That is a more alarming person than
the clerk. But after all, my dear, it was but seeking for a new
service. She had seen you and Ada a little while before, and it was
natural that you should come into her head. She merely proposed
herself for your maid, you know. She did nothing more."
"Her manner was strange," said I.
"Yes, and her manner was strange when she took her shoes off and
showed that cool relish for a walk that might have ended in her
death-bed," said my guardian. "It would be useless self-distress and
torment to reckon up such chances and possibilities. There are very
few harmless circumstances that would not seem full of perilous
meaning, so considered. Be hopeful, little woman. You can be nothing
better than yourself; be that, through this knowledge, as you were
before you had it. It is the best you can do for everybody's sake. I,
sharing the secret with you--"
"And lightening it, guardian, so much," said I.
"--will be attentive to what passes in that family, so far as I can
observe it from my distance. And if the time should come when I can
stretch out a hand to render the least service to one whom it is
better not to name even here, I will not fail to do it for her dear
daughter's sake."
I thanked him with my whole heart. What could I ever do but thank
him! I was going out at the door when he asked me to stay a moment.
Quickly turning round, I saw that same expression on his face again;
and all at once, I don't know how, it flashed upon me as a new and
far-off possibility that I understood it.
"My dear Esther," said my guardian, "I have long had something in my
thoughts that I have wished to say to you."
"Indeed?"
"I have had some difficulty in approaching it, and I still have. I
should wish it to be so deliberately said, and so deliberately
considered. Would you object to my writing it?"
"Dear guardian, how could I object to your writing anything for ME to
read?"
"Then see, my love," said he with his cheery smile, "am I at this
moment quite as plain and easy--do I seem as open, as honest and
old-fashioned--as I am at any time?"
I answered in all earnestness, "Quite." With the strictest truth, for
his momentary hesitation was gone (it had not lasted a minute), and
his fine, sensible, cordial, sterling manner was restored.
"Do I look as if I suppressed anything, meant anything but what I
said, had any reservation at all, no matter what?" said he with his
bright clear eyes on mine.
I answered, most assuredly he did not.
"Can you fully trust me, and thoroughly rely on what I profess,
Esther?"
"Most thoroughly," said I with my whole heart.
"My dear girl," returned my guardian, "give me your hand."
He took it in his, holding me lightly with his arm, and looking down
into my face with the same genuine freshness and faithfulness of
manner--the old protecting manner which had made that house my home
in a moment--said, "You have wrought changes in me, little woman,
since the winter day in the stage-coach. First and last you have done
me a world of good since that time."
"Ah, guardian, what have you done for me since that time!"
"But," said he, "that is not to be remembered now."
"It never can be forgotten."
"Yes, Esther," said he with a gentle seriousness, "it is to be
forgotten now, to be forgotten for a while. You are only to remember
now that nothing can change me as you know me. Can you feel quite
assured of that, my dear?"
"I can, and I do," I said.
"That's much," he answered. "That's everything. But I must not take
that at a word. I will not write this something in my thoughts until
you have quite resolved within yourself that nothing can change me as
you know me. If you doubt that in the least degree, I will never
write it. If you are sure of that, on good consideration, send
Charley to me this night week--'for the letter.' But if you are not
quite certain, never send. Mind, I trust to your truth, in this thing
as in everything. If you are not quite certain on that one point,
never send!"
"Guardian," said I, "I am already certain, I can no more be changed
in that conviction than you can be changed towards me. I shall send
Charley for the letter."
He shook my hand and said no more. Nor was any more said in reference
to this conversation, either by him or me, through the whole week.
When the appointed night came, I said to Charley as soon as I was
alone, "Go and knock at Mr. Jarndyce's door, Charley, and say you
have come from me--'for the letter.'" Charley went up the stairs, and
down the stairs, and along the passages--the zig-zag way about the
old-fashioned house seemed very long in my listening ears that
night--and so came back, along the passages, and down the stairs, and
up the stairs, and brought the letter. "Lay it on the table,
Charley," said I. So Charley laid it on the table and went to bed,
and I sat looking at it without taking it up, thinking of many
things.
I began with my overshadowed childhood, and passed through those
timid days to the heavy time when my aunt lay dead, with her resolute
face so cold and set, and when I was more solitary with Mrs. Rachael
than if I had had no one in the world to speak to or to look at. I
passed to the altered days when I was so blest as to find friends in
all around me, and to be beloved. I came to the time when I first saw
my dear girl and was received into that sisterly affection which was
the grace and beauty of my life. I recalled the first bright gleam of
welcome which had shone out of those very windows upon our expectant
faces on that cold bright night, and which had never paled. I lived
my happy life there over again, I went through my illness and
recovery, I thought of myself so altered and of those around me so
unchanged; and all this happiness shone like a light from one central
figure, represented before me by the letter on the table.
I opened it and read it. It was so impressive in its love for me, and
in the unselfish caution it gave me, and the consideration it showed
for me in every word, that my eyes were too often blinded to read
much at a time. But I read it through three times before I laid it
down. I had thought beforehand that I knew its purport, and I did. It
asked me, would I be the mistress of Bleak House.
It was not a love letter, though it expressed so much love, but was
written just as he would at any time have spoken to me. I saw his
face, and heard his voice, and felt the influence of his kind
protecting manner in every line. It addressed me as if our places
were reversed, as if all the good deeds had been mine and all the
feelings they had awakened his. It dwelt on my being young, and he
past the prime of life; on his having attained a ripe age, while I
was a child; on his writing to me with a silvered head, and knowing
all this so well as to set it in full before me for mature
deliberation. It told me that I would gain nothing by such a marriage
and lose nothing by rejecting it, for no new relation could enhance
the tenderness in which he held me, and whatever my decision was, he
was certain it would be right. But he had considered this step anew
since our late confidence and had decided on taking it, if it only
served to show me through one poor instance that the whole world
would readily unite to falsify the stern prediction of my childhood.
I was the last to know what happiness I could bestow upon him, but of
that he said no more, for I was always to remember that I owed him
nothing and that he was my debtor, and for very much. He had often
thought of our future, and foreseeing that the time must come, and
fearing that it might come soon, when Ada (now very nearly of age)
would leave us, and when our present mode of life must be broken up,
had become accustomed to reflect on this proposal. Thus he made it.
If I felt that I could ever give him the best right he could have to
be my protector, and if I felt that I could happily and justly become
the dear companion of his remaining life, superior to all lighter
chances and changes than death, even then he could not have me bind
myself irrevocably while this letter was yet so new to me, but even
then I must have ample time for reconsideration. In that case, or in
the opposite case, let him be unchanged in his old relation, in his
old manner, in the old name by which I called him. And as to his
bright Dame Durden and little housekeeper, she would ever be the
same, he knew.
This was the substance of the letter, written throughout with a
justice and a dignity as if he were indeed my responsible guardian
impartially representing the proposal of a friend against whom in his
integrity he stated the full case.
But he did not hint to me that when I had been better looking he had
had this same proceeding in his thoughts and had refrained from it.
That when my old face was gone from me, and I had no attractions, he
could love me just as well as in my fairer days. That the discovery
of my birth gave him no shock. That his generosity rose above my
disfigurement and my inheritance of shame. That the more I stood in
need of such fidelity, the more firmly I might trust in him to the
last.
But I knew it, I knew it well now. It came upon me as the close of
the benignant history I had been pursuing, and I felt that I had but
one thing to do. To devote my life to his happiness was to thank him
poorly, and what had I wished for the other night but some new means
of thanking him?
Still I cried very much, not only in the fullness of my heart after
reading the letter, not only in the strangeness of the prospect--for
it was strange though I had expected the contents--but as if
something for which there was no name or distinct idea were
indefinitely lost to me. I was very happy, very thankful, very
hopeful; but I cried very much.
By and by I went to my old glass. My eyes were red and swollen, and I
said, "Oh, Esther, Esther, can that be you!" I am afraid the face in
the glass was going to cry again at this reproach, but I held up my
finger at it, and it stopped.
"That is more like the composed look you comforted me with, my dear,
when you showed me such a change!" said I, beginning to let down my
hair. "When you are mistress of Bleak House, you are to be as
cheerful as a bird. In fact, you are always to be cheerful; so let us
begin for once and for all."
I went on with my hair now, quite comfortably. I sobbed a little
still, but that was because I had been crying, not because I was
crying then.
"And so Esther, my dear, you are happy for life. Happy with your best
friends, happy in your old home, happy in the power of doing a great
deal of good, and happy in the undeserved love of the best of men."
I thought, all at once, if my guardian had married some one else, how
should I have felt, and what should I have done! That would have been
a change indeed. It presented my life in such a new and blank form
that I rang my housekeeping keys and gave them a kiss before I laid
them down in their basket again.
Then I went on to think, as I dressed my hair before the glass, how
often had I considered within myself that the deep traces of my
illness and the circumstances of my birth were only new reasons why I
should be busy, busy, busy--useful, amiable, serviceable, in all
honest, unpretending ways. This was a good time, to be sure, to sit
down morbidly and cry! As to its seeming at all strange to me at
first (if that were any excuse for crying, which it was not) that I
was one day to be the mistress of Bleak House, why should it seem
strange? Other people had thought of such things, if I had not.
"Don't you remember, my plain dear," I asked myself, looking at the
glass, "what Mrs. Woodcourt said before those scars were there about
your marrying--"
Perhaps the name brought them to my remembrance. The dried remains of
the flowers. It would be better not to keep them now. They had only
been preserved in memory of something wholly past and gone, but it
would be better not to keep them now.
They were in a book, and it happened to be in the next room--our
sitting-room, dividing Ada's chamber from mine. I took a candle and
went softly in to fetch it from its shelf. After I had it in my hand,
I saw my beautiful darling, through the open door, lying asleep, and
I stole in to kiss her.
It was weak in me, I know, and I could have no reason for crying; but
I dropped a tear upon her dear face, and another, and another. Weaker
than that, I took the withered flowers out and put them for a moment
to her lips. I thought about her love for Richard, though, indeed,
the flowers had nothing to do with that. Then I took them into my own
room and burned them at the candle, and they were dust in an instant.
On entering the breakfast-room next morning, I found my guardian just
as usual, quite as frank, as open, and free. There being not the
least constraint in his manner, there was none (or I think there was
none) in mine. I was with him several times in the course of the
morning, in and out, when there was no one there, and I thought it
not unlikely that he might speak to me about the letter, but he did
not say a word.
So, on the next morning, and the next, and for at least a week, over
which time Mr. Skimpole prolonged his stay. I expected, every day,
that my guardian might speak to me about the letter, but he never
did.
I thought then, growing uneasy, that I ought to write an answer. I
tried over and over again in my own room at night, but I could not
write an answer that at all began like a good answer, so I thought
each night I would wait one more day. And I waited seven more days,
and he never said a word.
At last, Mr. Skimpole having departed, we three were one afternoon
going out for a ride; and I, being dressed before Ada and going down,
came upon my guardian, with his back towards me, standing at the
drawing-room window looking out.
He turned on my coming in and said, smiling, "Aye, it's you, little
woman, is it?" and looked out again.
I had made up my mind to speak to him now. In short, I had come down
on purpose. "Guardian," I said, rather hesitating and trembling,
"when would you like to have the answer to the letter Charley came
for?"
"When it's ready, my dear," he replied.
"I think it is ready," said I.
"Is Charley to bring it?" he asked pleasantly.
"No. I have brought it myself, guardian," I returned.
I put my two arms round his neck and kissed him, and he said was this
the mistress of Bleak House, and I said yes; and it made no
difference presently, and we all went out together, and I said
nothing to my precious pet about it. | Mr. Jarndyce promises to assist Esther and her mother in every way possible. He agrees that Tulkinghorn is a dangerous person. In the same conversation, Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that one week later she should send Charley to his room for a letter, which he will have written by then. Mr. Jarndyce promises to assist Esther and her mother in every way possible. He agrees that Tulkinghorn is a dangerous person. In the same conversation, Mr. Jarndyce tells Esther that one week later she should send Charley to his room for a letter, which he will have written by then. The letter turns out to be a marriage proposal. Esther feels blessed to be chosen as the mistress of Bleak House. During the next several days, she expects Mr. Jarndyce to bring up the subject of the letter, but as he does not, she takes the initiative and gives him the answer he has hoped for. |
"He had more tow on his distaffe
Than Gerveis knew."
--CHAUCER.
The ride to Stone Court, which Fred and Rosamond took the next morning,
lay through a pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all meadows and
pastures, with hedgerows still allowed to grow in bushy beauty and to
spread out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave each field a
particular physiognomy, dear to the eyes that have looked on them from
childhood: the pool in the corner where the grasses were dank and trees
leaned whisperingly; the great oak shadowing a bare place in
mid-pasture; the high bank where the ash-trees grew; the sudden slope
of the old marl-pit making a red background for the burdock; the
huddled roofs and ricks of the homestead without a traceable way of
approach; the gray gate and fences against the depths of the bordering
wood; and the stray hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and
valleys with wondrous modulations of light and shadow such as we travel
far to see in later life, and see larger, but not more beautiful.
These are the things that make the gamut of joy in landscape to
midland-bred souls--the things they toddled among, or perhaps learned
by heart standing between their father's knees while he drove leisurely.
But the road, even the byroad, was excellent; for Lowick, as we have
seen, was not a parish of muddy lanes and poor tenants; and it was into
Lowick parish that Fred and Rosamond entered after a couple of miles'
riding. Another mile would bring them to Stone Court, and at the end
of the first half, the house was already visible, looking as if it had
been arrested in its growth toward a stone mansion by an unexpected
budding of farm-buildings on its left flank, which had hindered it from
becoming anything more than the substantial dwelling of a gentleman
farmer. It was not the less agreeable an object in the distance for
the cluster of pinnacled corn-ricks which balanced the fine row of
walnuts on the right.
Presently it was possible to discern something that might be a gig on
the circular drive before the front door.
"Dear me," said Rosamond, "I hope none of my uncle's horrible relations
are there."
"They are, though. That is Mrs. Waule's gig--the last yellow gig left,
I should think. When I see Mrs. Waule in it, I understand how yellow
can have been worn for mourning. That gig seems to me more funereal
than a hearse. But then Mrs. Waule always has black crape on. How
does she manage it, Rosy? Her friends can't always be dying."
"I don't know at all. And she is not in the least evangelical," said
Rosamond, reflectively, as if that religious point of view would have
fully accounted for perpetual crape. "And, not poor," she added, after
a moment's pause.
"No, by George! They are as rich as Jews, those Waules and
Featherstones; I mean, for people like them, who don't want to spend
anything. And yet they hang about my uncle like vultures, and are
afraid of a farthing going away from their side of the family. But I
believe he hates them all."
The Mrs. Waule who was so far from being admirable in the eyes of these
distant connections, had happened to say this very morning (not at all
with a defiant air, but in a low, muffled, neutral tone, as of a voice
heard through cotton wool) that she did not wish "to enjoy their good
opinion." She was seated, as she observed, on her own brother's hearth,
and had been Jane Featherstone five-and-twenty years before she had
been Jane Waule, which entitled her to speak when her own brother's
name had been made free with by those who had no right to it.
"What are you driving at there?" said Mr. Featherstone, holding his
stick between his knees and settling his wig, while he gave her a
momentary sharp glance, which seemed to react on him like a draught of
cold air and set him coughing.
Mrs. Waule had to defer her answer till he was quiet again, till Mary
Garth had supplied him with fresh syrup, and he had begun to rub the
gold knob of his stick, looking bitterly at the fire. It was a bright
fire, but it made no difference to the chill-looking purplish tint of
Mrs. Waule's face, which was as neutral as her voice; having mere
chinks for eyes, and lips that hardly moved in speaking.
"The doctors can't master that cough, brother. It's just like what I
have; for I'm your own sister, constitution and everything. But, as I
was saying, it's a pity Mrs. Vincy's family can't be better conducted."
"Tchah! you said nothing o' the sort. You said somebody had made free
with my name."
"And no more than can be proved, if what everybody says is true. My
brother Solomon tells me it's the talk up and down in Middlemarch how
unsteady young Vincy is, and has been forever gambling at billiards
since home he came."
"Nonsense! What's a game at billiards? It's a good gentlemanly game;
and young Vincy is not a clodhopper. If your son John took to
billiards, now, he'd make a fool of himself."
"Your nephew John never took to billiards or any other game, brother,
and is far from losing hundreds of pounds, which, if what everybody
says is true, must be found somewhere else than out of Mr. Vincy the
father's pocket. For they say he's been losing money for years, though
nobody would think so, to see him go coursing and keeping open house as
they do. And I've heard say Mr. Bulstrode condemns Mrs. Vincy beyond
anything for her flightiness, and spoiling her children so."
"What's Bulstrode to me? I don't bank with him."
"Well, Mrs. Bulstrode is Mr. Vincy's own sister, and they do say that
Mr. Vincy mostly trades on the Bank money; and you may see yourself,
brother, when a woman past forty has pink strings always flying, and
that light way of laughing at everything, it's very unbecoming. But
indulging your children is one thing, and finding money to pay their
debts is another. And it's openly said that young Vincy has raised
money on his expectations. I don't say what expectations. Miss Garth
hears me, and is welcome to tell again. I know young people hang
together."
"No, thank you, Mrs. Waule," said Mary Garth. "I dislike hearing
scandal too much to wish to repeat it."
Mr. Featherstone rubbed the knob of his stick and made a brief
convulsive show of laughter, which had much the same genuineness as an
old whist-player's chuckle over a bad hand. Still looking at the fire,
he said--
"And who pretends to say Fred Vincy hasn't got expectations? Such a
fine, spirited fellow is like enough to have 'em."
There was a slight pause before Mrs. Waule replied, and when she did
so, her voice seemed to be slightly moistened with tears, though her
face was still dry.
"Whether or no, brother, it is naturally painful to me and my brother
Solomon to hear your name made free with, and your complaint being such
as may carry you off sudden, and people who are no more Featherstones
than the Merry-Andrew at the fair, openly reckoning on your property
coming to _them_. And me your own sister, and Solomon your own
brother! And if that's to be it, what has it pleased the Almighty to
make families for?" Here Mrs. Waule's tears fell, but with moderation.
"Come, out with it, Jane!" said Mr. Featherstone, looking at her. "You
mean to say, Fred Vincy has been getting somebody to advance him money
on what he says he knows about my will, eh?"
"I never said so, brother" (Mrs. Waule's voice had again become dry and
unshaken). "It was told me by my brother Solomon last night when he
called coming from market to give me advice about the old wheat, me
being a widow, and my son John only three-and-twenty, though steady
beyond anything. And he had it from most undeniable authority, and not
one, but many."
"Stuff and nonsense! I don't believe a word of it. It's all a got-up
story. Go to the window, missy; I thought I heard a horse. See if the
doctor's coming."
"Not got up by me, brother, nor yet by Solomon, who, whatever else he
may be--and I don't deny he has oddities--has made his will and parted
his property equal between such kin as he's friends with; though, for
my part, I think there are times when some should be considered more
than others. But Solomon makes it no secret what he means to do."
"The more fool he!" said Mr. Featherstone, with some difficulty;
breaking into a severe fit of coughing that required Mary Garth to
stand near him, so that she did not find out whose horses they were
which presently paused stamping on the gravel before the door.
Before Mr. Featherstone's cough was quiet, Rosamond entered, bearing up
her riding-habit with much grace. She bowed ceremoniously to Mrs.
Waule, who said stiffly, "How do you do, miss?" smiled and nodded
silently to Mary, and remained standing till the coughing should cease,
and allow her uncle to notice her.
"Heyday, miss!" he said at last, "you have a fine color. Where's Fred?"
"Seeing about the horses. He will be in presently."
"Sit down, sit down. Mrs. Waule, you'd better go."
Even those neighbors who had called Peter Featherstone an old fox, had
never accused him of being insincerely polite, and his sister was quite
used to the peculiar absence of ceremony with which he marked his sense
of blood-relationship. Indeed, she herself was accustomed to think that
entire freedom from the necessity of behaving agreeably was included in
the Almighty's intentions about families. She rose slowly without any
sign of resentment, and said in her usual muffled monotone, "Brother, I
hope the new doctor will be able to do something for you. Solomon says
there's great talk of his cleverness. I'm sure it's my wish you should
be spared. And there's none more ready to nurse you than your own
sister and your own nieces, if you'd only say the word. There's
Rebecca, and Joanna, and Elizabeth, you know."
"Ay, ay, I remember--you'll see I've remembered 'em all--all dark and
ugly. They'd need have some money, eh? There never was any beauty in
the women of our family; but the Featherstones have always had some
money, and the Waules too. Waule had money too. A warm man was Waule.
Ay, ay; money's a good egg; and if you 've got money to leave behind
you, lay it in a warm nest. Good-by, Mrs. Waule." Here Mr.
Featherstone pulled at both sides of his wig as if he wanted to deafen
himself, and his sister went away ruminating on this oracular speech of
his. Notwithstanding her jealousy of the Vincys and of Mary Garth,
there remained as the nethermost sediment in her mental shallows a
persuasion that her brother Peter Featherstone could never leave his
chief property away from his blood-relations:--else, why had the
Almighty carried off his two wives both childless, after he had gained
so much by manganese and things, turning up when nobody expected
it?--and why was there a Lowick parish church, and the Waules and
Powderells all sitting in the same pew for generations, and the
Featherstone pew next to them, if, the Sunday after her brother Peter's
death, everybody was to know that the property was gone out of the
family? The human mind has at no period accepted a moral chaos; and so
preposterous a result was not strictly conceivable. But we are
frightened at much that is not strictly conceivable.
When Fred came in the old man eyed him with a peculiar twinkle, which
the younger had often had reason to interpret as pride in the
satisfactory details of his appearance.
"You two misses go away," said Mr. Featherstone. "I want to speak to
Fred."
"Come into my room, Rosamond, you will not mind the cold for a little
while," said Mary. The two girls had not only known each other in
childhood, but had been at the same provincial school together (Mary as
an articled pupil), so that they had many memories in common, and liked
very well to talk in private. Indeed, this tete-a-tete was one of
Rosamond's objects in coming to Stone Court.
Old Featherstone would not begin the dialogue till the door had been
closed. He continued to look at Fred with the same twinkle and with
one of his habitual grimaces, alternately screwing and widening his
mouth; and when he spoke, it was in a low tone, which might be taken
for that of an informer ready to be bought off, rather than for the
tone of an offended senior. He was not a man to feel any strong moral
indignation even on account of trespasses against himself. It was
natural that others should want to get an advantage over him, but then,
he was a little too cunning for them.
"So, sir, you've been paying ten per cent for money which you've
promised to pay off by mortgaging my land when I'm dead and gone, eh?
You put my life at a twelvemonth, say. But I can alter my will yet."
Fred blushed. He had not borrowed money in that way, for excellent
reasons. But he was conscious of having spoken with some confidence
(perhaps with more than he exactly remembered) about his prospect of
getting Featherstone's land as a future means of paying present debts.
"I don't know what you refer to, sir. I have certainly never borrowed
any money on such an insecurity. Please do explain."
"No, sir, it's you must explain. I can alter my will yet, let me tell
you. I'm of sound mind--can reckon compound interest in my head, and
remember every fool's name as well as I could twenty years ago. What
the deuce? I'm under eighty. I say, you must contradict this story."
"I have contradicted it, sir," Fred answered, with a touch of
impatience, not remembering that his uncle did not verbally
discriminate contradicting from disproving, though no one was further
from confounding the two ideas than old Featherstone, who often
wondered that so many fools took his own assertions for proofs. "But I
contradict it again. The story is a silly lie."
"Nonsense! you must bring dockiments. It comes from authority."
"Name the authority, and make him name the man of whom I borrowed the
money, and then I can disprove the story."
"It's pretty good authority, I think--a man who knows most of what goes
on in Middlemarch. It's that fine, religious, charitable uncle o'
yours. Come now!" Here Mr. Featherstone had his peculiar inward shake
which signified merriment.
"Mr. Bulstrode?"
"Who else, eh?"
"Then the story has grown into this lie out of some sermonizing words
he may have let fall about me. Do they pretend that he named the man
who lent me the money?"
"If there is such a man, depend upon it Bulstrode knows him. But,
supposing you only tried to get the money lent, and didn't get
it--Bulstrode 'ud know that too. You bring me a writing from Bulstrode
to say he doesn't believe you've ever promised to pay your debts out o'
my land. Come now!"
Mr. Featherstone's face required its whole scale of grimaces as a
muscular outlet to his silent triumph in the soundness of his faculties.
Fred felt himself to be in a disgusting dilemma.
"You must be joking, sir. Mr. Bulstrode, like other men, believes
scores of things that are not true, and he has a prejudice against me.
I could easily get him to write that he knew no facts in proof of the
report you speak of, though it might lead to unpleasantness. But I
could hardly ask him to write down what he believes or does not believe
about me." Fred paused an instant, and then added, in politic appeal to
his uncle's vanity, "That is hardly a thing for a gentleman to ask."
But he was disappointed in the result.
"Ay, I know what you mean. You'd sooner offend me than Bulstrode. And
what's he?--he's got no land hereabout that ever I heard tell of. A
speckilating fellow! He may come down any day, when the devil leaves
off backing him. And that's what his religion means: he wants God
A'mighty to come in. That's nonsense! There's one thing I made out
pretty clear when I used to go to church--and it's this: God A'mighty
sticks to the land. He promises land, and He gives land, and He makes
chaps rich with corn and cattle. But you take the other side. You
like Bulstrode and speckilation better than Featherstone and land."
"I beg your pardon, sir," said Fred, rising, standing with his back to
the fire and beating his boot with his whip. "I like neither Bulstrode
nor speculation." He spoke rather sulkily, feeling himself stalemated.
"Well, well, you can do without me, that's pretty clear," said old
Featherstone, secretly disliking the possibility that Fred would show
himself at all independent. "You neither want a bit of land to make a
squire of you instead of a starving parson, nor a lift of a hundred
pound by the way. It's all one to me. I can make five codicils if I
like, and I shall keep my bank-notes for a nest-egg. It's all one to
me."
Fred colored again. Featherstone had rarely given him presents of
money, and at this moment it seemed almost harder to part with the
immediate prospect of bank-notes than with the more distant prospect of
the land.
"I am not ungrateful, sir. I never meant to show disregard for any
kind intentions you might have towards me. On the contrary."
"Very good. Then prove it. You bring me a letter from Bulstrode
saying he doesn't believe you've been cracking and promising to pay
your debts out o' my land, and then, if there's any scrape you've got
into, we'll see if I can't back you a bit. Come now! That's a
bargain. Here, give me your arm. I'll try and walk round the room."
Fred, in spite of his irritation, had kindness enough in him to be a
little sorry for the unloved, unvenerated old man, who with his
dropsical legs looked more than usually pitiable in walking. While
giving his arm, he thought that he should not himself like to be an old
fellow with his constitution breaking up; and he waited
good-temperedly, first before the window to hear the wonted remarks
about the guinea-fowls and the weather-cock, and then before the scanty
book-shelves, of which the chief glories in dark calf were Josephus,
Culpepper, Klopstock's "Messiah," and several volumes of the
"Gentleman's Magazine."
"Read me the names o' the books. Come now! you're a college man."
Fred gave him the titles.
"What did missy want with more books? What must you be bringing her
more books for?"
"They amuse her, sir. She is very fond of reading."
"A little too fond," said Mr. Featherstone, captiously. "She was for
reading when she sat with me. But I put a stop to that. She's got the
newspaper to read out loud. That's enough for one day, I should think.
I can't abide to see her reading to herself. You mind and not bring
her any more books, do you hear?"
"Yes, sir, I hear." Fred had received this order before, and had
secretly disobeyed it. He intended to disobey it again.
"Ring the bell," said Mr. Featherstone; "I want missy to come down."
Rosamond and Mary had been talking faster than their male friends.
They did not think of sitting down, but stood at the toilet-table near
the window while Rosamond took off her hat, adjusted her veil, and
applied little touches of her finger-tips to her hair--hair of
infantine fairness, neither flaxen nor yellow. Mary Garth seemed all
the plainer standing at an angle between the two nymphs--the one in the
glass, and the one out of it, who looked at each other with eyes of
heavenly blue, deep enough to hold the most exquisite meanings an
ingenious beholder could put into them, and deep enough to hide the
meanings of the owner if these should happen to be less exquisite.
Only a few children in Middlemarch looked blond by the side of
Rosamond, and the slim figure displayed by her riding-habit had
delicate undulations. In fact, most men in Middlemarch, except her
brothers, held that Miss Vincy was the best girl in the world, and some
called her an angel. Mary Garth, on the contrary, had the aspect of an
ordinary sinner: she was brown; her curly dark hair was rough and
stubborn; her stature was low; and it would not be true to declare, in
satisfactory antithesis, that she had all the virtues. Plainness has
its peculiar temptations and vices quite as much as beauty; it is apt
either to feign amiability, or, not feigning it, to show all the
repulsiveness of discontent: at any rate, to be called an ugly thing in
contrast with that lovely creature your companion, is apt to produce
some effect beyond a sense of fine veracity and fitness in the phrase.
At the age of two-and-twenty Mary had certainly not attained that
perfect good sense and good principle which are usually recommended to
the less fortunate girl, as if they were to be obtained in quantities
ready mixed, with a flavor of resignation as required. Her shrewdness
had a streak of satiric bitterness continually renewed and never
carried utterly out of sight, except by a strong current of gratitude
towards those who, instead of telling her that she ought to be
contented, did something to make her so. Advancing womanhood had
tempered her plainness, which was of a good human sort, such as the
mothers of our race have very commonly worn in all latitudes under a
more or less becoming headgear. Rembrandt would have painted her with
pleasure, and would have made her broad features look out of the canvas
with intelligent honesty. For honesty, truth-telling fairness, was
Mary's reigning virtue: she neither tried to create illusions, nor
indulged in them for her own behoof, and when she was in a good mood
she had humor enough in her to laugh at herself. When she and Rosamond
happened both to be reflected in the glass, she said, laughingly--
"What a brown patch I am by the side of you, Rosy! You are the most
unbecoming companion."
"Oh no! No one thinks of your appearance, you are so sensible and
useful, Mary. Beauty is of very little consequence in reality," said
Rosamond, turning her head towards Mary, but with eyes swerving towards
the new view of her neck in the glass.
"You mean my beauty," said Mary, rather sardonically.
Rosamond thought, "Poor Mary, she takes the kindest things ill." Aloud
she said, "What have you been doing lately?"
"I? Oh, minding the house--pouring out syrup--pretending to be amiable
and contented--learning to have a bad opinion of everybody."
"It is a wretched life for you."
"No," said Mary, curtly, with a little toss of her head. "I think my
life is pleasanter than your Miss Morgan's."
"Yes; but Miss Morgan is so uninteresting, and not young."
"She is interesting to herself, I suppose; and I am not at all sure
that everything gets easier as one gets older."
"No," said Rosamond, reflectively; "one wonders what such people do,
without any prospect. To be sure, there is religion as a support.
But," she added, dimpling, "it is very different with you, Mary. You
may have an offer."
"Has any one told you he means to make me one?"
"Of course not. I mean, there is a gentleman who may fall in love with
you, seeing you almost every day."
A certain change in Mary's face was chiefly determined by the resolve
not to show any change.
"Does that always make people fall in love?" she answered, carelessly;
"it seems to me quite as often a reason for detesting each other."
"Not when they are interesting and agreeable. I hear that Mr. Lydgate
is both."
"Oh, Mr. Lydgate!" said Mary, with an unmistakable lapse into
indifference. "You want to know something about him," she added, not
choosing to indulge Rosamond's indirectness.
"Merely, how you like him."
"There is no question of liking at present. My liking always wants
some little kindness to kindle it. I am not magnanimous enough to like
people who speak to me without seeming to see me."
"Is he so haughty?" said Rosamond, with heightened satisfaction. "You
know that he is of good family?"
"No; he did not give that as a reason."
"Mary! you are the oddest girl. But what sort of looking man is he?
Describe him to me."
"How can one describe a man? I can give you an inventory: heavy
eyebrows, dark eyes, a straight nose, thick dark hair, large solid
white hands--and--let me see--oh, an exquisite cambric
pocket-handkerchief. But you will see him. You know this is about the
time of his visits."
Rosamond blushed a little, but said, meditatively, "I rather like a
haughty manner. I cannot endure a rattling young man."
"I did not tell you that Mr. Lydgate was haughty; but il y en a pour
tous les gouts, as little Mamselle used to say, and if any girl can
choose the particular sort of conceit she would like, I should think it
is you, Rosy."
"Haughtiness is not conceit; I call Fred conceited."
"I wish no one said any worse of him. He should be more careful. Mrs.
Waule has been telling uncle that Fred is very unsteady." Mary spoke
from a girlish impulse which got the better of her judgment. There was
a vague uneasiness associated with the word "unsteady" which she hoped
Rosamond might say something to dissipate. But she purposely abstained
from mentioning Mrs. Waule's more special insinuation.
"Oh, Fred is horrid!" said Rosamond. She would not have allowed
herself so unsuitable a word to any one but Mary.
"What do you mean by horrid?"
"He is so idle, and makes papa so angry, and says he will not take
orders."
"I think Fred is quite right."
"How can you say he is quite right, Mary? I thought you had more sense
of religion."
"He is not fit to be a clergyman."
"But he ought to be fit."--"Well, then, he is not what he ought to be.
I know some other people who are in the same case."
"But no one approves of them. I should not like to marry a clergyman;
but there must be clergymen."
"It does not follow that Fred must be one."
"But when papa has been at the expense of educating him for it! And
only suppose, if he should have no fortune left him?"
"I can suppose that very well," said Mary, dryly.
"Then I wonder you can defend Fred," said Rosamond, inclined to push
this point.
"I don't defend him," said Mary, laughing; "I would defend any parish
from having him for a clergyman."
"But of course if he were a clergyman, he must be different."
"Yes, he would be a great hypocrite; and he is not that yet."
"It is of no use saying anything to you, Mary. You always take Fred's
part."
"Why should I not take his part?" said Mary, lighting up. "He would
take mine. He is the only person who takes the least trouble to oblige
me."
"You make me feel very uncomfortable, Mary," said Rosamond, with her
gravest mildness; "I would not tell mamma for the world."
"What would you not tell her?" said Mary, angrily.
"Pray do not go into a rage, Mary," said Rosamond, mildly as ever.
"If your mamma is afraid that Fred will make me an offer, tell her that
I would not marry him if he asked me. But he is not going to do so,
that I am aware. He certainly never has asked me."
"Mary, you are always so violent."
"And you are always so exasperating."
"I? What can you blame me for?"
"Oh, blameless people are always the most exasperating. There is the
bell--I think we must go down."
"I did not mean to quarrel," said Rosamond, putting on her hat.
"Quarrel? Nonsense; we have not quarrelled. If one is not to get into
a rage sometimes, what is the good of being friends?"
"Am I to repeat what you have said?" "Just as you please. I never say
what I am afraid of having repeated. But let us go down."
Mr. Lydgate was rather late this morning, but the visitors stayed long
enough to see him; for Mr. Featherstone asked Rosamond to sing to him,
and she herself was so kind as to propose a second favorite song of
his--"Flow on, thou shining river"--after she had sung "Home, sweet
home" (which she detested). This hard-headed old Overreach approved of
the sentimental song, as the suitable garnish for girls, and also as
fundamentally fine, sentiment being the right thing for a song.
Mr. Featherstone was still applauding the last performance, and
assuring missy that her voice was as clear as a blackbird's, when Mr.
Lydgate's horse passed the window.
His dull expectation of the usual disagreeable routine with an aged
patient--who can hardly believe that medicine would not "set him up" if
the doctor were only clever enough--added to his general disbelief in
Middlemarch charms, made a doubly effective background to this vision
of Rosamond, whom old Featherstone made haste ostentatiously to
introduce as his niece, though he had never thought it worth while to
speak of Mary Garth in that light. Nothing escaped Lydgate in
Rosamond's graceful behavior: how delicately she waived the notice
which the old man's want of taste had thrust upon her by a quiet
gravity, not showing her dimples on the wrong occasion, but showing
them afterwards in speaking to Mary, to whom she addressed herself with
so much good-natured interest, that Lydgate, after quickly examining
Mary more fully than he had done before, saw an adorable kindness in
Rosamond's eyes. But Mary from some cause looked rather out of temper.
"Miss Rosy has been singing me a song--you've nothing to say against
that, eh, doctor?" said Mr. Featherstone. "I like it better than your
physic."
"That has made me forget how the time was going," said Rosamond, rising
to reach her hat, which she had laid aside before singing, so that her
flower-like head on its white stem was seen in perfection above-her
riding-habit. "Fred, we must really go."
"Very good," said Fred, who had his own reasons for not being in the
best spirits, and wanted to get away.
"Miss Vincy is a musician?" said Lydgate, following her with his eyes.
(Every nerve and muscle in Rosamond was adjusted to the consciousness
that she was being looked at. She was by nature an actress of parts
that entered into her physique: she even acted her own character, and
so well, that she did not know it to be precisely her own.)
"The best in Middlemarch, I'll be bound," said Mr. Featherstone, "let
the next be who she will. Eh, Fred? Speak up for your sister."
"I'm afraid I'm out of court, sir. My evidence would be good for
nothing."
"Middlemarch has not a very high standard, uncle," said Rosamond, with
a pretty lightness, going towards her whip, which lay at a distance.
Lydgate was quick in anticipating her. He reached the whip before she
did, and turned to present it to her. She bowed and looked at him: he
of course was looking at her, and their eyes met with that peculiar
meeting which is never arrived at by effort, but seems like a sudden
divine clearance of haze. I think Lydgate turned a little paler than
usual, but Rosamond blushed deeply and felt a certain astonishment.
After that, she was really anxious to go, and did not know what sort of
stupidity her uncle was talking of when she went to shake hands with
him.
Yet this result, which she took to be a mutual impression, called
falling in love, was just what Rosamond had contemplated beforehand.
Ever since that important new arrival in Middlemarch she had woven a
little future, of which something like this scene was the necessary
beginning. Strangers, whether wrecked and clinging to a raft, or duly
escorted and accompanied by portmanteaus, have always had a
circumstantial fascination for the virgin mind, against which native
merit has urged itself in vain. And a stranger was absolutely
necessary to Rosamond's social romance, which had always turned on a
lover and bridegroom who was not a Middlemarcher, and who had no
connections at all like her own: of late, indeed, the construction
seemed to demand that he should somehow be related to a baronet. Now
that she and the stranger had met, reality proved much more moving than
anticipation, and Rosamond could not doubt that this was the great
epoch of her life. She judged of her own symptoms as those of
awakening love, and she held it still more natural that Mr. Lydgate
should have fallen in love at first sight of her. These things
happened so often at balls, and why not by the morning light, when the
complexion showed all the better for it? Rosamond, though no older
than Mary, was rather used to being fallen in love with; but she, for
her part, had remained indifferent and fastidiously critical towards
both fresh sprig and faded bachelor. And here was Mr. Lydgate suddenly
corresponding to her ideal, being altogether foreign to Middlemarch,
carrying a certain air of distinction congruous with good family, and
possessing connections which offered vistas of that middle-class
heaven, rank; a man of talent, also, whom it would be especially
delightful to enslave: in fact, a man who had touched her nature quite
newly, and brought a vivid interest into her life which was better than
any fancied "might-be" such as she was in the habit of opposing to the
actual.
Thus, in riding home, both the brother and the sister were preoccupied
and inclined to be silent. Rosamond, whose basis for her structure had
the usual airy slightness, was of remarkably detailed and realistic
imagination when the foundation had been once presupposed; and before
they had ridden a mile she was far on in the costume and introductions
of her wedded life, having determined on her house in Middlemarch, and
foreseen the visits she would pay to her husband's high-bred relatives
at a distance, whose finished manners she could appropriate as
thoroughly as she had done her school accomplishments, preparing
herself thus for vaguer elevations which might ultimately come. There
was nothing financial, still less sordid, in her previsions: she cared
about what were considered refinements, and not about the money that
was to pay for them.
Fred's mind, on the other hand, was busy with an anxiety which even his
ready hopefulness could not immediately quell. He saw no way of
eluding Featherstone's stupid demand without incurring consequences
which he liked less even than the task of fulfilling it. His father
was already out of humor with him, and would be still more so if he
were the occasion of any additional coolness between his own family and
the Bulstrodes. Then, he himself hated having to go and speak to his
uncle Bulstrode, and perhaps after drinking wine he had said many
foolish things about Featherstone's property, and these had been
magnified by report. Fred felt that he made a wretched figure as a
fellow who bragged about expectations from a queer old miser like
Featherstone, and went to beg for certificates at his bidding.
But--those expectations! He really had them, and he saw no agreeable
alternative if he gave them up; besides, he had lately made a debt
which galled him extremely, and old Featherstone had almost bargained
to pay it off. The whole affair was miserably small: his debts were
small, even his expectations were not anything so very magnificent.
Fred had known men to whom he would have been ashamed of confessing the
smallness of his scrapes. Such ruminations naturally produced a streak
of misanthropic bitterness. To be born the son of a Middlemarch
manufacturer, and inevitable heir to nothing in particular, while such
men as Mainwaring and Vyan--certainly life was a poor business, when a
spirited young fellow, with a good appetite for the best of everything,
had so poor an outlook.
It had not occurred to Fred that the introduction of Bulstrode's name
in the matter was a fiction of old Featherstone's; nor could this have
made any difference to his position. He saw plainly enough that the
old man wanted to exercise his power by tormenting him a little, and
also probably to get some satisfaction out of seeing him on unpleasant
terms with Bulstrode. Fred fancied that he saw to the bottom of his
uncle Featherstone's soul, though in reality half what he saw there was
no more than the reflex of his own inclinations. The difficult task of
knowing another soul is not for young gentlemen whose consciousness is
chiefly made up of their own wishes.
Fred's main point of debate with himself was, whether he should tell
his father, or try to get through the affair without his father's
knowledge. It was probably Mrs. Waule who had been talking about him;
and if Mary Garth had repeated Mrs. Waule's report to Rosamond, it
would be sure to reach his father, who would as surely question him
about it. He said to Rosamond, as they slackened their pace--
"Rosy, did Mary tell you that Mrs. Waule had said anything about me?"
"Yes, indeed, she did."
"What?"
"That you were very unsteady."
"Was that all?"
"I should think that was enough, Fred."
"You are sure she said no more?"
"Mary mentioned nothing else. But really, Fred, I think you ought to
be ashamed."
"Oh, fudge! Don't lecture me. What did Mary say about it?"
"I am not obliged to tell you. You care so very much what Mary says,
and you are too rude to allow me to speak."
"Of course I care what Mary says. She is the best girl I know."
"I should never have thought she was a girl to fall in love with."
"How do you know what men would fall in love with? Girls never know."
"At least, Fred, let me advise _you_ not to fall in love with her, for
she says she would not marry you if you asked her."
"She might have waited till I did ask her."
"I knew it would nettle you, Fred."
"Not at all. She would not have said so if you had not provoked her."
Before reaching home, Fred concluded that he would tell the whole
affair as simply as possible to his father, who might perhaps take on
himself the unpleasant business of speaking to Bulstrode.
BOOK II.
OLD AND YOUNG. | Fred and Rosamond travel to Stone Court, the house of their wealthy uncle, Mr. Featherstone. Mrs. Waule, Mr. Featherstone's sister, is there; and though she is also well off, she tries to get even more money from her brother. Mary Garth is Mr. Featherstone's servant, and Fred admires her very much. Mrs. Waule's visit is to lobby for more money in Mr. Featherstone's will, and she tries to discredit Fred, of whom Mr. Featherstone is very fond, by alluding to rumors about Fred's gambling debts. Mr. Featherstone bothers Fred on this subject, and Fred insists he has done nothing of the sort; Mr. Featherstone continues to shame and embarrass Fred, and finally insist that he get proof in writing from Bulstrode, who started this rumor, that it is indeed false. Mary Garth is plain and amiable, and very honest and kind. Rosamond continues to be supremely interested in Lydgate, whom Mary has met and does not think terribly highly of. Lydgate and Rosamond finally meet, and it seems like their romance has already been destined to occur. |
Tending to Refute the Popular Prejudice against the Present of a
Pocket-Knife
In that dark time of December, the sale of the household furniture
lasted beyond the middle of the second day. Mr. Tulliver, who had
begun, in his intervals of consciousness, to manifest an irritability
which often appeared to have as a direct effect the recurrence of
spasmodic rigidity and insensibility, had lain in this living death
throughout the critical hours when the noise of the sale came nearest
to his chamber. Mr. Turnbull had decided that it would be a less risk
to let him remain where he was than to remove him to Luke's
cottage,--a plan which the good Luke had proposed to Mrs. Tulliver,
thinking it would be very bad if the master were "to waken up" at the
noise of the sale; and the wife and children had sat imprisoned in the
silent chamber, watching the large prostrate figure on the bed, and
trembling lest the blank face should suddenly show some response to
the sounds which fell on their own ears with such obstinate, painful
repetition.
But it was over at last, that time of importunate certainty and
eye-straining suspense. The sharp sound of a voice, almost as metallic
as the rap that followed it, had ceased; the tramping of footsteps on
the gravel had died out. Mrs. Tulliver's blond face seemed aged ten
years by the last thirty hours; the poor woman's mind had been busy
divining when her favorite things were being knocked down by the
terrible hammer; her heart had been fluttering at the thought that
first one thing and then another had gone to be identified as hers in
the hateful publicity of the Golden Lion; and all the while she had to
sit and make no sign of this inward agitation. Such things bring lines
in well-rounded faces, and broaden the streaks of white among the
hairs that once looked as if they had been dipped in pure sunshine.
Already, at three o'clock, Kezia, the good-hearted, bad-tempered
housemaid, who regarded all people that came to the sale as her
personal enemies, the dirt on whose feet was of a peculiarly vile
quality, had begun to scrub and swill with an energy much assisted by
a continual low muttering against "folks as came to buy up other
folk's things," and made light of "scrazing" the tops of mahogany
tables over which better folks than themselves had had to--suffer a
waste of tissue through evaporation. She was not scrubbing
indiscriminately, for there would be further dirt of the same
atrocious kind made by people who had still to fetch away their
purchases; but she was bent on bringing the parlor, where that
"pipe-smoking pig," the bailiff, had sat, to such an appearance of
scant comfort as could be given to it by cleanliness and the few
articles of furniture bought in for the family. Her mistress and the
young folks should have their tea in it that night, Kezia was
determined.
It was between five and six o'clock, near the usual teatime, when she
came upstairs and said that Master Tom was wanted. The person who
wanted him was in the kitchen, and in the first moments, by the
imperfect fire and candle light, Tom had not even an indefinite sense
of any acquaintance with the rather broad-set but active figure,
perhaps two years older than himself, that looked at him with a pair
of blue eyes set in a disc of freckles, and pulled some curly red
locks with a strong intention of respect. A low-crowned
oilskin-covered hat, and a certain shiny deposit of dirt on the rest
of the costume, as of tablets prepared for writing upon, suggested a
calling that had to do with boats; but this did not help Tom's memory.
"Sarvant, Master Tom," said he of the red locks, with a smile which
seemed to break through a self-imposed air of melancholy. "You don't
know me again, I doubt," he went on, as Tom continued to look at him
inquiringly; "but I'd like to talk to you by yourself a bit, please."
"There's a fire i' the parlor, Master Tom," said Kezia, who objected
to leaving the kitchen in the crisis of toasting.
"Come this way, then," said Tom, wondering if this young fellow
belonged to Guest & Co.'s Wharf, for his imagination ran continually
toward that particular spot; and uncle Deane might any time be sending
for him to say that there was a situation at liberty.
The bright fire in the parlor was the only light that showed the few
chairs, the bureau, the carpetless floor, and the one table--no, not
the _one_ table; there was a second table, in a corner, with a large
Bible and a few other books upon it. It was this new strange bareness
that Tom felt first, before he thought of looking again at the face
which was also lit up by the fire, and which stole a half-shy,
questioning glance at him as the entirely strange voice said:
"Why! you don't remember Bob, then, as you gen the pocket-knife to,
Mr. Tom?"
The rough-handled pocket-knife was taken out in the same moment, and
the largest blade opened by way of irresistible demonstration.
"What! Bob Jakin?" said Tom, not with any cordial delight, for he felt
a little ashamed of that early intimacy symbolized by the
pocket-knife, and was not at all sure that Bob's motives for recalling
it were entirely admirable.
"Ay, ay, Bob Jakin, if Jakin it must be, 'cause there's so many Bobs
as you went arter the squerrils with, that day as I plumped right down
from the bough, and bruised my shins a good un--but I got the squerril
tight for all that, an' a scratter it was. An' this littlish blade's
broke, you see, but I wouldn't hev a new un put in, 'cause they might
be cheatin' me an' givin' me another knife instid, for there isn't
such a blade i' the country,--it's got used to my hand, like. An'
there was niver nobody else gen me nothin' but what I got by my own
sharpness, only you, Mr. Tom; if it wasn't Bill Fawks as gen me the
terrier pup istid o' drowndin't it, an' I had to jaw him a good un
afore he'd give it me."
Bob spoke with a sharp and rather treble volubility, and got through
his long speech with surprising despatch, giving the blade of his
knife an affectionate rub on his sleeve when he had finished.
"Well, Bob," said Tom, with a slight air of patronage, the foregoing
reminscences having disposed him to be as friendly as was becoming,
though there was no part of his acquaintance with Bob that he
remembered better than the cause of their parting quarrel; "is there
anything I can do for you?"
"Why, no, Mr. Tom," answered Bob, shutting up his knife with a click
and returning it to his pocket, where he seemed to be feeling for
something else. "I shouldn't ha' come back upon you now ye're i'
trouble, an' folks say as the master, as I used to frighten the birds
for, an' he flogged me a bit for fun when he catched me eatin' the
turnip, as they say he'll niver lift up his head no more,--I shouldn't
ha' come now to ax you to gi' me another knife 'cause you gen me one
afore. If a chap gives me one black eye, that's enough for me; I
sha'n't ax him for another afore I sarve him out; an' a good turn's
worth as much as a bad un, anyhow. I shall niver grow down'ards again,
Mr. Tom, an' you war the little chap as I liked the best when _I_ war
a little chap, for all you leathered me, and wouldn't look at me
again. There's Dick Brumby, there, I could leather him as much as I'd
a mind; but lors! you get tired o' leatherin' a chap when you can
niver make him see what you want him to shy at. I'n seen chaps as 'ud
stand starin' at a bough till their eyes shot out, afore they'd see as
a bird's tail warn't a leaf. It's poor work goin' wi' such raff. But
you war allays a rare un at shying, Mr. Tom, an' I could trusten to
you for droppin' down wi' your stick in the nick o' time at a runnin'
rat, or a stoat, or that, when I war a-beatin' the bushes."
Bob had drawn out a dirty canvas bag, and would perhaps not have
paused just then if Maggie had not entered the room and darted a look
of surprise and curiosity at him, whereupon he pulled his red locks
again with due respect. But the next moment the sense of the altered
room came upon Maggie with a force that overpowered the thought of
Bob's presence. Her eyes had immediately glanced from him to the place
where the bookcase had hung; there was nothing now but the oblong
unfaded space on the wall, and below it the small table with the Bible
and the few other books.
"Oh, Tom!" she burst out, clasping her hands, "where are the books? I
thought my uncle Glegg said he would buy them. Didn't he? Are those
all they've left us?"
"I suppose so," said Tom, with a sort of desperate indifference. "Why
should they buy many books when they bought so little furniture?"
"Oh, but, Tom," said Maggie, her eyes filling with tears, as she
rushed up to the table to see what books had been rescued. "Our dear
old Pilgrim's Progress that you colored with your little paints; and
that picture of Pilgrim with a mantle on, looking just like a
turtle--oh dear!" Maggie went on, half sobbing as she turned over the
few books, "I thought we should never part with that while we lived;
everything is going away from us; the end of our lives will have
nothing in it like the beginning!"
Maggie turned away from the table and threw herself into a chair, with
the big tears ready to roll down her cheeks, quite blinded to the
presence of Bob, who was looking at her with the pursuant gaze of an
intelligent dumb animal, with perceptions more perfect than his
comprehension.
"Well, Bob," said Tom, feeling that the subject of the books was
unseasonable, "I suppose you just came to see me because we're in
trouble? That was very good-natured of you."
"I'll tell you how it is, Master Tom," said Bob, beginning to untwist
his canvas bag. "You see, I'n been with a barge this two 'ear; that's
how I'n been gettin' my livin',--if it wasn't when I was tentin' the
furnace, between whiles, at Torry's mill. But a fortni't ago I'd a
rare bit o' luck,--I allays thought I was a lucky chap, for I niver
set a trap but what I catched something; but this wasn't trap, it was
a fire i' Torry's mill, an' I doused it, else it 'ud set th' oil
alight, an' the genelman gen me ten suvreigns; he gen me 'em himself
last week. An' he said first, I was a sperrited chap,--but I knowed
that afore,--but then he outs wi' the ten suvreigns, an' that war
summat new. Here they are, all but one!" Here Bob emptied the canvas
bag on the table. "An' when I'd got 'em, my head was all of a boil
like a kettle o' broth, thinkin' what sort o' life I should take to,
for there war a many trades I'd thought on; for as for the barge, I'm
clean tired out wi't, for it pulls the days out till they're as long
as pigs' chitterlings. An' I thought first I'd ha' ferrets an' dogs,
an' be a rat-catcher; an' then I thought as I should like a bigger way
o' life, as I didn't know so well; for I'n seen to the bottom o'
rat-catching; an' I thought, an' thought, till at last I settled I'd
be a packman,--for they're knowin' fellers, the packmen are,--an' I'd
carry the lightest things I could i' my pack; an' there'd be a use for
a feller's tongue, as is no use neither wi' rats nor barges. An' I
should go about the country far an' wide, an' come round the women wi'
my tongue, an' get my dinner hot at the public,--lors! it 'ud be a
lovely life!"
Bob paused, and then said, with defiant decision, as if resolutely
turning his back on that paradisaic picture:
"But I don't mind about it, not a chip! An' I'n changed one o' the
suvreigns to buy my mother a goose for dinner, an' I'n bought a blue
plush wescoat, an' a sealskin cap,--for if I meant to be a packman,
I'd do it respectable. But I don't mind about it, not a chip! My yead
isn't a turnip, an' I shall p'r'aps have a chance o' dousing another
fire afore long. I'm a lucky chap. So I'll thank you to take the nine
suvreigns, Mr. Tom, and set yoursen up with 'em somehow, if it's true
as the master's broke. They mayn't go fur enough, but they'll help."
Tom was touched keenly enough to forget his pride and suspicion.
"You're a very kind fellow, Bob," he said, coloring, with that little
diffident tremor in his voice which gave a certain charm even to Tom's
pride and severity, "and I sha'n't forget you again, though I didn't
know you this evening. But I can't take the nine sovereigns; I should
be taking your little fortune from you, and they wouldn't do me much
good either."
"Wouldn't they, Mr. Tom?" said Bob, regretfully. "Now don't say so
'cause you think I want 'em. I aren't a poor chap. My mother gets a
good penn'orth wi' picking feathers an' things; an' if she eats
nothin' but bread-an'-water, it runs to fat. An' I'm such a lucky
chap; an' I doubt you aren't quite so lucky, Mr. Tom,--th' old master
isn't, anyhow,--an' so you might take a slice o' my luck, an' no harm
done. Lors! I found a leg o' pork i' the river one day; it had tumbled
out o' one o' them round-sterned Dutchmen, I'll be bound. Come, think
better on it, Mr. Tom, for old 'quinetance' sake, else I shall think
you bear me a grudge."
Bob pushed the sovereigns forward, but before Tom could speak Maggie,
clasping her hands, and looking penitently at Bob, said:
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Bob; I never thought you were so good. Why, I think
you're the kindest person in the world!"
Bob had not been aware of the injurious opinion for which Maggie was
performing an inward act of penitence, but he smiled with pleasure at
this handsome eulogy,--especially from a young lass who, as he
informed his mother that evening, had "such uncommon eyes, they looked
somehow as they made him feel nohow."
"No, indeed Bob, I can't take them," said Tom; "but don't think I feel
your kindness less because I say no. I don't want to take anything
from anybody, but to work my own way. And those sovereigns wouldn't
help me much--they wouldn't really--if I were to take them. Let me
shake hands with you instead."
Tom put out his pink palm, and Bob was not slow to place his hard,
grimy hand within it.
"Let me put the sovereigns in the bag again," said Maggie; "and you'll
come and see us when you've bought your pack, Bob."
"It's like as if I'd come out o' make believe, o' purpose to show 'em
you," said Bob, with an air of discontent, as Maggie gave him the bag
again, "a-taking 'em back i' this way. I _am_ a bit of a Do, you know;
but it isn't that sort o' Do,--it's on'y when a feller's a big rogue,
or a big flat, I like to let him in a bit, that's all."
"Now, don't you be up to any tricks, Bob," said Tom, "else you'll get
transported some day."
"No, no; not me, Mr. Tom," said Bob, with an air of cheerful
confidence. "There's no law again' flea-bites. If I wasn't to take a
fool in now and then, he'd niver get any wiser. But, lors! hev a
suvreign to buy you and Miss summat, on'y for a token--just to match
my pocket-knife."
While Bob was speaking he laid down the sovereign, and resolutely
twisted up his bag again. Tom pushed back the gold, and said, "No,
indeed, Bob; thank you heartily, but I can't take it." And Maggie,
taking it between her fingers, held it up to Bob and said, more
persuasively:
"Not now, but perhaps another time. If ever Tom or my father wants
help that you can give, we'll let you know; won't we, Tom? That's what
you would like,--to have us always depend on you as a friend that we
can go to,--isn't it, Bob?"
"Yes, Miss, and thank you," said Bob, reluctantly taking the money;
"that's what I'd like, anything as you like. An' I wish you good-by,
Miss, and good-luck, Mr. Tom, and thank you for shaking hands wi' me,
_though_ you wouldn't take the money."
Kezia's entrance, with very black looks, to inquire if she shouldn't
bring in the tea now, or whether the toast was to get hardened to a
brick, was a seasonable check on Bob's flux of words, and hastened his
parting bow. | The sale of household goods is finally over. Mrs. Tulliver's face "seemed aged ten years." That evening Tom has a visitor, a young man in dirty clothes who identifies himself as Bob Jakin. Bob shows the knife which Tom once gave him, and recalls that "there was niver nobody else gen me nothin' . . . ." Tom asks if he can do anything for Bob, but Bob replies that he has come to repay a good turn. Just then Maggie breaks in looking for her books. Uncle Glegg said he would buy them, but she can find only a few. Tom tells her only those few were bought. Bob tells them that he has been working on a barge and that two weeks before he had happened to see a mill on fire and put it out. The owner gave him ten sovereigns, but that is more money than he needs. Therefore he will offer it to Tom. Tom thanks him but refuses, saying that the money is not enough to do him any good, but that Bob can use it better. Bob regretfully takes the money back, after Maggie promises that if they need help in the future, they will ask him. Bob's departure is hastened by the entrance of Kezia, the maid, saying that tea is ready. |
AT the University I had the good fortune to come immediately under the
influence of a brilliant and inspiring young scholar. Gaston Cleric had
arrived in Lincoln only a few weeks earlier than I, to begin his work as
head of the Latin Department. He came West at the suggestion of his
physicians, his health having been enfeebled by a long illness in Italy.
When I took my entrance examinations he was my examiner, and my course was
arranged under his supervision.
I did not go home for my first summer vacation, but stayed in Lincoln,
working off a year's Greek, which had been my only condition on entering
the Freshman class. Cleric's doctor advised against his going back to New
England, and except for a few weeks in Colorado, he, too, was in Lincoln
all that summer. We played tennis, read, and took long walks together. I
shall always look back on that time of mental awakening as one of the
happiest in my life. Gaston Cleric introduced me to the world of ideas;
when one first enters that world everything else fades for a time, and all
that went before is as if it had not been. Yet I found curious survivals;
some of the figures of my old life seemed to be waiting for me in the new.
In those days there were many serious young men among the students who had
come up to the University from the farms and the little towns scattered
over the thinly settled State. Some of those boys came straight from the
cornfields with only a summer's wages in their pockets, hung on through
the four years, shabby and underfed, and completed the course by really
heroic self-sacrifice. Our instructors were oddly assorted; wandering
pioneer school-teachers, stranded ministers of the Gospel, a few
enthusiastic young men just out of graduate schools. There was an
atmosphere of endeavor, of expectancy and bright hopefulness about the
young college that had lifted its head from the prairie only a few years
before.
Our personal life was as free as that of our instructors. There were no
college dormitories; we lived where we could and as we could. I took rooms
with an old couple, early settlers in Lincoln, who had married off their
children and now lived quietly in their house at the edge of town, near
the open country. The house was inconveniently situated for students, and
on that account I got two rooms for the price of one. My bedroom,
originally a linen closet, was unheated and was barely large enough to
contain my cot bed, but it enabled me to call the other room my study. The
dresser, and the great walnut wardrobe which held all my clothes, even my
hats and shoes, I had pushed out of the way, and I considered them
non-existent, as children eliminate incongruous objects when they are
playing house. I worked at a commodious green-topped table placed directly
in front of the west window which looked out over the prairie. In the
corner at my right were all my books, in shelves I had made and painted
myself. On the blank wall at my left the dark, old-fashioned wall-paper
was covered by a large map of ancient Rome, the work of some German
scholar. Cleric had ordered it for me when he was sending for books from
abroad. Over the bookcase hung a photograph of the Tragic Theater at
Pompeii, which he had given me from his collection.
When I sat at work I half faced a deep, upholstered chair which stood at
the end of my table, its high back against the wall. I had bought it with
great care. My instructor sometimes looked in upon me when he was out for
an evening tramp, and I noticed that he was more likely to linger and
become talkative if I had a comfortable chair for him to sit in, and if he
found a bottle of Benedictine and plenty of the kind of cigarettes he
liked, at his elbow. He was, I had discovered, parsimonious about small
expenditures--a trait absolutely inconsistent with his general character.
Sometimes when he came he was silent and moody, and after a few sarcastic
remarks went away again, to tramp the streets of Lincoln, which were
almost as quiet and oppressively domestic as those of Black Hawk. Again,
he would sit until nearly midnight, talking about Latin and English
poetry, or telling me about his long stay in Italy.
I can give no idea of the peculiar charm and vividness of his talk. In a
crowd he was nearly always silent. Even for his classroom he had no
platitudes, no stock of professorial anecdotes. When he was tired his
lectures were clouded, obscure, elliptical; but when he was interested
they were wonderful. I believe that Gaston Cleric narrowly missed being a
great poet, and I have sometimes thought that his bursts of imaginative
talk were fatal to his poetic gift. He squandered too much in the heat of
personal communication. How often I have seen him draw his dark brows
together, fix his eyes upon some object on the wall or a figure in the
carpet, and then flash into the lamplight the very image that was in his
brain. He could bring the drama of antique life before one out of the
shadows--white figures against blue backgrounds. I shall never forget his
face as it looked one night when he told me about the solitary day he
spent among the sea temples at Paestum: the soft wind blowing through the
roofless columns, the birds flying low over the flowering marsh grasses,
the changing lights on the silver, cloud-hung mountains. He had willfully
stayed the short summer night there, wrapped in his coat and rug, watching
the constellations on their path down the sky until "the bride of old
Tithonus" rose out of the sea, and the mountains stood sharp in the dawn.
It was there he caught the fever which held him back on the eve of his
departure for Greece and of which he lay ill so long in Naples. He was
still, indeed, doing penance for it.
I remember vividly another evening, when something led us to talk of
Dante's veneration for Virgil. Cleric went through canto after canto of
the "Commedia," repeating the discourse between Dante and his "sweet
teacher," while his cigarette burned itself out unheeded between his long
fingers. I can hear him now, speaking the lines of the poet Statius, who
spoke for Dante: "_I was famous on earth with the name which endures
longest and honors most. The seeds of my ardor were the sparks from that
divine flame whereby more than a thousand have kindled; I speak of the
AEneid, mother to me and nurse to me in poetry._"
Although I admired scholarship so much in Cleric, I was not deceived about
myself; I knew that I should never be a scholar. I could never lose myself
for long among impersonal things. Mental excitement was apt to send me
with a rush back to my own naked land and the figures scattered upon it.
While I was in the very act of yearning toward the new forms that Cleric
brought up before me, my mind plunged away from me, and I suddenly found
myself thinking of the places and people of my own infinitesimal past.
They stood out strengthened and simplified now, like the image of the
plough against the sun. They were all I had for an answer to the new
appeal. I begrudged the room that Jake and Otto and Russian Peter took up
in my memory, which I wanted to crowd with other things. But whenever my
consciousness was quickened, all those early friends were quickened within
it, and in some strange way they accompanied me through all my new
experiences. They were so much alive in me that I scarcely stopped to
wonder whether they were alive anywhere else, or how. | At the university, Jim comes under the mentorship of Gaston Cleric, a romantic Latin scholar with ruined health. He has been sent to Nebraska for his health. Jim has to stay in Lincoln after his first terms at school so he can finish a years worth of Greek. He finds this time of mental awakening one of the best times of his life. The university is only a few years old. The students and the professors are a mixed lot. Some are students who came straight from the farms with very little money who work extraordinarily hard on their studies. The professors are a mix of fresh graduate school graduates, "stranded ministers of the Gospel," and "wandering pioneer school teachers. There are no college dormitories, so Jim rents rooms from an old couple on the edge of town. He sets up his room carefully and buys a comfortable plush chair so that when Gaston Cleric comes to see him, he will stay a long time. Jim thinks Gaston Cleric could have been a great poet, but wasted all his poetic energy on intense conversation. He remembers one night when Gaston Cleric stayed up with him talking about Dantes relationship with Virgil and quoting the Paradiso. Though Jim admires his mentors scholarship, he is sure he wont be one himself since he cant get his mind away from his friends and acquaintances in Black Hawk. |
It was in the air. White Fang sensed the coming calamity, even before
there was tangible evidence of it. In vague ways it was borne in upon
him that a change was impending. He knew not how nor why, yet he got his
feel of the oncoming event from the gods themselves. In ways subtler
than they knew, they betrayed their intentions to the wolf-dog that
haunted the cabin-stoop, and that, though he never came inside the cabin,
knew what went on inside their brains.
"Listen to that, will you!" the dog-musher exclaimed at supper one night.
Weedon Scott listened. Through the door came a low, anxious whine, like
a sobbing under the breath that had just grown audible. Then came the
long sniff, as White Fang reassured himself that his god was still inside
and had not yet taken himself off in mysterious and solitary flight.
"I do believe that wolf's on to you," the dog-musher said.
Weedon Scott looked across at his companion with eyes that almost
pleaded, though this was given the lie by his words.
"What the devil can I do with a wolf in California?" he demanded.
"That's what I say," Matt answered. "What the devil can you do with a
wolf in California?"
But this did not satisfy Weedon Scott. The other seemed to be judging
him in a non-committal sort of way.
"White man's dogs would have no show against him," Scott went on. "He'd
kill them on sight. If he didn't bankrupt me with damage suits, the
authorities would take him away from me and electrocute him."
"He's a downright murderer, I know," was the dog-musher's comment.
Weedon Scott looked at him suspiciously.
"It would never do," he said decisively.
"It would never do!" Matt concurred. "Why you'd have to hire a man
'specially to take care of 'm."
The other's suspicion was allayed. He nodded cheerfully. In the silence
that followed, the low, half-sobbing whine was heard at the door and then
the long, questing sniff.
"There's no denyin' he thinks a hell of a lot of you," Matt said.
The other glared at him in sudden wrath. "Damn it all, man! I know my
own mind and what's best!"
"I'm agreein' with you, only . . . "
"Only what?" Scott snapped out.
"Only . . . " the dog-musher began softly, then changed his mind and
betrayed a rising anger of his own. "Well, you needn't get so all-fired
het up about it. Judgin' by your actions one'd think you didn't know
your own mind."
Weedon Scott debated with himself for a while, and then said more gently:
"You are right, Matt. I don't know my own mind, and that's what's the
trouble."
"Why, it would be rank ridiculousness for me to take that dog along," he
broke out after another pause.
"I'm agreein' with you," was Matt's answer, and again his employer was
not quite satisfied with him.
"But how in the name of the great Sardanapolis he knows you're goin' is
what gets me," the dog-musher continued innocently.
"It's beyond me, Matt," Scott answered, with a mournful shake of the
head.
Then came the day when, through the open cabin door, White Fang saw the
fatal grip on the floor and the love-master packing things into it. Also,
there were comings and goings, and the erstwhile placid atmosphere of the
cabin was vexed with strange perturbations and unrest. Here was
indubitable evidence. White Fang had already scented it. He now
reasoned it. His god was preparing for another flight. And since he had
not taken him with him before, so, now, he could look to be left behind.
That night he lifted the long wolf-howl. As he had howled, in his puppy
days, when he fled back from the Wild to the village to find it vanished
and naught but a rubbish-heap to mark the site of Grey Beaver's tepee, so
now he pointed his muzzle to the cold stars and told to them his woe.
Inside the cabin the two men had just gone to bed.
"He's gone off his food again," Matt remarked from his bunk.
There was a grunt from Weedon Scott's bunk, and a stir of blankets.
"From the way he cut up the other time you went away, I wouldn't wonder
this time but what he died."
The blankets in the other bunk stirred irritably.
"Oh, shut up!" Scott cried out through the darkness. "You nag worse than
a woman."
"I'm agreein' with you," the dog-musher answered, and Weedon Scott was
not quite sure whether or not the other had snickered.
The next day White Fang's anxiety and restlessness were even more
pronounced. He dogged his master's heels whenever he left the cabin, and
haunted the front stoop when he remained inside. Through the open door
he could catch glimpses of the luggage on the floor. The grip had been
joined by two large canvas bags and a box. Matt was rolling the master's
blankets and fur robe inside a small tarpaulin. White Fang whined as he
watched the operation.
Later on two Indians arrived. He watched them closely as they shouldered
the luggage and were led off down the hill by Matt, who carried the
bedding and the grip. But White Fang did not follow them. The master
was still in the cabin. After a time, Matt returned. The master came to
the door and called White Fang inside.
"You poor devil," he said gently, rubbing White Fang's ears and tapping
his spine. "I'm hitting the long trail, old man, where you cannot
follow. Now give me a growl--the last, good, good-bye growl."
But White Fang refused to growl. Instead, and after a wistful, searching
look, he snuggled in, burrowing his head out of sight between the
master's arm and body.
"There she blows!" Matt cried. From the Yukon arose the hoarse bellowing
of a river steamboat. "You've got to cut it short. Be sure and lock the
front door. I'll go out the back. Get a move on!"
The two doors slammed at the same moment, and Weedon Scott waited for
Matt to come around to the front. From inside the door came a low
whining and sobbing. Then there were long, deep-drawn sniffs.
"You must take good care of him, Matt," Scott said, as they started down
the hill. "Write and let me know how he gets along."
"Sure," the dog-musher answered. "But listen to that, will you!"
Both men stopped. White Fang was howling as dogs howl when their masters
lie dead. He was voicing an utter woe, his cry bursting upward in great
heart-breaking rushes, dying down into quavering misery, and bursting
upward again with a rush upon rush of grief.
The _Aurora_ was the first steamboat of the year for the Outside, and her
decks were jammed with prosperous adventurers and broken gold seekers,
all equally as mad to get to the Outside as they had been originally to
get to the Inside. Near the gang-plank, Scott was shaking hands with
Matt, who was preparing to go ashore. But Matt's hand went limp in the
other's grasp as his gaze shot past and remained fixed on something
behind him. Scott turned to see. Sitting on the deck several feet away
and watching wistfully was White Fang.
The dog-musher swore softly, in awe-stricken accents. Scott could only
look in wonder.
"Did you lock the front door?" Matt demanded. The other nodded, and
asked, "How about the back?"
"You just bet I did," was the fervent reply.
White Fang flattened his ears ingratiatingly, but remained where he was,
making no attempt to approach.
"I'll have to take 'm ashore with me."
Matt made a couple of steps toward White Fang, but the latter slid away
from him. The dog-musher made a rush of it, and White Fang dodged
between the legs of a group of men. Ducking, turning, doubling, he slid
about the deck, eluding the other's efforts to capture him.
But when the love-master spoke, White Fang came to him with prompt
obedience.
"Won't come to the hand that's fed 'm all these months," the dog-musher
muttered resentfully. "And you--you ain't never fed 'm after them first
days of gettin' acquainted. I'm blamed if I can see how he works it out
that you're the boss."
Scott, who had been patting White Fang, suddenly bent closer and pointed
out fresh-made cuts on his muzzle, and a gash between the eyes.
Matt bent over and passed his hand along White Fang's belly.
"We plumb forgot the window. He's all cut an' gouged underneath. Must
'a' butted clean through it, b'gosh!"
But Weedon Scott was not listening. He was thinking rapidly. The
_Aurora's_ whistle hooted a final announcement of departure. Men were
scurrying down the gang-plank to the shore. Matt loosened the bandana
from his own neck and started to put it around White Fang's. Scott
grasped the dog-musher's hand.
"Good-bye, Matt, old man. About the wolf--you needn't write. You see,
I've . . . !"
"What!" the dog-musher exploded. "You don't mean to say . . .?"
"The very thing I mean. Here's your bandana. I'll write to you about
him."
Matt paused halfway down the gang-plank.
"He'll never stand the climate!" he shouted back. "Unless you clip 'm in
warm weather!"
The gang-plank was hauled in, and the _Aurora_ swung out from the bank.
Weedon Scott waved a last good-bye. Then he turned and bent over White
Fang, standing by his side.
"Now growl, damn you, growl," he said, as he patted the responsive head
and rubbed the flattening ears. | In this chapter, Weedon Scott prepares to leave for California, his home, knowing he must leave White Fang behind. White Fang senses the impending separation and refuses to eat again. Scott is concerned about the wolf-dog, but he is afraid he will never be tame enough to live in California. The day Scott is to leave, White Fang is at his heels all the time. Two Indians come and pick up the luggage and take it to the steamboat, Aurora, which is packed with adventurers and gold seekers. Scott then departs, locking White Fang in the cabin until he has safely sailed away. White Fang, however, breaks free through the window and later appears on board the ship. Scott, seeing such devotion, finally decides to take him along, despite Matt's warning that the California climate will not suit White Fang. |
A Duet in Paradise
The well-furnished drawing-room, with the open grand piano, and the
pleasant outlook down a sloping garden to a boat-house by the side of
the Floss, is Mr. Deane's. The neat little lady in mourning, whose
light-brown ringlets are falling over the colored embroidery with
which her fingers are busy, is of course Lucy Deane; and the fine
young man who is leaning down from his chair to snap the scissors in
the extremely abbreviated face of the "King Charles" lying on the
young lady's feet is no other than Mr. Stephen Guest, whose diamond
ring, attar of roses, and air of _nonchalant_ leisure, at twelve
o'clock in the day, are the graceful and odoriferous result of the
largest oil-mill and the most extensive wharf in St. Ogg's. There is
an apparent triviality in the action with the scissors, but your
discernment perceives at once that there is a design in it which makes
it eminently worthy of a large-headed, long-limbed young man; for you
see that Lucy wants the scissors, and is compelled, reluctant as she
may be, to shake her ringlets back, raise her soft hazel eyes, smile
playfully down on the face that is so very nearly on a level with her
knee, and holding out her little shell-pink palm, to say,--
"My scissors, please, if you can renounce the great pleasure of
persecuting my poor Minny."
The foolish scissors have slipped too far over the knuckles, it seems,
and Hercules holds out his entrapped fingers hopelessly.
"Confound the scissors! The oval lies the wrong way. Please draw them
off for me."
"Draw them off with your other hand," says Miss Lucy, roguishly.
"Oh, but that's my left hand; I'm not left-handed."
Lucy laughs, and the scissors are drawn off with gentle touches from
tiny tips, which naturally dispose Mr. Stephen for a repetition _da
capo_. Accordingly, he watches for the release of the scissors, that
he may get them into his possession again.
"No, no," said Lucy, sticking them in her band, "you shall not have my
scissors again,--you have strained them already. Now don't set Minny
growling again. Sit up and behave properly, and then I will tell you
some news."
"What is that?" said Stephen, throwing himself back and hanging his
right arm over the corner of his chair. He might have been sitting for
his portrait, which would have represented a rather striking young man
of five-and-twenty, with a square forehead, short dark-brown hair,
standing erect, with a slight wave at the end, like a thick crop of
corn, and a half-ardent, half-sarcastic glance from under his
well-marked horizontal eyebrows. "Is it very important news?"
"Yes, very. Guess."
"You are going to change Minny's diet, and give him three ratafias
soaked in a dessert-spoonful of cream daily?"
"Quite wrong."
"Well, then, Dr. Kenn has been preaching against buckram, and you
ladies have all been sending him a roundrobin, saying, 'This is a hard
doctrine; who can bear it?'"
"For shame!" said Lucy, adjusting her little mouth gravely. "It is
rather dull of you not to guess my news, because it is about something
I mentioned to you not very long ago."
"But you have mentioned many things to me not long ago. Does your
feminine tyranny require that when you say the thing you mean is one
of several things, I should know it immediately by that mark?"
"Yes, I know you think I am silly."
"I think you are perfectly charming."
"And my silliness is part of my charm?"
"I didn't say _that_."
"But I know you like women to be rather insipid. Philip Wakem betrayed
you; he said so one day when you were not here."
"Oh, I know Phil is fierce on that point; he makes it quite a personal
matter. I think he must be love-sick for some unknown lady,--some
exalted Beatrice whom he met abroad."
"By the by," said Lucy, pausing in her work, "it has just occurred to
me that I never found out whether my cousin Maggie will object to see
Philip, as her brother does. Tom will not enter a room where Philip
is, if he knows it; perhaps Maggie may be the same, and then we
sha'n't be able to sing our glees, shall we?"
"What! is your cousin coming to stay with you?" said Stephen, with a
look of slight annoyance.
"Yes; that was my news, which you have forgotten. She's going to leave
her situation, where she has been nearly two years, poor thing,--ever
since her father's death; and she will stay with me a month or
two,--many months, I hope."
"And am I bound to be pleased at that news?"
"Oh no, not at all," said Lucy, with a little air of pique. "_I_ am
pleased, but that, of course, is no reason why _you_ should be
pleased. There is no girl in the world I love so well as my cousin
Maggie."
"And you will be inseparable I suppose, when she comes. There will be
no possibility of a _tete-a-tete_ with you any more, unless you can
find an admirer for her, who will pair off with her occasionally. What
is the ground of dislike to Philip? He might have been a resource."
"It is a family quarrel with Philip's father. There were very painful
circumstances, I believe. I never quite understood them, or knew them
all. My uncle Tulliver was unfortunate and lost all his property, and
I think he considered Mr. Wakem was somehow the cause of it. Mr. Wakem
bought Dorlcote Mill, my uncle's old place, where he always lived. You
must remember my uncle Tulliver, don't you?"
"No," said Stephen, with rather supercilious indifference. "I've
always known the name, and I dare say I knew the man by sight, apart
from his name. I know half the names and faces in the neighborhood in
that detached, disjointed way."
"He was a very hot-tempered man. I remember, when I was a little girl
and used to go to see my cousins, he often frightened me by talking as
if he were angry. Papa told me there was a dreadful quarrel, the very
day before my uncle's death, between him and Mr. Wakem, but it was
hushed up. That was when you were in London. Papa says my uncle was
quite mistaken in many ways; his mind had become embittered. But Tom
and Maggie must naturally feel it very painful to be reminded of these
things. They have had so much, so very much trouble. Maggie was at
school with me six years ago, when she was fetched away because of her
father's misfortunes, and she has hardly had any pleasure since, I
think. She has been in a dreary situation in a school since uncle's
death, because she is determined to be independent, and not live with
aunt Pullet; and I could hardly wish her to come to me then, because
dear mamma was ill, and everything was so sad. That is why I want her
to come to me now, and have a long, long holiday."
"Very sweet and angelic of you," said Stephen, looking at her with an
admiring smile; "and all the more so if she has the conversational
qualities of her mother."
"Poor aunty! You are cruel to ridicule her. She is very valuable to
_me_, I know. She manages the house beautifully,--much better than any
stranger would,--and she was a great comfort to me in mamma's
illness."
"Yes, but in point of companionship one would prefer that she should
be represented by her brandy-cherries and cream-cakes. I think with a
shudder that her daughter will always be present in person, and have
no agreeable proxies of that kind,--a fat, blond girl, with round blue
eyes, who will stare at us silently."
"Oh yes!" exclaimed Lucy, laughing wickedly, and clapping her hands,
"that is just my cousin Maggie. You must have seen her!"
"No, indeed; I'm only guessing what Mrs. Tulliver's daughter must be;
and then if she is to banish Philip, our only apology for a tenor,
that will be an additional bore."
"But I hope that may not be. I think I will ask you to call on Philip
and tell him Maggie is coming to-morrow. He is quite aware of Tom's
feeling, and always keeps out of his way; so he will understand, if
you tell him, that I asked you to warn him not to come until I write
to ask him."
"I think you had better write a pretty note for me to take; Phil is so
sensitive, you know, the least thing might frighten him off coming at
all, and we had hard work to get him. I can never induce him to come
to the park; he doesn't like my sisters, I think. It is only your
faery touch that can lay his ruffled feathers."
Stephen mastered the little hand that was straying toward the table,
and touched it lightly with his lips. Little Lucy felt very proud and
happy. She and Stephen were in that stage of courtship which makes the
most exquisite moment of youth, the freshest blossom-time of
passion,--when each is sure of the other's love, but no formal
declaration has been made, and all is mutual divination, exalting the
most trivial word, the lightest gesture, into thrills delicate and
delicious as wafted jasmine scent. The explicitness of an engagement
wears off this finest edge of susceptibility; it is jasmine gathered
and presented in a large bouquet.
"But it is really odd that you should have hit so exactly on Maggie's
appearance and manners," said the cunning Lucy, moving to reach her
desk, "because she might have been like her brother, you know; and Tom
has not round eyes; and he is as far as possible from staring at
people."
"Oh, I suppose he is like the father; he seems to be as proud as
Lucifer. Not a brilliant companion, though, I should think."
"I like Tom. He gave me my Minny when I lost Lolo; and papa is very
fond of him: he says Tom has excellent principles. It was through him
that his father was able to pay all his debts before he died."
"Oh, ah; I've heard about that. I heard your father and mine talking
about it a little while ago, after dinner, in one of their
interminable discussions about business. They think of doing something
for young Tulliver; he saved them from a considerable loss by riding
home in some marvellous way, like Turpin, to bring them news about the
stoppage of a bank, or something of that sort. But I was rather drowsy
at the time."
Stephen rose from his seat, and sauntered to the piano, humming in
falsetto, "Graceful Consort," as he turned over the volume of "The
Creation," which stood open on the desk.
"Come and sing this," he said, when he saw Lucy rising.
"What, 'Graceful Consort'? I don't think it suits your voice."
"Never mind; it exactly suits my feeling, which, Philip will have it,
is the grand element of good singing. I notice men with indifferent
voices are usually of that opinion."
"Philip burst into one of his invectives against 'The Creation' the
other day," said Lucy, seating herself at the piano. "He says it has a
sort of sugared complacency and flattering make-believe in it, as if
it were written for the birthday _fete_ of a German Grand-Duke."
"Oh, pooh! He is the fallen Adam with a soured temper. We are Adam and
Eve unfallen, in Paradise. Now, then,--the recitative, for the sake of
the moral. You will sing the whole duty of woman,--'And from obedience
grows my pride and happiness.'"
"Oh no, I shall not respect an Adam who drags the _tempo_, as you
will," said Lucy, beginning to play the duet.
Surely the only courtship unshaken by doubts and fears must be that in
which the lovers can sing together. The sense of mutual fitness that
springs from the two deep notes fulfilling expectation just at the
right moment between the notes of the silvery soprano, from the
perfect accord of descending thirds and fifths, from the preconcerted
loving chase of a fugue, is likely enough to supersede any immediate
demand for less impassioned forms of agreement. The contralto will not
care to catechise the bass; the tenor will foresee no embarrassing
dearth of remark in evenings spent with the lovely soprano. In the
provinces, too, where music was so scarce in that remote time, how
could the musical people avoid falling in love with each other? Even
political principle must have been in danger of relaxation under such
circumstances; and the violin, faithful to rotten boroughs, must have
been tempted to fraternize in a demoralizing way with a reforming
violoncello. In that case, the linnet-throated soprano and the
full-toned bass singing,--
"With thee delight is ever new,
With thee is life incessant bliss,"
believed what they sang all the more _because_ they sang it.
"Now for Raphael's great song," said Lucy, when they had finished the
duet. "You do the 'heavy beasts' to perfection."
"That sounds complimentary," said Stephen, looking at his watch. "By
Jove, it's nearly half-past one! Well, I can just sing this."
Stephen delivered with admirable ease the deep notes representing the
tread of the heavy beasts; but when a singer has an audience of two,
there is room for divided sentiments. Minny's mistress was charmed;
but Minny, who had intrenched himself, trembling, in his basket as
soon as the music began, found this thunder so little to his taste
that he leaped out and scampered under the remotest _chiffonnier_, as
the most eligible place in which a small dog could await the crack of
doom.
"Adieu, 'graceful consort,'" said Stephen, buttoning his coat across
when he had done singing, and smiling down from his tall height, with
the air of rather a patronizing lover, at the little lady on the
music-stool. "My bliss is not incessant, for I must gallop home. I
promised to be there at lunch."
"You will not be able to call on Philip, then? It is of no
consequence; I have said everything in my note."
"You will be engaged with your cousin to-morrow, I suppose?"
"Yes, we are going to have a little family-party. My cousin Tom will
dine with us; and poor aunty will have her two children together for
the first time. It will be very pretty; I think a great deal about
it."
"But I may come the next day?"
"Oh yes! Come and be introduced to my cousin Maggie; though you can
hardly be said not to have seen her, you have described her so well."
"Good-bye, then." And there was that slight pressure of the hands, and
momentary meeting of the eyes, which will often leave a little lady
with a slight flush and smile on her face that do not subside
immediately when the door is closed, and with an inclination to walk
up and down the room rather than to seat herself quietly at her
embroidery, or other rational and improving occupation. At least this
was the effect on Lucy; and you will not, I hope, consider it an
indication of vanity predominating over more tender impulses, that she
just glanced in the chimney-glass as her walk brought her near it. The
desire to know that one has not looked an absolute fright during a few
hours of conversation may be construed as lying within the bounds of a
laudable benevolent consideration for others. And Lucy had so much of
this benevolence in her nature that I am inclined to think her small
egoisms were impregnated with it, just as there are people not
altogether unknown to you whose small benevolences have a predominant
and somewhat rank odor of egoism. Even now, that she is walking up and
down with a little triumphant flutter of her girlish heart at the
sense that she is loved by the person of chief consequence in her
small world, you may see in her hazel eyes an ever-present sunny
benignity, in which the momentary harmless flashes of personal vanity
are quite lost; and if she is happy in thinking of her lover, it is
because the thought of him mingles readily with all the gentle
affections and good-natured offices with which she fills her peaceful
days. Even now, her mind, with that instantaneous alternation which
makes two currents of feeling or imagination seem simultaneous, is
glancing continually from Stephen to the preparations she has only
half finished in Maggie's room. Cousin Maggie should be treated as
well as the grandest lady-visitor,--nay, better, for she should have
Lucy's best prints and drawings in her bedroom, and the very finest
bouquet of spring flowers on her table. Maggie would enjoy all that,
she was so found of pretty things! And there was poor aunt Tulliver,
that no one made any account of, she was to be surprised with the
present of a cap of superlative quality, and to have her health drunk
in a gratifying manner, for which Lucy was going to lay a plot with
her father this evening. Clearly, she had not time to indulge in long
reveries about her own happy love-affairs. With this thought she
walked toward the door, but paused there.
"What's the matter, then, Minny?" she said, stooping in answer to some
whimpering of that small quadruped, and lifting his glossy head
against her pink cheek. "Did you think I was going without you? Come,
then, let us go and see Sinbad."
Sinbad was Lucy's chestnut horse, that she always fed with her own
hand when he was turned out in the paddock. She was fond of feeding
dependent creatures, and knew the private tastes of all the animals
about the house, delighting in the little rippling sounds of her
canaries when their beaks were busy with fresh seed, and in the small
nibbling pleasures of certain animals which, lest she should appear
too trivial, I will here call "the more familiar rodents."
Was not Stephen Guest right in his decided opinion that this slim
maiden of eighteen was quite the sort of wife a man would not be
likely to repent of marrying,--a woman who was loving and thoughtful
for other women, not giving them Judas-kisses with eyes askance on
their welcome defects, but with real care and vision for their
half-hidden pains and mortifications, with long ruminating enjoyment
of little pleasures prepared for them? Perhaps the emphasis of his
admiration did not fall precisely on this rarest quality in her;
perhaps he approved his own choice of her chiefly because she did not
strike him as a remarkable rarity. A man likes his wife to be pretty;
well, Lucy was pretty, but not to a maddening extent. A man likes his
wife to be accomplished, gentle, affectionate, and not stupid; and
Lucy had all these qualifications. Stephen was not surprised to find
himself in love with her, and was conscious of excellent judgment in
preferring her to Miss Leyburn, the daughter of the county member,
although Lucy was only the daughter of his father's subordinate
partner; besides, he had had to defy and overcome a slight
unwillingness and disappointment in his father and sisters,--a
circumstance which gives a young man an agreeable consciousness of his
own dignity. Stephen was aware that he had sense and independence
enough to choose the wife who was likely to make him happy, unbiassed
by any indirect considerations. He meant to choose Lucy; she was a
little darling, and exactly the sort of woman he had always admired. | Lucy Deane is being courted by Stephen Guest, son of the principal partner of Guest and Company. He is a handsome, apparently flippant young man. Lucy is telling him that she has important news. He guesses that it is about her dog's diet or Dr. Kenn "preaching against buckram"; but she informs him that her cousin Maggie is coming to stay with her. At the same time she worries aloud that Maggie will object to seeing Philip Wakem, who often comes to sing glees with Stephen and Lucy. Stephen is annoyed that Lucy is to have company, but he inquires about the ground of Maggie's dislike for Philip. Lucy tells him what little she knows of the old quarrel between Tulliver and Wakem. She says that Maggie has been "in a dreary situation in a school" since Mr. Tulliver's death. This is to be her first holiday. It will allow Maggie to be near her mother, who has been housekeeper for Lucy and Mr. Deane since the death of Mrs. Deane. Stephen expects that Maggie will be like her mother -- "a fat blonde girl, with round blue eyes, who will stare at us silently." Lucy says that that is Maggie exactly. Stephen goes to the piano and asks Lucy to sing with him. After several songs Stephen departs, leaving Lucy with "an inclination to walk up and down the room." She sees to the preparation of Maggie's room, and half forgets "her own happy love-affairs." Stephen Guest is of the opinion that this is the sort of woman to marry -- a woman thoughtful of other women, pretty but "not to a maddening extent," gentle and "not stupid." He must overcome a slight unwillingness in his father and sisters, but he means to do so. |
"_Bot._--Let me play the lion too."
_Midsummer Night's Dream._
Notwithstanding the high resolution of Hawkeye, he fully comprehended
all the difficulties and dangers he was about to incur. In his return to
the camp, his acute and practised intellects were intently engaged in
devising means to counteract a watchfulness and suspicion on the part of
his enemies, that he knew were, in no degree, inferior to his own.
Nothing but the color of his skin had saved the lives of Magua and the
conjurer, who would have been the first victims sacrificed to his own
security, had not the scout believed such an act, however congenial it
might be to the nature of an Indian, utterly unworthy of one who boasted
a descent from men that knew no cross of blood. Accordingly, he trusted
to the withes and ligaments with which he had bound his captives, and
pursued his way directly towards the centre of the lodges.
As he approached the buildings, his steps became more deliberate, and
his vigilant eye suffered no sign, whether friendly or hostile, to
escape him. A neglected hut was a little in advance of the others, and
appeared as if it had been deserted when half completed--most probably
on account of failing in some of the more important requisites; such as
food or water. A faint light glimmered through its cracks, however, and
announced that, notwithstanding its imperfect structure, it was not
without a tenant. Thither, then, the scout proceeded, like a prudent
general, who was about to feel the advanced positions of his enemy,
before he hazarded the main attack.
Throwing himself into a suitable posture for the beast he represented,
Hawkeye crawled to a little opening, where he might command a view of
the interior. It proved to be the abiding-place of David Gamut. Hither
the faithful singing-master had now brought himself, together with all
his sorrows, his apprehensions, and his meek dependence on the
protection of Providence. At the precise moment when his ungainly person
came under the observation of the scout, in the manner just mentioned,
the woodsman himself, though in his assumed character, was the subject
of the solitary being's profoundest reflections.
However implicit the faith of David was in the performance of ancient
miracles, he eschewed the belief of any direct supernatural agency in
the management of modern morality. In other words, while he had implicit
faith in the ability of Balsam's ass to speak, he was somewhat skeptical
on the subject of a bear's singing; and yet he had been assured of the
latter, on the testimony of his own exquisite organs. There was
something in his air and manner that betrayed to the scout the utter
confusion of the state of his mind. He was seated on a pile of brush, a
few twigs from which occasionally fed his low fire, with his head
leaning on his arm, in a posture of melancholy musing. The costume of
the votary of music had undergone no other alteration from that so
lately described, except that he had covered his bald head with the
triangular beaver, which had not proved sufficiently alluring to excite
the cupidity of any of his captors.
The ingenious Hawkeye, who recalled the hasty manner in which the other
had abandoned his post at the bedside of the sick woman, was not without
his suspicions concerning the subject of so much solemn deliberation.
First making the circuit of the hut, and ascertaining that it stood
quite alone, and that the character of its inmate was likely to protect
it from visitors, he ventured through its low door, into the very
presence of Gamut. The position of the latter brought the fire between
them; and when Hawkeye had seated himself on end, near a minute elapsed,
during which the two remained regarding each other without speaking. The
suddenness and the nature of the surprise had nearly proved too much
for--we will not say the philosophy--but for the faith and resolution of
David. He fumbled for his pitch-pipe, and arose with a confused
intention of attempting a musical exorcism.
"Dark and mysterious monster!" he exclaimed, while with trembling hands
he disposed of his auxiliary eyes, and sought his never-failing resource
in trouble, the gifted version of the Psalms: "I know not your nature
nor intents; but if aught you meditate against the person and rights of
one of the humblest servants of the temple, listen to the inspired
language of the youth of Israel, and repent."
The bear shook his shaggy sides, and then a well-known voice replied,--
"Put up the tooting we'pon, and teach your throat modesty. Five words of
plain and comprehensible English are worth, just now, an hour of
squalling."
"What art thou!" demanded David, utterly disqualified to pursue his
original intention, and nearly gasping for breath.
"A man like yourself; and one whose blood is as little tainted by the
cross of a bear, or an Indian, as your own. Have you so soon forgotten
from whom you received the foolish instrument you hold in your hand?"
"Can these things be?" returned David, breathing more freely, as the
truth began to dawn upon him. "I have found many marvels during my
sojourn with the heathen, but surely nothing to excel this!"
"Come, come," returned Hawkeye, uncasing his honest countenance, the
better to assure the wavering confidence of his companion; "you may see
a skin, which, if it be not as white as one of the gentle ones, has no
tinge of red to it that the winds of heaven and the sun have not
bestowed. Now let us to business."
"First tell me of the maiden, and of the youth who so bravely sought
her," interrupted David.
"Ay, they are happily freed from the tomahawks of these varlets. But can
you put me on the scent of Uncas?"
"The young man is in bondage, and much I fear his death is decreed. I
greatly mourn that one so well disposed should die in his ignorance, and
I have sought a goodly hymn--"
"Can you lead me to him?"
"The task will not be difficult," returned David, hesitating; "though I
greatly fear your presence would rather increase than mitigate his
unhappy fortunes."
"No more words, but lead on," returned Hawkeye, concealing his face
again, and setting the example in his own person, by instantly quitting
the lodge.
As they proceeded, the scout ascertained that his companion found access
to Uncas, under privilege of his imaginary infirmity, aided by the favor
he had acquired with one of the guards, who, in consequence of speaking
a little English, had been selected by David as the subject of a
religious conversation. How far the Huron comprehended the intentions of
his new friend, may well be doubted; but as exclusive attention is as
flattering to a savage as to a more civilized individual, it had
produced the effect we have mentioned. It is unnecessary to repeat the
shrewd manner with which the scout extracted these particulars from the
simple David; neither shall we dwell in this place on the nature of the
instructions he delivered, when completely master of all the necessary
facts; as the whole will be sufficiently explained to the reader in the
course of the narrative.
The lodge in which Uncas was confined was in the very centre of the
village, and in a situation, perhaps, more difficult than any other to
approach, or leave, without observation. But it was not the policy of
Hawkeye to affect the least concealment. Presuming on his disguise, and
his ability to sustain the character he had assumed, he took the most
plain and direct route to the place. The hour, however, afforded him
some little of that protection which he appeared so much to despise. The
boys were already buried in sleep, and all the women, and most of the
warriors, had retired to their lodges for the night. Four or five of the
latter only lingered about the door of the prison of Uncas, wary but
close observers of the manner of their captive.
At the sight of Gamut, accompanied by one in the well known masquerade
of their most distinguished conjurer, they readily made way for them
both. Still they betrayed no intention to depart. On the other hand,
they were evidently disposed to remain bound to the place by an
additional interest in the mysterious mummeries that they of course
expected from such a visit.
From the total inability of the scout to address the Hurons in their own
language, he was compelled to trust the conversation entirely to David.
Notwithstanding the simplicity of the latter, he did ample justice to
the instructions he had received, more than fulfilling the strongest
hopes of his teacher.
"The Delawares are women!" he exclaimed, addressing himself to the
savage who had a slight understanding of the language in which he spoke;
"the Yengeese, my foolish countrymen, have told them to take up the
tomahawk, and strike their fathers in the Canadas, and they have
forgotten their sex. Does my brother wish to hear Le Cerf Agile ask for
his petticoats, and see him weep before the Hurons, at the stake?"
The exclamation "Hugh!" delivered in a strong tone of assent, announced
the gratification the savage would receive in witnessing such an
exhibition of weakness in an enemy so long hated and so much feared.
"Then let him step aside, and the cunning man will blow upon the dog!
Tell it to my brothers."
The Huron explained the meaning of David to his fellows, who, in their
turn, listened to the project with that sort of satisfaction that their
untamed spirits might be expected to find in such a refinement in
cruelty. They drew back a little from the entrance, and motioned to the
supposed conjurer to enter. But the bear, instead of obeying, maintained
the seat it had taken, and growled.
"The cunning man is afraid that his breath will blow upon his brothers,
and take away their courage too," continued David, improving the hint he
received; "they must stand farther off."
The Hurons, who would have deemed such a misfortune the heaviest
calamity that could befall them, fell back in a body, taking a position
where they were out of ear-shot, though at the same time they could
command a view of the entrance to the lodge. Then, as if satisfied of
their safety, the scout left his position, and slowly entered the place.
It was silent and gloomy, being tenanted solely by the captive, and
lighted by the dying embers of a fire, which had been used for the
purposes of cookery.
Uncas occupied a distant corner, in a reclining attitude, being rigidly
bound, both hands and feet, by strong and painful withes. When the
frightful object first presented itself to the young Mohican, he did not
deign to bestow a single glance on the animal. The scout, who had left
David at the door, to ascertain they were not observed, thought it
prudent to preserve his disguise until assured of their privacy. Instead
of speaking, therefore, he exerted himself to enact one of the antics of
the animal he represented. The young Mohican, who at first believed his
enemies had sent in a real beast to torment him, and try his nerves,
detected, in those performances that to Heyward had appeared so
accurate, certain blemishes, that at once betrayed the counterfeit. Had
Hawkeye been aware of the low estimation in which the more skilful Uncas
held his representations, he would probably have prolonged the
entertainment a little in pique. But the scornful expression of the
young man's eye admitted of so many constructions, that the worthy scout
was spared the mortification of such a discovery. As soon, therefore, as
David gave the pre-concerted signal, a low hissing sound was heard in
the lodge, in place of the fierce growlings of the bear.
Uncas had cast his body back against the wall of the hut, and closed
his eyes, as if willing to exclude so contemptible and disagreeable an
object from his sight. But the moment the noise of the serpent was
heard, he arose, and cast his looks on each side of him, bending his
head low, and turning it inquiringly in every direction, until his keen
eye rested on the shaggy monster, where it remained riveted, as though
fixed by the power of a charm. Again the same sounds were repeated,
evidently proceeding from the mouth of the beast. Once more the eyes of
the youth roamed over the interior of the lodge, and returning to their
former resting place, he uttered, in a deep, suppressed voice,--
"Hawkeye!"
"Cut his bands," said Hawkeye to David, who just then approached them.
The singer did as he was ordered, and Uncas found his limbs released. At
the same moment the dried skin of the animal rattled, and presently the
scout arose to his feet, in proper person. The Mohican appeared to
comprehend the nature of the attempt his friend had made, intuitively;
neither tongue nor feature betraying another symptom of surprise. When
Hawkeye had cast his shaggy vestment, which was done by simply loosing
certain thongs of skin, he drew a long glittering knife, and put it in
the hands of Uncas.
"The red Hurons are without," he said; "let us be ready."
At the same time he laid his finger significantly on another similar
weapon, both being the fruits of his prowess among their enemies during
the evening.
"We will go," said Uncas.
"Whither?"
"To the Tortoises; they are the children of my grandfathers."
"Ay, lad," said the scout in English--a language he was apt to use when
a little abstracted in mind; "the same blood runs in your veins, I
believe; but time and distance have a little changed its color. What
shall we do with the Mingos at the door? They count six, and this singer
is as good as nothing."
"The Hurons are boasters," said Uncas scornfully; "their 'totem' is a
moose, and they run like snails. The Delawares are children of the
tortoise, and they outstrip the deer."
"Ay, lad, there is truth in what you say; and I doubt not, on a rush,
you would pass the whole nation; and, in a straight race of two miles,
would be in, and get your breath again, afore a knave of them all was
within hearing of the other village. But the gift of a white man lies
more in his arms than in his legs. As for myself, I can brain a Huron as
well as a better man; but when it comes to a race, the knaves would
prove too much for me."
Uncas, who had already approached the door, in readiness to lead the
way, now recoiled; and placed himself, once more, in the bottom of the
lodge. But Hawkeye, who was too much occupied with his own thoughts to
note the movement, continued speaking more to himself than to his
companion.
"After all," he said, "it is unreasonable to keep one man in bondage to
the gifts of another. So, Uncas, you had better take the leap, while I
put on the skin again, and trust to cunning for want of speed."
The young Mohican made no reply, but quietly folded his arms, and leaned
his body against one of the upright posts that supported the wall of the
hut.
"Well," said the scout, looking up at him, "why do you tarry? There will
be time enough for me, as the knaves will give chase to you at first."
"Uncas will stay," was the calm reply.
"For what?"
"To fight with his father's brother, and die with the friend of the
Delawares."
"Ay, lad," returned Hawkeye, squeezing the hand of Uncas between his own
iron fingers; "'twould have been more like a Mingo than a Mohican had
you left me. But I thought I would make the offer, seeing that youth
commonly loves life. Well, what can't be done by main courage, in war,
must be done by circumvention. Put on the skin; I doubt not you can play
the bear nearly as well as myself."
Whatever might have been the private opinion of Uncas of their
respective abilities in this particular, his grave countenance
manifested no opinion of his own superiority. He silently and
expeditiously encased himself in the covering of the beast, and then
awaited such other movements as his more aged companion saw fit to
dictate.
"Now, friend," said Hawkeye, addressing David, "an exchange of garments
will be a great convenience to you, inasmuch as you are but little
accustomed to the make-shifts of the wilderness. Here, take my hunting
shirt and cap, and give me your blanket and hat. You must trust me with
the book and spectacles, as well as the tooter, too; if we ever meet
again, in better times, you shall have all back again, with many thanks
into the bargain."
David parted with the several articles named with a readiness that would
have done great credit to his liberality, had he not certainly profited,
in many particulars, by the exchange. Hawkeye was not long in assuming
his borrowed garments; and when his restless eyes were hid behind the
glasses, and his head was surmounted by the triangular beaver, as their
statures were not dissimilar, he might readily have passed for the
singer by star-light. As soon as these dispositions were made, the scout
turned to David, and gave him his parting instructions.
"Are you much given to cowardice?" he bluntly asked, by way of obtaining
a suitable understanding of the whole case before he ventured a
prescription.
"My pursuits are peaceful, and my temper, I humbly trust, is greatly
given to mercy and love," returned David, a little nettled at so direct
an attack on his manhood; "but there are none who can say that I have
ever forgotten my faith in the Lord, even in the greatest straits."
"Your chiefest danger will be at the moment when the savages find out
that they have been deceived. If you are not then knocked in the head,
your being a non-composser will protect you; and you'll then have good
reason to expect to die in your bed. If you stay, it must be to sit down
here in the shadow, and take the part of Uncas, until such times as the
cunning of the Indians discover the cheat, when, as I have already said,
your time of trial will come. So choose for yourself,--to make a rush or
tarry here."
"Even so," said David, firmly; "I will abide in the place of the
Delaware. Bravely and generously has he battled in my behalf; and this,
and more, will I dare in his service."
"You have spoken as a man, and like one who, under wiser schooling,
would have been brought to better things. Hold your head down, and draw
in your legs; their formation might tell the truth too early. Keep
silent as long as may be; and it would be wise, when you do speak, to
break out suddenly in one of your shoutings, which will serve to remind
the Indians that you are not altogether as responsible as men should be.
If, however, they take your scalp, as I trust and believe they will not,
depend on it, Uncas and I will not forget the deed, but revenge it as
becomes true warriors and trusty friends."
"Hold!" said David, perceiving that with this assurance they were about
to leave him; "I am an unworthy and humble follower of One who taught
not the damnable principle of revenge. Should I fall, therefore, seek no
victims to my manes, but rather forgive my destroyers; and if you
remember them at all, let it be in prayers for the enlightening of their
minds, and for their eternal welfare."
The scout hesitated, and appeared to muse.
"There is a principle in that," he said, "different from the law of the
woods; and yet it is fair and noble to reflect upon." Then, heaving a
heavy sigh, probably among the last he ever drew in pining for a
condition he had so long abandoned, he added, "It is what I would wish
to practise, myself, as one without a cross of blood, though it is not
always easy to deal with an Indian as you would with a fellow Christian.
God bless you, friend; I do believe your scent is not greatly wrong,
when the matter is duly considered, and keeping eternity before the
eyes, though much depends on the natural gifts, and the force of
temptation."
So saying, the scout returned and shook David cordially by the hand;
after which act of friendship he immediately left the lodge, attended by
the new representative of the beast.
The instant Hawkeye found himself under the observation of the Hurons,
he drew up his tall form in the rigid manner of David, threw out his arm
in the act of keeping time, and commenced what he intended for an
imitation of his psalmody. Happily for the success of this delicate
adventure, he had to deal with ears but little practised in the concord
of sweet sounds, or the miserable effort would infallibly have been
detected. It was necessary to pass within a dangerous proximity of the
dark group of the savages, and the voice of the scout grew louder as
they drew nigher. When at the nearest point, the Huron who spoke the
English thrust out an arm, and stopped the supposed singing-master.
"The Delaware dog!" he said, leaning forward, and peering through the
dim light to catch the expression of the other's features; "is he
afraid? will the Hurons hear his groans?"
A growl so exceedingly fierce and natural proceeded from the beast, that
the young Indian released his hold and started aside, as if to assure
himself that it was not a veritable bear, and no counterfeit, that was
rolling before him. Hawkeye, who feared his voice would betray him to
his subtle enemies, gladly profited by the interruption, to break out
anew in such a burst of musical expression as would, probably, in a
more refined state of society have been termed "a grand crash." Among
his actual auditors, however, it merely gave him an additional claim to
that respect which they never withhold from such as are believed to be
the subjects of mental alienation. The little knot of Indians drew back
in a body, and suffered, as they thought, the conjurer and his inspired
assistant to proceed.
It required no common exercise of fortitude in Uncas and the scout, to
continue the dignified and deliberate pace they had assumed in passing
the lodges; especially as they immediately perceived that curiosity had
so far mastered fear, as to induce the watchers to approach the hut, in
order to witness the effect of the incantations. The least injudicious
or impatient movement on the part of David might betray them, and time
was absolutely necessary to insure the safety of the scout. The loud
noise the latter conceived it politic to continue, drew many curious
gazers to the doors of the different huts as they passed; and once or
twice a dark-looking warrior stepped across their path, led to the act
by superstition or watchfulness. They were not, however, interrupted;
the darkness of the hour, and the coldness of the attempt, proving their
principal friends.
The adventurers had got clear of the village, and were now swiftly
approaching the shelter of the woods, when a loud and long cry arose
from the lodge where Uncas had been confined. The Mohican started on his
feet, and shook his shaggy covering, as though the animal he
counterfeited was about to make some desperate effort.
"Hold!" said the scout, grasping his friend by the shoulder, "let them
yell again! 'Twas nothing but wonderment."
He had no occasion to delay, for the next instant a burst of cries
filled the outer air, and ran along the whole extent of the village.
Uncas cast his skin, and stepped forth in his own beautiful proportions.
Hawkeye tapped him lightly on the shoulder, and glided ahead.
"Now let the devils strike our scent!" said the scout, tearing two
rifles, with all their attendant accoutrements, from beneath a bush, and
flourishing "Killdeer" as he handed Uncas his weapon; "two, at least,
will find it to their deaths."
Then throwing their pieces to a low trail, like sportsmen in readiness
for their game, they dashed forward, and were soon buried in the sombre
darkness of the forest. | Still dressed as a bear, Hawkeye returns to the camp and approaches a neglected hut in which he sees Gamut. Making sure the place is safe, he enters and seats himself on the other side of the fire, frightening Gamut until he reveals himself. Each one relying on the role he plays, they take a plain and direct route to the main lodge where Uncas is confined. Gamut tells the guards that the conjurer wants to blow his breath upon the captive to make him weak and fearful at the stake. When the Indians fall back out of earshot, the two men enter and cut Uncas' bonds. With subterfuge necessary, Uncas puts on the bearskin, Hawkeye takes Gamut's attire, and Gamut bravely takes Uncas' place, planning to sing like a madman when he is discovered and hoping that will save him. Restraining themselves, the Mohican and the scout go slowly past the guards, but as they reach the woods, a long cry indicates that the deception has been discovered. Keeping faith that Indian superstition will save Gamut, Hawkeye finds their hidden rifles and the two men dash into the forest toward the Delaware village. |
HARVARD COLLEGE (1854-1858)
ONE day in June, 1854, young Adams walked for the last time
down the steps of Mr. Dixwell's school in Boylston Place, and felt no
sensation but one of unqualified joy that this experience was ended.
Never before or afterwards in his life did he close a period so long as
four years without some sensation of loss--some sentiment of habit--but
school was what in after life he commonly heard his friends denounce as
an intolerable bore. He was born too old for it. The same thing could
be said of most New England boys. Mentally they never were boys. Their
education as men should have begun at ten years old. They were fully
five years more mature than the English or European boy for whom
schools were made. For the purposes of future advancement, as
afterwards appeared, these first six years of a possible education were
wasted in doing imperfectly what might have been done perfectly in one,
and in any case would have had small value. The next regular step was
Harvard College. He was more than glad to go. For generation after
generation, Adamses and Brookses and Boylstons and Gorhams had gone to
Harvard College, and although none of them, as far as known, had ever
done any good there, or thought himself the better for it, custom,
social ties, convenience, and, above all, economy, kept each generation
in the track. Any other education would have required a serious effort,
but no one took Harvard College seriously. All went there because their
friends went there, and the College was their ideal of social
self-respect.
Harvard College, as far as it educated at all, was a mild and
liberal school, which sent young men into the world with all they
needed to make respectable citizens, and something of what they wanted
to make useful ones. Leaders of men it never tried to make. Its ideals
were altogether different. The Unitarian clergy had given to the
College a character of moderation, balance, judgment, restraint, what
the French called mesure; excellent traits, which the College attained
with singular success, so that its graduates could commonly be
recognized by the stamp, but such a type of character rarely lent
itself to autobiography. In effect, the school created a type but not a
will. Four years of Harvard College, if successful, resulted in an
autobiographical blank, a mind on which only a water-mark had been
stamped.
The stamp, as such things went, was a good one. The chief
wonder of education is that it does not ruin everybody concerned in it,
teachers and taught. Sometimes in after life, Adams debated whether in
fact it had not ruined him and most of his companions, but,
disappointment apart, Harvard College was probably less hurtful than
any other university then in existence. It taught little, and that
little ill, but it left the mind open, free from bias, ignorant of
facts, but docile. The graduate had few strong prejudices. He knew
little, but his mind remained supple, ready to receive knowledge.
What caused the boy most disappointment was the little he got
from his mates. Speaking exactly, he got less than nothing, a result
common enough in education. Yet the College Catalogue for the years
1854 to 1861 shows a list of names rather distinguished in their time.
Alexander Agassiz and Phillips Brooks led it; H. H. Richardson and O.
W. Holmes helped to close it. As a rule the most promising of all die
early, and never get their names into a Dictionary of Contemporaries,
which seems to be the only popular standard of success. Many died in
the war. Adams knew them all, more or less; he felt as much regard, and
quite as much respect for them then, as he did after they won great
names and were objects of a vastly wider respect; but, as help towards
education, he got nothing whatever from them or they from him until
long after they had left college. Possibly the fault was his, but one
would like to know how many others shared it. Accident counts for much
in companionship as in marriage. Life offers perhaps only a score of
possible companions, and it is mere chance whether they meet as early
as school or college, but it is more than a chance that boys brought up
together under like conditions have nothing to give each other. The
Class of 1858, to which Henry Adams belonged, was a typical collection
of young New Englanders, quietly penetrating and aggressively
commonplace; free from meannesses, jealousies, intrigues, enthusiasms,
and passions; not exceptionally quick; not consciously skeptical;
singularly indifferent to display, artifice, florid expression, but not
hostile to it when it amused them; distrustful of themselves, but
little disposed to trust any one else; with not much humor of their
own, but full of readiness to enjoy the humor of others; negative to a
degree that in the long run became positive and triumphant. Not harsh
in manners or judgment, rather liberal and open-minded, they were still
as a body the most formidable critics one would care to meet, in a long
life exposed to criticism. They never flattered, seldom praised; free
from vanity, they were not intolerant of it; but they were
objectiveness itself; their attitude was a law of nature; their
judgment beyond appeal, not an act either of intellect or emotion or of
will, but a sort of gravitation.
This was Harvard College incarnate, but even for Harvard
College, the Class of 1858 was somewhat extreme. Of unity this band of
nearly one hundred young men had no keen sense, but they had equally
little energy of repulsion. They were pleasant to live with, and above
the average of students--German, French, English, or what not--but
chiefly because each individual appeared satisfied to stand alone. It
seemed a sign of force; yet to stand alone is quite natural when one
has no passions; still easier when one has no pains.
Into this unusually dissolvent medium, chance insisted on
enlarging Henry Adams's education by tossing a trio of Virginians as
little fitted for it as Sioux Indians to a treadmill. By some further
affinity, these three outsiders fell into relation with the Bostonians
among whom Adams as a schoolboy belonged, and in the end with Adams
himself, although they and he knew well how thin an edge of friendship
separated them in 1856 from mortal enmity. One of the Virginians was
the son of Colonel Robert E. Lee, of the Second United States Cavalry;
the two others who seemed instinctively to form a staff for Lee, were
town-Virginians from Petersburg. A fourth outsider came from Cincinnati
and was half Kentuckian, N. L. Anderson, Longworth on the mother's
side. For the first time Adams's education brought him in contact with
new types and taught him their values. He saw the New England type
measure itself with another, and he was part of the process.
Lee, known through life as "Roony," was a Virginian of the
eighteenth century, much as Henry Adams was a Bostonian of the same
age. Roony Lee had changed little from the type of his grandfather,
Light Horse Harry. Tall, largely built, handsome, genial, with liberal
Virginian openness towards all he liked, he had also the Virginian
habit of command and took leadership as his natural habit. No one cared
to contest it. None of the New Englanders wanted command. For a year,
at least, Lee was the most popular and prominent young man in his
class, but then seemed slowly to drop into the background. The habit of
command was not enough, and the Virginian had little else. He was
simple beyond analysis; so simple that even the simple New England
student could not realize him. No one knew enough to know how ignorant
he was; how childlike; how helpless before the relative complexity of a
school. As an animal, the Southerner seemed to have every advantage,
but even as an animal he steadily lost ground.
The lesson in education was vital to these young men, who,
within ten years, killed each other by scores in the act of testing
their college conclusions. Strictly, the Southerner had no mind; he had
temperament. He was not a scholar; he had no intellectual training; he
could not analyze an idea, and he could not even conceive of admitting
two; but in life one could get along very well without ideas, if one
had only the social instinct. Dozens of eminent statesmen were men of
Lee's type, and maintained themselves well enough in the legislature,
but college was a sharper test. The Virginian was weak in vice itself,
though the Bostonian was hardly a master of crime. The habits of
neither were good; both were apt to drink hard and to live low lives;
but the Bostonian suffered less than the Virginian. Commonly the
Bostonian could take some care of himself even in his worst stages,
while the Virginian became quarrelsome and dangerous. When a Virginian
had brooded a few days over an imaginary grief and substantial whiskey,
none of his Northern friends could be sure that he might not be
waiting, round the corner, with a knife or pistol, to revenge insult by
the dry light of delirium tremens; and when things reached this
condition, Lee had to exhaust his authority over his own staff. Lee was
a gentleman of the old school, and, as every one knows, gentlemen of
the old school drank almost as much as gentlemen of the new school; but
this was not his trouble. He was sober even in the excessive violence
of political feeling in those years; he kept his temper and his friends
under control.
Adams liked the Virginians. No one was more obnoxious to them,
by name and prejudice; yet their friendship was unbroken and even warm.
At a moment when the immediate future posed no problem in education so
vital as the relative energy and endurance of North and South, this
momentary contact with Southern character was a sort of education for
its own sake; but this was not all. No doubt the self-esteem of the
Yankee, which tended naturally to self-distrust, was flattered by
gaining the slow conviction that the Southerner, with his slave-owning
limitations, was as little fit to succeed in the struggle of modern
life as though he were still a maker of stone axes, living in caves,
and hunting the bos primigenius, and that every quality in which he was
strong, made him weaker; but Adams had begun to fear that even in this
respect one eighteenth-century type might not differ deeply from
another. Roony Lee had changed little from the Virginian of a century
before; but Adams was himself a good deal nearer the type of his
great-grandfather than to that of a railway superintendent. He was
little more fit than the Virginians to deal with a future America which
showed no fancy for the past. Already Northern society betrayed a
preference for economists over diplomats or soldiers--one might even
call it a jealousy--against which two eighteenth-century types had
little chance to live, and which they had in common to fear.
Nothing short of this curious sympathy could have brought into
close relations two young men so hostile as Roony Lee and Henry Adams,
but the chief difference between them as collegians consisted only in
their difference of scholarship: Lee was a total failure; Adams a
partial one. Both failed, but Lee felt his failure more sensibly, so
that he gladly seized the chance of escape by accepting a commission
offered him by General Winfield Scott in the force then being organized
against the Mormons. He asked Adams to write his letter of acceptance,
which flattered Adams's vanity more than any Northern compliment could
do, because, in days of violent political bitterness, it showed a
certain amount of good temper. The diplomat felt his profession.
If the student got little from his mates, he got little more
from his masters. The four years passed at college were, for his
purposes, wasted. Harvard College was a good school, but at bottom what
the boy disliked most was any school at all. He did not want to be one
in a hundred--one per cent of an education. He regarded himself as the
only person for whom his education had value, and he wanted the whole
of it. He got barely half of an average. Long afterwards, when the
devious path of life led him back to teach in his turn what no student
naturally cared or needed to know, he diverted some dreary hours of
faculty-meetings by looking up his record in the class-lists, and found
himself graded precisely in the middle. In the one branch he most
needed--mathematics--barring the few first scholars, failure was so
nearly universal that no attempt at grading could have had value, and
whether he stood fortieth or ninetieth must have been an accident or
the personal favor of the professor. Here his education failed
lamentably. At best he could never have been a mathematician; at worst
he would never have cared to be one; but he needed to read mathematics,
like any other universal language, and he never reached the alphabet.
Beyond two or three Greek plays, the student got nothing from
the ancient languages. Beyond some incoherent theories of free-trade
and protection, he got little from Political Economy. He could not
afterwards remember to have heard the name of Karl Marx mentioned, or
the title of "Capital." He was equally ignorant of Auguste Comte. These
were the two writers of his time who most influenced its thought. The
bit of practical teaching he afterwards reviewed with most curiosity
was the course in Chemistry, which taught him a number of theories that
befogged his mind for a lifetime. The only teaching that appealed to
his imagination was a course of lectures by Louis Agassiz on the
Glacial Period and Paleontology, which had more influence on his
curiosity than the rest of the college instruction altogether. The
entire work of the four years could have been easily put into the work
of any four months in after life.
Harvard College was a negative force, and negative forces have
value. Slowly it weakened the violent political bias of childhood, not
by putting interests in its place, but by mental habits which had no
bias at all. It would also have weakened the literary bias, if Adams
had been capable of finding other amusement, but the climate kept him
steady to desultory and useless reading, till he had run through
libraries of volumes which he forgot even to their title-pages. Rather
by instinct than by guidance, he turned to writing, and his professors
or tutors occasionally gave his English composition a hesitating
approval; but in that branch, as in all the rest, even when he made a
long struggle for recognition, he never convinced his teachers that his
abilities, at their best, warranted placing him on the rank-list, among
the first third of his class. Instructors generally reach a fairly
accurate gauge of their scholars' powers. Henry Adams himself held the
opinion that his instructors were very nearly right, and when he became
a professor in his turn, and made mortifying mistakes in ranking his
scholars, he still obstinately insisted that on the whole, he was not
far wrong. Student or professor, he accepted the negative standard
because it was the standard of the school.
He never knew what other students thought of it, or what they
thought they gained from it; nor would their opinion have much affected
his. From the first, he wanted to be done with it, and stood watching
vaguely for a path and a direction. The world outside seemed large, but
the paths that led into it were not many and lay mostly through Boston,
where he did not want to go. As it happened, by pure chance, the first
door of escape that seemed to offer a hope led into Germany, and James
Russell Lowell opened it.
Lowell, on succeeding Longfellow as Professor of
Belles-Lettres, had duly gone to Germany, and had brought back whatever
he found to bring. The literary world then agreed that truth survived
in Germany alone, and Carlyle, Matthew Arnold, Renan, Emerson, with
scores of popular followers, taught the German faith. The literary
world had revolted against the yoke of coming capitalism--its
money-lenders, its bank directors, and its railway magnates. Thackeray
and Dickens followed Balzac in scratching and biting the unfortunate
middle class with savage ill-temper, much as the middle class had
scratched and bitten the Church and Court for a hundred years before.
The middle class had the power, and held its coal and iron well in
hand, but the satirists and idealists seized the press, and as they
were agreed that the Second Empire was a disgrace to France and a
danger to England, they turned to Germany because at that moment
Germany was neither economical nor military, and a hundred years behind
western Europe in the simplicity of its standard. German thought,
method, honesty, and even taste, became the standards of scholarship.
Goethe was raised to the rank of Shakespeare--Kant ranked as a
law-giver above Plato. All serious scholars were obliged to become
German, for German thought was revolutionizing criticism. Lowell had
followed the rest, not very enthusiastically, but with sufficient
conviction, and invited his scholars to join him. Adams was glad to
accept the invitation, rather for the sake of cultivating Lowell than
Germany, but still in perfect good faith. It was the first serious
attempt he had made to direct his own education, and he was sure of
getting some education out of it; not perhaps anything that he
expected, but at least a path.
Singularly circuitous and excessively wasteful of energy the
path proved to be, but the student could never see what other was open
to him. He could have done no better had he foreseen every stage of his
coming life, and he would probably have done worse. The preliminary
step was pure gain. James Russell Lowell had brought back from Germany
the only new and valuable part of its universities, the habit of
allowing students to read with him privately in his study. Adams asked
the privilege, and used it to read a little, and to talk a great deal,
for the personal contact pleased and flattered him, as that of older
men ought to flatter and please the young even when they altogether
exaggerate its value. Lowell was a new element in the boy's life. As
practical a New Englander as any, he leaned towards the Concord faith
rather than towards Boston where he properly belonged; for Concord, in
the dark days of 1856, glowed with pure light. Adams approached it in
much the same spirit as he would have entered a Gothic Cathedral, for
he well knew that the priests regarded him as only a worm. To the
Concord Church all Adamses were minds of dust and emptiness, devoid of
feeling, poetry or imagination; little higher than the common scourings
of State Street; politicians of doubtful honesty; natures of narrow
scope; and already, at eighteen years old, Henry had begun to feel
uncertainty about so many matters more important than Adamses that his
mind rebelled against no discipline merely personal, and he was ready
to admit his unworthiness if only he might penetrate the shrine. The
influence of Harvard College was beginning to have its effect. He was
slipping away from fixed principles; from Mount Vernon Street; from
Quincy; from the eighteenth century; and his first steps led toward
Concord.
He never reached Concord, and to Concord Church he, like the
rest of mankind who accepted a material universe, remained always an
insect, or something much lower--a man. It was surely no fault of his
that the universe seemed to him real; perhaps--as Mr. Emerson justly
said--it was so; in spite of the long-continued effort of a lifetime,
he perpetually fell back into the heresy that if anything universal was
unreal, it was himself and not the appearances; it was the poet and not
the banker; it was his own thought, not the thing that moved it. He did
not lack the wish to be transcendental. Concord seemed to him, at one
time, more real than Quincy; yet in truth Russell Lowell was as little
transcendental as Beacon Street. From him the boy got no revolutionary
thought whatever--objective or subjective as they used to call it--but
he got good-humored encouragement to do what amused him, which
consisted in passing two years in Europe after finishing the four years
of Cambridge.
The result seemed small in proportion to the effort, but it was
the only positive result he could ever trace to the influence of
Harvard College, and he had grave doubts whether Harvard College
influenced even that. Negative results in plenty he could trace, but he
tended towards negation on his own account, as one side of the New
England mind had always done, and even there he could never feel sure
that Harvard College had more than reflected a weakness. In his opinion
the education was not serious, but in truth hardly any Boston student
took it seriously, and none of them seemed sure that President Walker
himself, or President Felton after him, took it more seriously than the
students. For them all, the college offered chiefly advantages vulgarly
called social, rather than mental.
Unluckily for this particular boy, social advantages were his
only capital in life. Of money he had not much, of mind not more, but
he could be quite certain that, barring his own faults, his social
position would never be questioned. What he needed was a career in
which social position had value. Never in his life would he have to
explain who he was; never would he have need of acquaintance to
strengthen his social standing; but he needed greatly some one to show
him how to use the acquaintance he cared to make. He made no
acquaintance in college which proved to have the smallest use in after
life. All his Boston friends he knew before, or would have known in any
case, and contact of Bostonian with Bostonian was the last education
these young men needed. Cordial and intimate as their college relations
were, they all flew off in different directions the moment they took
their degrees. Harvard College remained a tie, indeed, but a tie little
stronger than Beacon Street and not so strong as State Street.
Strangers might perhaps gain something from the college if they were
hard pressed for social connections. A student like H. H. Richardson,
who came from far away New Orleans, and had his career before him to
chase rather than to guide, might make valuable friendships at college.
Certainly Adams made no acquaintance there that he valued in after life
so much as Richardson, but still more certainly the college relation
had little to do with the later friendship. Life is a narrow valley,
and the roads run close together. Adams would have attached himself to
Richardson in any case, as he attached himself to John LaFarge or
Augustus St. Gaudens or Clarence King or John Hay, none of whom were at
Harvard College. The valley of life grew more and more narrow with
years, and certain men with common tastes were bound to come together.
Adams knew only that he would have felt himself on a more equal footing
with them had he been less ignorant, and had he not thrown away ten
years of early life in acquiring what he might have acquired in one.
Socially or intellectually, the college was for him negative
and in some ways mischievous. The most tolerant man of the world could
not see good in the lower habits of the students, but the vices were
less harmful than the virtues. The habit of drinking--though the mere
recollection of it made him doubt his own veracity, so fantastic it
seemed in later life--may have done no great or permanent harm; but the
habit of looking at life as a social relation--an affair of
society--did no good. It cultivated a weakness which needed no
cultivation. If it had helped to make men of the world, or give the
manners and instincts of any profession--such as temper, patience,
courtesy, or a faculty of profiting by the social defects of
opponents--it would have been education better worth having than
mathematics or languages; but so far as it helped to make anything, it
helped only to make the college standard permanent through life. The
Bostonian educated at Harvard College remained a collegian, if he stuck
only to what the college gave him. If parents went on generation after
generation, sending their children to Harvard College for the sake of
its social advantages, they perpetuated an inferior social type, quite
as ill-fitted as the Oxford type for success in the next generation.
Luckily the old social standard of the college, as President
Walker or James Russell Lowell still showed it, was admirable, and if
it had little practical value or personal influence on the mass of
students, at least it preserved the tradition for those who liked it.
The Harvard graduate was neither American nor European, nor even wholly
Yankee; his admirers were few, and critics his many; perhaps his worst
weakness was his self-criticism and self-consciousness; but his ambitions,
social or intellectual, were necessarily cheap even though they might
be negative. Afraid of such serious risks, and still more afraid of
personal ridicule, he seldom made a great failure of life, and nearly
always led a life more or less worth living. So Henry Adams, well aware
that he could not succeed as a scholar, and finding his social position
beyond improvement or need of effort, betook himself to the single
ambition which otherwise would scarcely have seemed a true outcome of
the college, though it was the last remnant of the old Unitarian
supremacy. He took to the pen. He wrote.
The College Magazine printed his work, and the College
Societies listened to his addresses. Lavish of praise the readers were
not; the audiences, too, listened in silence; but this was all the
encouragement any Harvard collegian had a reasonable hope to receive;
grave silence was a form of patience that meant possible future
acceptance; and Henry Adams went on writing. No one cared enough to
criticise, except himself who soon began to suffer from reaching his
own limits. He found that he could not be this--or that--or the other;
always precisely the things he wanted to be. He had not wit or scope or
force. Judges always ranked him beneath a rival, if he had any; and he
believed the judges were right. His work seemed to him thin,
commonplace, feeble. At times he felt his own weakness so fatally that
he could not go on; when he had nothing to say, he could not say it,
and he found that he had very little to say at best. Much that he then
wrote must be still in existence in print or manuscript, though he
never cared to see it again, for he felt no doubt that it was in
reality just what he thought it. At best it showed only a feeling for
form; an instinct of exclusion. Nothing shocked--not even its weakness.
Inevitably an effort leads to an ambition--creates it--and
at that time the ambition of the literary student, which almost took
place of the regular prizes of scholarship, was that of being chosen as
the representative of his class--Class Orator--at the close of their
course. This was political as well as literary success, and precisely
the sort of eighteenth-century combination that fascinated an
eighteenth century boy. The idea lurked in his mind, at first as a
dream, in no way serious or even possible, for he stood outside the
number of what were known as popular men. Year by year, his position
seemed to improve, or perhaps his rivals disappeared, until at last, to
his own great astonishment, he found himself a candidate. The habits of
the college permitted no active candidacy; he and his rivals had not a
word to say for or against themselves, and he was never even consulted
on the subject; he was not present at any of the proceedings, and how
it happened he never could quite divine, but it did happen, that one
evening on returning from Boston he received notice of his election,
after a very close contest, as Class Orator over the head of the first
scholar, who was undoubtedly a better orator and a more popular man. In
politics the success of the poorer candidate is common enough, and
Henry Adams was a fairly trained politician, but he never understood
how he managed to defeat not only a more capable but a more popular
rival.
To him the election seemed a miracle. This was no mock-modesty;
his head was as clear as ever it was in an indifferent canvass, and he
knew his rivals and their following as well as he knew himself. What he
did not know, even after four years of education, was Harvard College.
What he could never measure was the bewildering impersonality of the
men, who, at twenty years old, seemed to set no value either on
official or personal standards. Here were nearly a hundred young men
who had lived together intimately during four of the most
impressionable years of life, and who, not only once but again and
again, in different ways, deliberately, seriously, dispassionately,
chose as their representatives precisely those of their companions who
seemed least to represent them. As far as these Orators and Marshals
had any position at all in a collegiate sense, it was that of
indifference to the college. Henry Adams never professed the smallest
faith in universities of any kind, either as boy or man, nor had he the
faintest admiration for the university graduate, either in Europe or in
America; as a collegian he was only known apart from his fellows by his
habit of standing outside the college; and yet the singular fact
remained that this commonplace body of young men chose him repeatedly
to express his and their commonplaces. Secretly, of course, the
successful candidate flattered himself--and them--with the hope that
they might perhaps not be so commonplace as they thought themselves;
but this was only another proof that all were identical. They saw in
him a representative--the kind of representative they wanted--and he
saw in them the most formidable array of judges he could ever meet,
like so many mirrors of himself, an infinite reflection of his own
shortcomings.
All the same, the choice was flattering; so flattering that it
actually shocked his vanity; and would have shocked it more, if
possible, had he known that it was to be the only flattery of the sort
he was ever to receive. The function of Class Day was, in the eyes of
nine-tenths of the students, altogether the most important of the
college, and the figure of the Orator was the most conspicuous in the
function. Unlike the Orators at regular Commencements, the Class Day
Orator stood alone, or had only the Poet for rival. Crowded into the
large church, the students, their families, friends, aunts, uncles and
chaperones, attended all the girls of sixteen or twenty who wanted to
show their summer dresses or fresh complexions, and there, for an hour
or two, in a heat that might have melted bronze, they listened to an
Orator and a Poet in clergyman's gowns, reciting such platitudes as
their own experience and their mild censors permitted them to utter.
What Henry Adams said in his Class Oration of 1858 he soon forgot to
the last word, nor had it the least value for education; but he
naturally remembered what was said of it. He remembered especially one
of his eminent uncles or relations remarking that, as the work of so
young a man, the oration was singularly wanting in enthusiasm. The
young man--always in search of education--asked himself whether,
setting rhetoric aside, this absence of enthusiasm was a defect or a
merit, since, in either case, it was all that Harvard College taught,
and all that the hundred young men, whom he was trying to represent,
expressed. Another comment threw more light on the effect of the
college education. One of the elderly gentlemen noticed the orator's
"perfect self-possession." Self-possession indeed! If Harvard College
gave nothing else, it gave calm. For four years each student had been
obliged to figure daily before dozens of young men who knew each other
to the last fibre. One had done little but read papers to Societies, or
act comedy in the Hasty Pudding, not to speak of regular exercises, and
no audience in future life would ever be so intimately and terribly
intelligent as these. Three-fourths of the graduates would rather have
addressed the Council of Trent or the British Parliament than have
acted Sir Anthony Absolute or Dr. Ollapod before a gala audience of the
Hasty Pudding. Self-possession was the strongest part of Harvard
College, which certainly taught men to stand alone, so that nothing
seemed stranger to its graduates than the paroxysms of terror before
the public which often overcame the graduates of European universities.
Whether this was, or was not, education, Henry Adams never knew. He was
ready to stand up before any audience in America or Europe, with nerves
rather steadier for the excitement, but whether he should ever have
anything to say, remained to be proved. As yet he knew nothing.
Education had not begun. | Henry completes the preparatory course of study at the private Latin School of E. S. Dixwell, Boston, in June of 1854 and begins collegiate studies at Harvard on August 31. The narrator has very little good to say of either experience. Henry becomes acquainted with several Virginians at Harvard, including the son of Robert E. Lee, and claims to like them; but his descriptions of the students reveal a deep prejudice against all Southerners. Henry condemns the course of study at Harvard but blames himself, as well, for his failure to advance in intellect or maturity. Despite efforts at self-effacement, he does seem pleased to be elected Class Orator in a close contest against the class's top scholar who is, Adams insists, the more popular fellow. Again, Adams tells his readers that education has not yet commenced. |
Chapter II. He Gets Rid Of His Eldest Son
You can easily imagine what a father such a man could be and how he would
bring up his children. His behavior as a father was exactly what might be
expected. He completely abandoned the child of his marriage with Adelaida
Ivanovna, not from malice, nor because of his matrimonial grievances, but
simply because he forgot him. While he was wearying every one with his
tears and complaints, and turning his house into a sink of debauchery, a
faithful servant of the family, Grigory, took the three-year-old Mitya
into his care. If he hadn't looked after him there would have been no one
even to change the baby's little shirt.
It happened moreover that the child's relations on his mother's side
forgot him too at first. His grandfather was no longer living, his widow,
Mitya's grandmother, had moved to Moscow, and was seriously ill, while his
daughters were married, so that Mitya remained for almost a whole year in
old Grigory's charge and lived with him in the servant's cottage. But if
his father had remembered him (he could not, indeed, have been altogether
unaware of his existence) he would have sent him back to the cottage, as
the child would only have been in the way of his debaucheries. But a
cousin of Mitya's mother, Pyotr Alexandrovitch Miuesov, happened to return
from Paris. He lived for many years afterwards abroad, but was at that
time quite a young man, and distinguished among the Miuesovs as a man of
enlightened ideas and of European culture, who had been in the capitals
and abroad. Towards the end of his life he became a Liberal of the type
common in the forties and fifties. In the course of his career he had come
into contact with many of the most Liberal men of his epoch, both in
Russia and abroad. He had known Proudhon and Bakunin personally, and in
his declining years was very fond of describing the three days of the
Paris Revolution of February 1848, hinting that he himself had almost
taken part in the fighting on the barricades. This was one of the most
grateful recollections of his youth. He had an independent property of
about a thousand souls, to reckon in the old style. His splendid estate
lay on the outskirts of our little town and bordered on the lands of our
famous monastery, with which Pyotr Alexandrovitch began an endless
lawsuit, almost as soon as he came into the estate, concerning the rights
of fishing in the river or wood-cutting in the forest, I don't know
exactly which. He regarded it as his duty as a citizen and a man of
culture to open an attack upon the "clericals." Hearing all about Adelaida
Ivanovna, whom he, of course, remembered, and in whom he had at one time
been interested, and learning of the existence of Mitya, he intervened, in
spite of all his youthful indignation and contempt for Fyodor Pavlovitch.
He made the latter's acquaintance for the first time, and told him
directly that he wished to undertake the child's education. He used long
afterwards to tell as a characteristic touch, that when he began to speak
of Mitya, Fyodor Pavlovitch looked for some time as though he did not
understand what child he was talking about, and even as though he was
surprised to hear that he had a little son in the house. The story may
have been exaggerated, yet it must have been something like the truth.
Fyodor Pavlovitch was all his life fond of acting, of suddenly playing an
unexpected part, sometimes without any motive for doing so, and even to
his own direct disadvantage, as, for instance, in the present case. This
habit, however, is characteristic of a very great number of people, some
of them very clever ones, not like Fyodor Pavlovitch. Pyotr Alexandrovitch
carried the business through vigorously, and was appointed, with Fyodor
Pavlovitch, joint guardian of the child, who had a small property, a house
and land, left him by his mother. Mitya did, in fact, pass into this
cousin's keeping, but as the latter had no family of his own, and after
securing the revenues of his estates was in haste to return at once to
Paris, he left the boy in charge of one of his cousins, a lady living in
Moscow. It came to pass that, settling permanently in Paris he, too,
forgot the child, especially when the Revolution of February broke out,
making an impression on his mind that he remembered all the rest of his
life. The Moscow lady died, and Mitya passed into the care of one of her
married daughters. I believe he changed his home a fourth time later on. I
won't enlarge upon that now, as I shall have much to tell later of Fyodor
Pavlovitch's firstborn, and must confine myself now to the most essential
facts about him, without which I could not begin my story.
In the first place, this Mitya, or rather Dmitri Fyodorovitch, was the
only one of Fyodor Pavlovitch's three sons who grew up in the belief that
he had property, and that he would be independent on coming of age. He
spent an irregular boyhood and youth. He did not finish his studies at the
gymnasium, he got into a military school, then went to the Caucasus, was
promoted, fought a duel, and was degraded to the ranks, earned promotion
again, led a wild life, and spent a good deal of money. He did not begin
to receive any income from Fyodor Pavlovitch until he came of age, and
until then got into debt. He saw and knew his father, Fyodor Pavlovitch,
for the first time on coming of age, when he visited our neighborhood on
purpose to settle with him about his property. He seems not to have liked
his father. He did not stay long with him, and made haste to get away,
having only succeeded in obtaining a sum of money, and entering into an
agreement for future payments from the estate, of the revenues and value
of which he was unable (a fact worthy of note), upon this occasion, to get
a statement from his father. Fyodor Pavlovitch remarked for the first time
then (this, too, should be noted) that Mitya had a vague and exaggerated
idea of his property. Fyodor Pavlovitch was very well satisfied with this,
as it fell in with his own designs. He gathered only that the young man
was frivolous, unruly, of violent passions, impatient, and dissipated, and
that if he could only obtain ready money he would be satisfied, although
only, of course, for a short time. So Fyodor Pavlovitch began to take
advantage of this fact, sending him from time to time small doles,
installments. In the end, when four years later, Mitya, losing patience,
came a second time to our little town to settle up once for all with his
father, it turned out to his amazement that he had nothing, that it was
difficult to get an account even, that he had received the whole value of
his property in sums of money from Fyodor Pavlovitch, and was perhaps even
in debt to him, that by various agreements into which he had, of his own
desire, entered at various previous dates, he had no right to expect
anything more, and so on, and so on. The young man was overwhelmed,
suspected deceit and cheating, and was almost beside himself. And, indeed,
this circumstance led to the catastrophe, the account of which forms the
subject of my first introductory story, or rather the external side of it.
But before I pass to that story I must say a little of Fyodor Pavlovitch's
other two sons, and of their origin. | After his mother's death, Dmitri was ignored by his father and sent to live with Grigory, the trusty family servant. His mother's cousin, Pyotr Alexandrovic Miusov, happened to return from Paris a year later and rescued Dmitri. But then Pyotr abandoned Dmitri to go to Paris, pawning him off onto his mother's cousin, who then died and passed Dmitri on to one of her daughters. Dmitri grew up, led an unruly life, went into the military, and spent way more money than he had. He came back to Fyodor's to see what he could get of his inheritance left to him by his mother. Fyodor started off by giving Dmitri some money from time to time over the course of four years. By the end of this time, Dmitri was impatient for the rest of his inheritance, but Fyodor informed him there was no money left. Dmitri wasn't satisfied with this explanation and suspected a scam. |
XI. A Companion Picture
"Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, on that self-same night, or morning, to his
jackal; "mix another bowl of punch; I have something to say to you."
Sydney had been working double tides that night, and the night before,
and the night before that, and a good many nights in succession, making
a grand clearance among Mr. Stryver's papers before the setting in
of the long vacation. The clearance was effected at last; the Stryver
arrears were handsomely fetched up; everything was got rid of until
November should come with its fogs atmospheric, and fogs legal, and
bring grist to the mill again.
Sydney was none the livelier and none the soberer for so much
application. It had taken a deal of extra wet-towelling to pull him
through the night; a correspondingly extra quantity of wine had preceded
the towelling; and he was in a very damaged condition, as he now pulled
his turban off and threw it into the basin in which he had steeped it at
intervals for the last six hours.
"Are you mixing that other bowl of punch?" said Stryver the portly, with
his hands in his waistband, glancing round from the sofa where he lay on
his back.
"I am."
"Now, look here! I am going to tell you something that will rather
surprise you, and that perhaps will make you think me not quite as
shrewd as you usually do think me. I intend to marry."
"_Do_ you?"
"Yes. And not for money. What do you say now?"
"I don't feel disposed to say much. Who is she?"
"Guess."
"Do I know her?"
"Guess."
"I am not going to guess, at five o'clock in the morning, with my brains
frying and sputtering in my head. If you want me to guess, you must ask
me to dinner."
"Well then, I'll tell you," said Stryver, coming slowly into a sitting
posture. "Sydney, I rather despair of making myself intelligible to you,
because you are such an insensible dog."
"And you," returned Sydney, busy concocting the punch, "are such a
sensitive and poetical spirit--"
"Come!" rejoined Stryver, laughing boastfully, "though I don't prefer
any claim to being the soul of Romance (for I hope I know better), still
I am a tenderer sort of fellow than _you_."
"You are a luckier, if you mean that."
"I don't mean that. I mean I am a man of more--more--"
"Say gallantry, while you are about it," suggested Carton.
"Well! I'll say gallantry. My meaning is that I am a man," said Stryver,
inflating himself at his friend as he made the punch, "who cares more to
be agreeable, who takes more pains to be agreeable, who knows better how
to be agreeable, in a woman's society, than you do."
"Go on," said Sydney Carton.
"No; but before I go on," said Stryver, shaking his head in his bullying
way, "I'll have this out with you. You've been at Doctor Manette's house
as much as I have, or more than I have. Why, I have been ashamed of your
moroseness there! Your manners have been of that silent and sullen and
hangdog kind, that, upon my life and soul, I have been ashamed of you,
Sydney!"
"It should be very beneficial to a man in your practice at the bar, to
be ashamed of anything," returned Sydney; "you ought to be much obliged
to me."
"You shall not get off in that way," rejoined Stryver, shouldering the
rejoinder at him; "no, Sydney, it's my duty to tell you--and I tell you
to your face to do you good--that you are a devilish ill-conditioned
fellow in that sort of society. You are a disagreeable fellow."
Sydney drank a bumper of the punch he had made, and laughed.
"Look at me!" said Stryver, squaring himself; "I have less need to make
myself agreeable than you have, being more independent in circumstances.
Why do I do it?"
"I never saw you do it yet," muttered Carton.
"I do it because it's politic; I do it on principle. And look at me! I
get on."
"You don't get on with your account of your matrimonial intentions,"
answered Carton, with a careless air; "I wish you would keep to that. As
to me--will you never understand that I am incorrigible?"
He asked the question with some appearance of scorn.
"You have no business to be incorrigible," was his friend's answer,
delivered in no very soothing tone.
"I have no business to be, at all, that I know of," said Sydney Carton.
"Who is the lady?"
"Now, don't let my announcement of the name make you uncomfortable,
Sydney," said Mr. Stryver, preparing him with ostentatious friendliness
for the disclosure he was about to make, "because I know you don't mean
half you say; and if you meant it all, it would be of no importance. I
make this little preface, because you once mentioned the young lady to
me in slighting terms."
"I did?"
"Certainly; and in these chambers."
Sydney Carton looked at his punch and looked at his complacent friend;
drank his punch and looked at his complacent friend.
"You made mention of the young lady as a golden-haired doll. The young
lady is Miss Manette. If you had been a fellow of any sensitiveness or
delicacy of feeling in that kind of way, Sydney, I might have been a
little resentful of your employing such a designation; but you are not.
You want that sense altogether; therefore I am no more annoyed when I
think of the expression, than I should be annoyed by a man's opinion of
a picture of mine, who had no eye for pictures: or of a piece of music
of mine, who had no ear for music."
Sydney Carton drank the punch at a great rate; drank it by bumpers,
looking at his friend.
"Now you know all about it, Syd," said Mr. Stryver. "I don't care about
fortune: she is a charming creature, and I have made up my mind to
please myself: on the whole, I think I can afford to please myself. She
will have in me a man already pretty well off, and a rapidly rising man,
and a man of some distinction: it is a piece of good fortune for her,
but she is worthy of good fortune. Are you astonished?"
Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, "Why should I be
astonished?"
"You approve?"
Carton, still drinking the punch, rejoined, "Why should I not approve?"
"Well!" said his friend Stryver, "you take it more easily than I fancied
you would, and are less mercenary on my behalf than I thought you would
be; though, to be sure, you know well enough by this time that your
ancient chum is a man of a pretty strong will. Yes, Sydney, I have had
enough of this style of life, with no other as a change from it; I
feel that it is a pleasant thing for a man to have a home when he feels
inclined to go to it (when he doesn't, he can stay away), and I feel
that Miss Manette will tell well in any station, and will always do me
credit. So I have made up my mind. And now, Sydney, old boy, I want to
say a word to _you_ about _your_ prospects. You are in a bad way, you
know; you really are in a bad way. You don't know the value of money,
you live hard, you'll knock up one of these days, and be ill and poor;
you really ought to think about a nurse."
The prosperous patronage with which he said it, made him look twice as
big as he was, and four times as offensive.
"Now, let me recommend you," pursued Stryver, "to look it in the face.
I have looked it in the face, in my different way; look it in the face,
you, in your different way. Marry. Provide somebody to take care of
you. Never mind your having no enjoyment of women's society, nor
understanding of it, nor tact for it. Find out somebody. Find out some
respectable woman with a little property--somebody in the landlady way,
or lodging-letting way--and marry her, against a rainy day. That's the
kind of thing for _you_. Now think of it, Sydney."
"I'll think of it," said Sydney. | A Companion Picture Late that same night, Carton and Stryver work in Stryver's chambers. In his puffed-up and arrogant manner, Stryver announces that he intends to marry Lucie. Carton drinks heavily at the news, assuring Stryver that his words have not upset him. Stryver suggests that Carton himself find "some respectable woman with a little property," and marry her, lest he end up ill and penniless |
Chapter V. The Third Ordeal
Though Mitya spoke sullenly, it was evident that he was trying more than
ever not to forget or miss a single detail of his story. He told them how
he had leapt over the fence into his father's garden; how he had gone up
to the window; told them all that had passed under the window. Clearly,
precisely, distinctly, he described the feelings that troubled him during
those moments in the garden when he longed so terribly to know whether
Grushenka was with his father or not. But, strange to say, both the
lawyers listened now with a sort of awful reserve, looked coldly at him,
asked few questions. Mitya could gather nothing from their faces.
"They're angry and offended," he thought. "Well, bother them!"
When he described how he made up his mind at last to make the "signal" to
his father that Grushenka had come, so that he should open the window, the
lawyers paid no attention to the word "signal," as though they entirely
failed to grasp the meaning of the word in this connection: so much so,
that Mitya noticed it. Coming at last to the moment when, seeing his
father peering out of the window, his hatred flared up and he pulled the
pestle out of his pocket, he suddenly, as though of design, stopped short.
He sat gazing at the wall and was aware that their eyes were fixed upon
him.
"Well?" said the investigating lawyer. "You pulled out the weapon and ...
and what happened then?"
"Then? Why, then I murdered him ... hit him on the head and cracked his
skull.... I suppose that's your story. That's it!"
His eyes suddenly flashed. All his smothered wrath suddenly flamed up with
extraordinary violence in his soul.
"Our story?" repeated Nikolay Parfenovitch. "Well--and yours?"
Mitya dropped his eyes and was a long time silent.
"My story, gentlemen? Well, it was like this," he began softly. "Whether
it was some one's tears, or my mother prayed to God, or a good angel
kissed me at that instant, I don't know. But the devil was conquered. I
rushed from the window and ran to the fence. My father was alarmed and,
for the first time, he saw me then, cried out, and sprang back from the
window. I remember that very well. I ran across the garden to the fence
... and there Grigory caught me, when I was sitting on the fence."
At that point he raised his eyes at last and looked at his listeners. They
seemed to be staring at him with perfectly unruffled attention. A sort of
paroxysm of indignation seized on Mitya's soul.
"Why, you're laughing at me at this moment, gentlemen!" he broke off
suddenly.
"What makes you think that?" observed Nikolay Parfenovitch.
"You don't believe one word--that's why! I understand, of course, that I
have come to the vital point. The old man's lying there now with his skull
broken, while I--after dramatically describing how I wanted to kill him,
and how I snatched up the pestle--I suddenly run away from the window. A
romance! Poetry! As though one could believe a fellow on his word. Ha ha!
You are scoffers, gentlemen!"
And he swung round on his chair so that it creaked.
"And did you notice," asked the prosecutor suddenly, as though not
observing Mitya's excitement, "did you notice when you ran away from the
window, whether the door into the garden was open?"
"No, it was not open."
"It was not?"
"It was shut. And who could open it? Bah! the door. Wait a bit!" he seemed
suddenly to bethink himself, and almost with a start:
"Why, did you find the door open?"
"Yes, it was open."
"Why, who could have opened it if you did not open it yourselves?" cried
Mitya, greatly astonished.
"The door stood open, and your father's murderer undoubtedly went in at
that door, and, having accomplished the crime, went out again by the same
door," the prosecutor pronounced deliberately, as though chiseling out
each word separately. "That is perfectly clear. The murder was committed
in the room and _not through the __ window_; that is absolutely certain
from the examination that has been made, from the position of the body and
everything. There can be no doubt of that circumstance."
Mitya was absolutely dumbfounded.
"But that's utterly impossible!" he cried, completely at a loss. "I ... I
didn't go in.... I tell you positively, definitely, the door was shut the
whole time I was in the garden, and when I ran out of the garden. I only
stood at the window and saw him through the window. That's all, that's
all.... I remember to the last minute. And if I didn't remember, it would
be just the same. I know it, for no one knew the signals except
Smerdyakov, and me, and the dead man. And he wouldn't have opened the door
to any one in the world without the signals."
"Signals? What signals?" asked the prosecutor, with greedy, almost
hysterical, curiosity. He instantly lost all trace of his reserve and
dignity. He asked the question with a sort of cringing timidity. He
scented an important fact of which he had known nothing, and was already
filled with dread that Mitya might be unwilling to disclose it.
"So you didn't know!" Mitya winked at him with a malicious and mocking
smile. "What if I won't tell you? From whom could you find out? No one
knew about the signals except my father, Smerdyakov, and me: that was all.
Heaven knew, too, but it won't tell you. But it's an interesting fact.
There's no knowing what you might build on it. Ha ha! Take comfort,
gentlemen, I'll reveal it. You've some foolish idea in your hearts. You
don't know the man you have to deal with! You have to do with a prisoner
who gives evidence against himself, to his own damage! Yes, for I'm a man
of honor and you--are not."
The prosecutor swallowed this without a murmur. He was trembling with
impatience to hear the new fact. Minutely and diffusely Mitya told them
everything about the signals invented by Fyodor Pavlovitch for Smerdyakov.
He told them exactly what every tap on the window meant, tapped the
signals on the table, and when Nikolay Parfenovitch said that he supposed
he, Mitya, had tapped the signal "Grushenka has come," when he tapped to
his father, he answered precisely that he had tapped that signal, that
"Grushenka had come."
"So now you can build up your tower," Mitya broke off, and again turned
away from them contemptuously.
"So no one knew of the signals but your dead father, you, and the valet
Smerdyakov? And no one else?" Nikolay Parfenovitch inquired once more.
"Yes. The valet Smerdyakov, and Heaven. Write down about Heaven. That may
be of use. Besides, you will need God yourselves."
And they had already, of course, begun writing it down. But while they
wrote, the prosecutor said suddenly, as though pitching on a new idea:
"But if Smerdyakov also knew of these signals and you absolutely deny all
responsibility for the death of your father, was it not he, perhaps, who
knocked the signal agreed upon, induced your father to open to him, and
then ... committed the crime?"
Mitya turned upon him a look of profound irony and intense hatred. His
silent stare lasted so long that it made the prosecutor blink.
"You've caught the fox again," commented Mitya at last; "you've got the
beast by the tail. Ha ha! I see through you, Mr. Prosecutor. You thought,
of course, that I should jump at that, catch at your prompting, and shout
with all my might, 'Aie! it's Smerdyakov; he's the murderer.' Confess
that's what you thought. Confess, and I'll go on."
But the prosecutor did not confess. He held his tongue and waited.
"You're mistaken. I'm not going to shout 'It's Smerdyakov,' " said Mitya.
"And you don't even suspect him?"
"Why, do you suspect him?"
"He is suspected, too."
Mitya fixed his eyes on the floor.
"Joking apart," he brought out gloomily. "Listen. From the very beginning,
almost from the moment when I ran out to you from behind the curtain, I've
had the thought of Smerdyakov in my mind. I've been sitting here, shouting
that I'm innocent and thinking all the time 'Smerdyakov!' I can't get
Smerdyakov out of my head. In fact, I, too, thought of Smerdyakov just
now; but only for a second. Almost at once I thought, 'No, it's not
Smerdyakov.' It's not his doing, gentlemen."
"In that case is there anybody else you suspect?" Nikolay Parfenovitch
inquired cautiously.
"I don't know any one it could be, whether it's the hand of Heaven or
Satan, but ... not Smerdyakov," Mitya jerked out with decision.
"But what makes you affirm so confidently and emphatically that it's not
he?"
"From my conviction--my impression. Because Smerdyakov is a man of the most
abject character and a coward. He's not a coward, he's the epitome of all
the cowardice in the world walking on two legs. He has the heart of a
chicken. When he talked to me, he was always trembling for fear I should
kill him, though I never raised my hand against him. He fell at my feet
and blubbered; he has kissed these very boots, literally, beseeching me
'not to frighten him.' Do you hear? 'Not to frighten him.' What a thing to
say! Why, I offered him money. He's a puling chicken--sickly, epileptic,
weak-minded--a child of eight could thrash him. He has no character worth
talking about. It's not Smerdyakov, gentlemen. He doesn't care for money;
he wouldn't take my presents. Besides, what motive had he for murdering
the old man? Why, he's very likely his son, you know--his natural son. Do
you know that?"
"We have heard that legend. But you are your father's son, too, you know;
yet you yourself told every one you meant to murder him."
"That's a thrust! And a nasty, mean one, too! I'm not afraid! Oh,
gentlemen, isn't it too base of you to say that to my face? It's base,
because I told you that myself. I not only wanted to murder him, but I
might have done it. And, what's more, I went out of my way to tell you of
my own accord that I nearly murdered him. But, you see, I didn't murder
him; you see, my guardian angel saved me--that's what you've not taken into
account. And that's why it's so base of you. For I didn't kill him, I
didn't kill him! Do you hear, I did not kill him."
He was almost choking. He had not been so moved before during the whole
interrogation.
"And what has he told you, gentlemen--Smerdyakov, I mean?" he added
suddenly, after a pause. "May I ask that question?"
"You may ask any question," the prosecutor replied with frigid severity,
"any question relating to the facts of the case, and we are, I repeat,
bound to answer every inquiry you make. We found the servant Smerdyakov,
concerning whom you inquire, lying unconscious in his bed, in an epileptic
fit of extreme severity, that had recurred, possibly, ten times. The
doctor who was with us told us, after seeing him, that he may possibly not
outlive the night."
"Well, if that's so, the devil must have killed him," broke suddenly from
Mitya, as though until that moment he had been asking himself: "Was it
Smerdyakov or not?"
"We will come back to this later," Nikolay Parfenovitch decided. "Now,
wouldn't you like to continue your statement?"
Mitya asked for a rest. His request was courteously granted. After
resting, he went on with his story. But he was evidently depressed. He was
exhausted, mortified and morally shaken. To make things worse the
prosecutor exasperated him, as though intentionally, by vexatious
interruptions about "trifling points." Scarcely had Mitya described how,
sitting on the wall, he had struck Grigory on the head with the pestle,
while the old man had hold of his left leg, and how he had then jumped
down to look at him, when the prosecutor stopped him to ask him to
describe exactly how he was sitting on the wall. Mitya was surprised.
"Oh, I was sitting like this, astride, one leg on one side of the wall and
one on the other."
"And the pestle?"
"The pestle was in my hand."
"Not in your pocket? Do you remember that precisely? Was it a violent blow
you gave him?"
"It must have been a violent one. But why do you ask?"
"Would you mind sitting on the chair just as you sat on the wall then and
showing us just how you moved your arm, and in what direction?"
"You're making fun of me, aren't you?" asked Mitya, looking haughtily at
the speaker; but the latter did not flinch.
Mitya turned abruptly, sat astride on his chair, and swung his arm.
"This was how I struck him! That's how I knocked him down! What more do
you want?"
"Thank you. May I trouble you now to explain why you jumped down, with
what object, and what you had in view?"
"Oh, hang it!... I jumped down to look at the man I'd hurt ... I don't
know what for!"
"Though you were so excited and were running away?"
"Yes, though I was excited and running away."
"You wanted to help him?"
"Help!... Yes, perhaps I did want to help him.... I don't remember."
"You don't remember? Then you didn't quite know what you were doing?"
"Not at all. I remember everything--every detail. I jumped down to look at
him, and wiped his face with my handkerchief."
"We have seen your handkerchief. Did you hope to restore him to
consciousness?"
"I don't know whether I hoped it. I simply wanted to make sure whether he
was alive or not."
"Ah! You wanted to be sure? Well, what then?"
"I'm not a doctor. I couldn't decide. I ran away thinking I'd killed him.
And now he's recovered."
"Excellent," commented the prosecutor. "Thank you. That's all I wanted.
Kindly proceed."
Alas! it never entered Mitya's head to tell them, though he remembered it,
that he had jumped back from pity, and standing over the prostrate figure
had even uttered some words of regret: "You've come to grief, old
man--there's no help for it. Well, there you must lie."
The prosecutor could only draw one conclusion: that the man had jumped
back "at such a moment and in such excitement simply with the object of
ascertaining whether the _only_ witness of his crime were dead; that he
must therefore have been a man of great strength, coolness, decision and
foresight even at such a moment," ... and so on. The prosecutor was
satisfied: "I've provoked the nervous fellow by 'trifles' and he has said
more than he meant to."
With painful effort Mitya went on. But this time he was pulled up
immediately by Nikolay Parfenovitch.
"How came you to run to the servant, Fedosya Markovna, with your hands so
covered with blood, and, as it appears, your face, too?"
"Why, I didn't notice the blood at all at the time," answered Mitya.
"That's quite likely. It does happen sometimes." The prosecutor exchanged
glances with Nikolay Parfenovitch.
"I simply didn't notice. You're quite right there, prosecutor," Mitya
assented suddenly.
Next came the account of Mitya's sudden determination to "step aside" and
make way for their happiness. But he could not make up his mind to open
his heart to them as before, and tell them about "the queen of his soul."
He disliked speaking of her before these chilly persons "who were
fastening on him like bugs." And so in response to their reiterated
questions he answered briefly and abruptly:
"Well, I made up my mind to kill myself. What had I left to live for? That
question stared me in the face. Her first rightful lover had come back,
the man who wronged her but who'd hurried back to offer his love, after
five years, and atone for the wrong with marriage.... So I knew it was all
over for me.... And behind me disgrace, and that blood--Grigory's.... What
had I to live for? So I went to redeem the pistols I had pledged, to load
them and put a bullet in my brain to-morrow."
"And a grand feast the night before?"
"Yes, a grand feast the night before. Damn it all, gentlemen! Do make
haste and finish it. I meant to shoot myself not far from here, beyond the
village, and I'd planned to do it at five o'clock in the morning. And I
had a note in my pocket already. I wrote it at Perhotin's when I loaded my
pistols. Here's the letter. Read it! It's not for you I tell it," he added
contemptuously. He took it from his waistcoat pocket and flung it on the
table. The lawyers read it with curiosity, and, as is usual, added it to
the papers connected with the case.
"And you didn't even think of washing your hands at Perhotin's? You were
not afraid then of arousing suspicion?"
"What suspicion? Suspicion or not, I should have galloped here just the
same, and shot myself at five o'clock, and you wouldn't have been in time
to do anything. If it hadn't been for what's happened to my father, you
would have known nothing about it, and wouldn't have come here. Oh, it's
the devil's doing. It was the devil murdered father, it was through the
devil that you found it out so soon. How did you manage to get here so
quick? It's marvelous, a dream!"
"Mr. Perhotin informed us that when you came to him, you held in your
hands ... your blood-stained hands ... your money ... a lot of money ... a
bundle of hundred-rouble notes, and that his servant-boy saw it too."
"That's true, gentlemen. I remember it was so."
"Now, there's one little point presents itself. Can you inform us,"
Nikolay Parfenovitch began, with extreme gentleness, "where did you get so
much money all of a sudden, when it appears from the facts, from the
reckoning of time, that you had not been home?"
The prosecutor's brows contracted at the question being asked so plainly,
but he did not interrupt Nikolay Parfenovitch.
"No, I didn't go home," answered Mitya, apparently perfectly composed, but
looking at the floor.
"Allow me then to repeat my question," Nikolay Parfenovitch went on as
though creeping up to the subject. "Where were you able to procure such a
sum all at once, when by your own confession, at five o'clock the same day
you--"
"I was in want of ten roubles and pledged my pistols with Perhotin, and
then went to Madame Hohlakov to borrow three thousand which she wouldn't
give me, and so on, and all the rest of it," Mitya interrupted sharply.
"Yes, gentlemen, I was in want of it, and suddenly thousands turned up,
eh? Do you know, gentlemen, you're both afraid now 'what if he won't tell
us where he got it?' That's just how it is. I'm not going to tell you,
gentlemen. You've guessed right. You'll never know," said Mitya, chipping
out each word with extraordinary determination. The lawyers were silent
for a moment.
"You must understand, Mr. Karamazov, that it is of vital importance for us
to know," said Nikolay Parfenovitch, softly and suavely.
"I understand; but still I won't tell you."
The prosecutor, too, intervened, and again reminded the prisoner that he
was at liberty to refuse to answer questions, if he thought it to his
interest, and so on. But in view of the damage he might do himself by his
silence, especially in a case of such importance as--
"And so on, gentlemen, and so on. Enough! I've heard that rigmarole
before," Mitya interrupted again. "I can see for myself how important it
is, and that this is the vital point, and still I won't say."
"What is it to us? It's not our business, but yours. You are doing
yourself harm," observed Nikolay Parfenovitch nervously.
"You see, gentlemen, joking apart"--Mitya lifted his eyes and looked firmly
at them both--"I had an inkling from the first that we should come to
loggerheads at this point. But at first when I began to give my evidence,
it was all still far away and misty; it was all floating, and I was so
simple that I began with the supposition of mutual confidence existing
between us. Now I can see for myself that such confidence is out of the
question, for in any case we were bound to come to this cursed stumbling-
block. And now we've come to it! It's impossible and there's an end of it!
But I don't blame you. You can't believe it all simply on my word. I
understand that, of course."
He relapsed into gloomy silence.
"Couldn't you, without abandoning your resolution to be silent about the
chief point, could you not, at the same time, give us some slight hint as
to the nature of the motives which are strong enough to induce you to
refuse to answer, at a crisis so full of danger to you?"
Mitya smiled mournfully, almost dreamily.
"I'm much more good-natured than you think, gentlemen. I'll tell you the
reason why and give you that hint, though you don't deserve it. I won't
speak of that, gentlemen, because it would be a stain on my honor. The
answer to the question where I got the money would expose me to far
greater disgrace than the murder and robbing of my father, if I had
murdered and robbed him. That's why I can't tell you. I can't for fear of
disgrace. What, gentlemen, are you going to write that down?"
"Yes, we'll write it down," lisped Nikolay Parfenovitch.
"You ought not to write that down about 'disgrace.' I only told you that
in the goodness of my heart. I needn't have told you. I made you a present
of it, so to speak, and you pounce upon it at once. Oh, well, write--write
what you like," he concluded, with scornful disgust. "I'm not afraid of
you and I can still hold up my head before you."
"And can't you tell us the nature of that disgrace?" Nikolay Parfenovitch
hazarded.
The prosecutor frowned darkly.
"No, no, _c'est fini_, don't trouble yourselves. It's not worth while
soiling one's hands. I have soiled myself enough through you as it is.
You're not worth it--no one is ... Enough, gentlemen. I'm not going on."
This was said too peremptorily. Nikolay Parfenovitch did not insist
further, but from Ippolit Kirillovitch's eyes he saw that he had not given
up hope.
"Can you not, at least, tell us what sum you had in your hands when you
went into Mr. Perhotin's--how many roubles exactly?"
"I can't tell you that."
"You spoke to Mr. Perhotin, I believe, of having received three thousand
from Madame Hohlakov."
"Perhaps I did. Enough, gentlemen. I won't say how much I had."
"Will you be so good then as to tell us how you came here and what you
have done since you arrived?"
"Oh! you might ask the people here about that. But I'll tell you if you
like."
He proceeded to do so, but we won't repeat his story. He told it dryly and
curtly. Of the raptures of his love he said nothing, but told them that he
abandoned his determination to shoot himself, owing to "new factors in the
case." He told the story without going into motives or details. And this
time the lawyers did not worry him much. It was obvious that there was no
essential point of interest to them here.
"We shall verify all that. We will come back to it during the examination
of the witnesses, which will, of course, take place in your presence,"
said Nikolay Parfenovitch in conclusion. "And now allow me to request you
to lay on the table everything in your possession, especially all the
money you still have about you."
"My money, gentlemen? Certainly. I understand that that is necessary. I'm
surprised, indeed, that you haven't inquired about it before. It's true I
couldn't get away anywhere. I'm sitting here where I can be seen. But
here's my money--count it--take it. That's all, I think."
He turned it all out of his pockets; even the small change--two pieces of
twenty copecks--he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket. They counted the
money, which amounted to eight hundred and thirty-six roubles, and forty
copecks.
"And is that all?" asked the investigating lawyer.
"Yes."
"You stated just now in your evidence that you spent three hundred roubles
at Plotnikovs'. You gave Perhotin ten, your driver twenty, here you lost
two hundred, then...."
Nikolay Parfenovitch reckoned it all up. Mitya helped him readily. They
recollected every farthing and included it in the reckoning. Nikolay
Parfenovitch hurriedly added up the total.
"With this eight hundred you must have had about fifteen hundred at
first?"
"I suppose so," snapped Mitya.
"How is it they all assert there was much more?"
"Let them assert it."
"But you asserted it yourself."
"Yes, I did, too."
"We will compare all this with the evidence of other persons not yet
examined. Don't be anxious about your money. It will be properly taken
care of and be at your disposal at the conclusion of ... what is beginning
... if it appears, or, so to speak, is proved that you have undisputed
right to it. Well, and now...."
Nikolay Parfenovitch suddenly got up, and informed Mitya firmly that it
was his duty and obligation to conduct a minute and thorough search "of
your clothes and everything else...."
"By all means, gentlemen. I'll turn out all my pockets, if you like."
And he did, in fact, begin turning out his pockets.
"It will be necessary to take off your clothes, too."
"What! Undress? Ugh! Damn it! Won't you search me as I am! Can't you?"
"It's utterly impossible, Dmitri Fyodorovitch. You must take off your
clothes."
"As you like," Mitya submitted gloomily; "only, please, not here, but
behind the curtains. Who will search them?"
"Behind the curtains, of course."
Nikolay Parfenovitch bent his head in assent. His small face wore an
expression of peculiar solemnity. | Parfenovich and Kirillovich then ask Dmitri about his visit to his father's. Dmitri insists that the gate to the garden was closed, while Parfenovich and Kirillovich insist that it was open. Dmitri then tells his interrogators about the secret signals that only he, Smerdyakov, his father, and Grushenka knew, the signals that would announce Grushenka's arrival to Fyodor. Parfenovich suggests that Smerdyakov may have killed his father, but Dmitri rejects this possibility because he believes Smerdyakov is a weak-willed coward. The interrogators keep pestering Dmitri, even asking him to demonstrate exactly how he sat on the garden wall when Grigory accosted him. Dmitri tells them about getting his pistols back from Perkhotin, his suicide plans, and even gives them the note he had shown to Perkhotin in Book 8, Chapter 5. The interrogators go back to the question of the money. They estimate, given how much money they've found on Dmitri right now and the amount he spent on the festivities, that he had roughly 1,500 roubles on him, not 3,000. Dmitri refuses to tell them how he got the money or why he had claimed previously that he had 3,000 roubles. They then ask Dmitri to strip so they can search his possessions. |
THE thirtieth of July was come, and it was one of those half-dozen warm
days which sometimes occur in the middle of a rainy English summer. No
rain had fallen for the last three or four days, and the weather was
perfect for that time of the year: there was less dust than usual on
the dark-green hedge-rows and on the wild camomile that starred the
roadside, yet the grass was dry enough for the little children to roll
on it, and there was no cloud but a long dash of light, downy ripple,
high, high up in the far-off blue sky. Perfect weather for an outdoor
July merry-making, yet surely not the best time of year to be born in.
Nature seems to make a hot pause just then: all the loveliest flowers
are gone; the sweet time of early growth and vague hopes is past; and
yet the time of harvest and ingathering is not come, and we tremble at
the possible storms that may ruin the precious fruit in the moment
of its ripeness. The woods are all one dark monotonous green; the
waggon-loads of hay no longer creep along the lanes, scattering their
sweet-smelling fragments on the blackberry branches; the pastures are
often a little tanned, yet the corn has not got its last splendour
of red and gold; the lambs and calves have lost all traces of their
innocent frisky prettiness, and have become stupid young sheep and cows.
But it is a time of leisure on the farm--that pause between hay-and
corn-harvest, and so the farmers and labourers in Hayslope and Broxton
thought the captain did well to come of age just then, when they could
give their undivided minds to the flavour of the great cask of ale which
had been brewed the autumn after "the heir" was born, and was to be
tapped on his twenty-first birthday. The air had been merry with the
ringing of church-bells very early this morning, and every one had made
haste to get through the needful work before twelve, when it would be
time to think of getting ready to go to the Chase.
The midday sun was streaming into Hetty's bedchamber, and there was no
blind to temper the heat with which it fell on her head as she looked at
herself in the old specked glass. Still, that was the only glass she had
in which she could see her neck and arms, for the small hanging
glass she had fetched out of the next room--the room that had been
Dinah's--would show her nothing below her little chin; and that
beautiful bit of neck where the roundness of her cheek melted into
another roundness shadowed by dark delicate curls. And to-day she
thought more than usual about her neck and arms; for at the dance this
evening she was not to wear any neckerchief, and she had been busy
yesterday with her spotted pink-and-white frock, that she might make the
sleeves either long or short at will. She was dressed now just as she
was to be in the evening, with a tucker made of "real" lace, which her
aunt had lent her for this unparalleled occasion, but with no ornaments
besides; she had even taken out her small round ear-rings which she wore
every day. But there was something more to be done, apparently, before
she put on her neckerchief and long sleeves, which she was to wear in
the day-time, for now she unlocked the drawer that held her private
treasures. It is more than a month since we saw her unlock that drawer
before, and now it holds new treasures, so much more precious than the
old ones that these are thrust into the corner. Hetty would not care to
put the large coloured glass ear-rings into her ears now; for see! she
has got a beautiful pair of gold and pearls and garnet, lying snugly in
a pretty little box lined with white satin. Oh, the delight of taking
out that little box and looking at the ear-rings! Do not reason about
it, my philosphical reader, and say that Hetty, being very pretty, must
have known that it did not signify whether she had on any ornaments
or not; and that, moreover, to look at ear-rings which she could not
possibly wear out of her bedroom could hardly be a satisfaction, the
essence of vanity being a reference to the impressions produced
on others; you will never understand women's natures if you are so
excessively rational. Try rather to divest yourself of all your rational
prejudices, as much as if you were studying the psychology of a canary
bird, and only watch the movements of this pretty round creature as she
turns her head on one side with an unconscious smile at the ear-rings
nestled in the little box. Ah, you think, it is for the sake of the
person who has given them to her, and her thoughts are gone back now to
the moment when they were put into her hands. No; else why should she
have cared to have ear-rings rather than anything else? And I know that
she had longed for ear-rings from among all the ornaments she could
imagine.
"Little, little ears!" Arthur had said, pretending to pinch them one
evening, as Hetty sat beside him on the grass without her hat. "I wish I
had some pretty ear-rings!" she said in a moment, almost before she knew
what she was saying--the wish lay so close to her lips, it WOULD flutter
past them at the slightest breath. And the next day--it was only last
week--Arthur had ridden over to Rosseter on purpose to buy them. That
little wish so naively uttered seemed to him the prettiest bit of
childishness; he had never heard anything like it before; and he had
wrapped the box up in a great many covers, that he might see Hetty
unwrapping it with growing curiosity, till at last her eyes flashed back
their new delight into his.
No, she was not thinking most of the giver when she smiled at the
ear-rings, for now she is taking them out of the box, not to press them
to her lips, but to fasten them in her ears--only for one moment, to
see how pretty they look, as she peeps at them in the glass against
the wall, with first one position of the head and then another, like a
listening bird. It is impossible to be wise on the subject of ear-rings
as one looks at her; what should those delicate pearls and crystals be
made for, if not for such ears? One cannot even find fault with the
tiny round hole which they leave when they are taken out; perhaps
water-nixies, and such lovely things without souls, have these little
round holes in their ears by nature, ready to hang jewels in. And Hetty
must be one of them: it is too painful to think that she is a woman,
with a woman's destiny before her--a woman spinning in young ignorance a
light web of folly and vain hopes which may one day close round her and
press upon her, a rancorous poisoned garment, changing all at once
her fluttering, trivial butterfly sensations into a life of deep human
anguish.
But she cannot keep in the ear-rings long, else she may make her uncle
and aunt wait. She puts them quickly into the box again and shuts them
up. Some day she will be able to wear any ear-rings she likes,
and already she lives in an invisible world of brilliant costumes,
shimmering gauze, soft satin, and velvet, such as the lady's maid at the
Chase has shown her in Miss Lydia's wardrobe. She feels the bracelets on
her arms, and treads on a soft carpet in front of a tall mirror. But
she has one thing in the drawer which she can venture to wear to-day,
because she can hang it on the chain of dark-brown berries which she has
been used to wear on grand days, with a tiny flat scent-bottle at
the end of it tucked inside her frock; and she must put on her brown
berries--her neck would look so unfinished without it. Hetty was
not quite as fond of the locket as of the ear-rings, though it was
a handsome large locket, with enamelled flowers at the back and a
beautiful gold border round the glass, which showed a light-brown
slightly waving lock, forming a background for two little dark rings.
She must keep it under her clothes, and no one would see it. But Hetty
had another passion, only a little less strong than her love of finery,
and that other passion made her like to wear the locket even hidden in
her bosom. She would always have worn it, if she had dared to encounter
her aunt's questions about a ribbon round her neck. So now she slipped
it on along her chain of dark-brown berries, and snapped the chain round
her neck. It was not a very long chain, only allowing the locket to hang
a little way below the edge of her frock. And now she had nothing to do
but to put on her long sleeves, her new white gauze neckerchief, and
her straw hat trimmed with white to-day instead of the pink, which
had become rather faded under the July sun. That hat made the drop of
bitterness in Hetty's cup to-day, for it was not quite new--everybody
would see that it was a little tanned against the white ribbon--and Mary
Burge, she felt sure, would have a new hat or bonnet on. She looked for
consolation at her fine white cotton stockings: they really were very
nice indeed, and she had given almost all her spare money for them.
Hetty's dream of the future could not make her insensible to triumph in
the present. To be sure, Captain Donnithorne loved her so that he would
never care about looking at other people, but then those other people
didn't know how he loved her, and she was not satisfied to appear shabby
and insignificant in their eyes even for a short space.
The whole party was assembled in the house-place when Hetty went down,
all of course in their Sunday clothes; and the bells had been ringing so
this morning in honour of the captain's twenty-first birthday, and the
work had all been got done so early, that Marty and Tommy were not quite
easy in their minds until their mother had assured them that going
to church was not part of the day's festivities. Mr. Poyser had once
suggested that the house should be shut up and left to take care
of itself; "for," said he, "there's no danger of anybody's breaking
in--everybody'll be at the Chase, thieves an' all. If we lock th' house
up, all the men can go: it's a day they wonna see twice i' their lives."
But Mrs. Poyser answered with great decision: "I never left the house to
take care of itself since I was a missis, and I never will. There's been
ill-looking tramps enoo' about the place this last week, to carry off
every ham an' every spoon we'n got; and they all collogue together,
them tramps, as it's a mercy they hanna come and poisoned the dogs and
murdered us all in our beds afore we knowed, some Friday night when
we'n got the money in th' house to pay the men. And it's like enough the
tramps know where we're going as well as we do oursens; for if Old Harry
wants any work done, you may be sure he'll find the means."
"Nonsense about murdering us in our beds," said Mr. Poyser; "I've got a
gun i' our room, hanna I? and thee'st got ears as 'ud find it out if a
mouse was gnawing the bacon. Howiver, if thee wouldstna be easy, Alick
can stay at home i' the forepart o' the day, and Tim can come back
tow'rds five o'clock, and let Alick have his turn. They may let Growler
loose if anybody offers to do mischief, and there's Alick's dog too,
ready enough to set his tooth in a tramp if Alick gives him a wink."
Mrs. Poyser accepted this compromise, but thought it advisable to bar
and bolt to the utmost; and now, at the last moment before starting,
Nancy, the dairy-maid, was closing the shutters of the house-place,
although the window, lying under the immediate observation of Alick and
the dogs, might have been supposed the least likely to be selected for a
burglarious attempt.
The covered cart, without springs, was standing ready to carry the whole
family except the men-servants. Mr. Poyser and the grandfather sat
on the seat in front, and within there was room for all the women and
children; the fuller the cart the better, because then the jolting
would not hurt so much, and Nancy's broad person and thick arms were an
excellent cushion to be pitched on. But Mr. Poyser drove at no more
than a walking pace, that there might be as little risk of jolting as
possible on this warm day, and there was time to exchange greetings and
remarks with the foot-passengers who were going the same way, specking
the paths between the green meadows and the golden cornfields with bits
of movable bright colour--a scarlet waistcoat to match the poppies that
nodded a little too thickly among the corn, or a dark-blue neckerchief
with ends flaunting across a brand-new white smock-frock. All Broxton
and all Hayslope were to be at the Chase, and make merry there in honour
of "th' heir"; and the old men and women, who had never been so far down
this side of the hill for the last twenty years, were being brought from
Broxton and Hayslope in one of the farmer's waggons, at Mr. Irwine's
suggestion. The church-bells had struck up again now--a last tune,
before the ringers came down the hill to have their share in the
festival; and before the bells had finished, other music was heard
approaching, so that even Old Brown, the sober horse that was drawing
Mr. Poyser's cart, began to prick up his ears. It was the band of the
Benefit Club, which had mustered in all its glory--that is to say, in
bright-blue scarfs and blue favours, and carrying its banner with
the motto, "Let brotherly love continue," encircling a picture of a
stone-pit.
The carts, of course, were not to enter the Chase. Every one must get
down at the lodges, and the vehicles must be sent back.
"Why, the Chase is like a fair a'ready," said Mrs. Poyser, as she got
down from the cart, and saw the groups scattered under the great oaks,
and the boys running about in the hot sunshine to survey the tall poles
surmounted by the fluttering garments that were to be the prize of the
successful climbers. "I should ha' thought there wasna so many people
i' the two parishes. Mercy on us! How hot it is out o' the shade! Come
here, Totty, else your little face 'ull be burnt to a scratchin'! They
might ha' cooked the dinners i' that open space an' saved the fires. I
shall go to Mrs. Best's room an' sit down."
"Stop a bit, stop a bit," said Mr. Poyser. "There's th' waggin coming
wi' th' old folks in't; it'll be such a sight as wonna come o'er again,
to see 'em get down an' walk along all together. You remember some on
'em i' their prime, eh, Father?"
"Aye, aye," said old Martin, walking slowly under the shade of the lodge
porch, from which he could see the aged party descend. "I remember Jacob
Taft walking fifty mile after the Scotch raybels, when they turned back
from Stoniton."
He felt himself quite a youngster, with a long life before him, as he
saw the Hayslope patriarch, old Feyther Taft, descend from the waggon
and walk towards him, in his brown nightcap, and leaning on his two
sticks.
"Well, Mester Taft," shouted old Martin, at the utmost stretch of his
voice--for though he knew the old man was stone deaf, he could not omit
the propriety of a greeting--"you're hearty yet. You can enjoy yoursen
to-day, for-all you're ninety an' better."
"Your sarvant, mesters, your sarvant," said Feyther Taft in a treble
tone, perceiving that he was in company.
The aged group, under care of sons or daughters, themselves worn and
grey, passed on along the least-winding carriage-road towards the house,
where a special table was prepared for them; while the Poyser party
wisely struck across the grass under the shade of the great trees,
but not out of view of the house-front, with its sloping lawn and
flower-beds, or of the pretty striped marquee at the edge of the lawn,
standing at right angles with two larger marquees on each side of the
open green space where the games were to be played. The house would have
been nothing but a plain square mansion of Queen Anne's time, but for
the remnant of an old abbey to which it was united at one end, in much
the same way as one may sometimes see a new farmhouse rising high and
prim at the end of older and lower farm-offices. The fine old remnant
stood a little backward and under the shadow of tall beeches, but the
sun was now on the taller and more advanced front, the blinds were all
down, and the house seemed asleep in the hot midday. It made Hetty quite
sad to look at it: Arthur must be somewhere in the back rooms, with the
grand company, where he could not possibly know that she was come, and
she should not see him for a long, long while--not till after dinner,
when they said he was to come up and make a speech.
But Hetty was wrong in part of her conjecture. No grand company was
come except the Irwines, for whom the carriage had been sent early,
and Arthur was at that moment not in a back room, but walking with the
rector into the broad stone cloisters of the old abbey, where the long
tables were laid for all the cottage tenants and the farm-servants.
A very handsome young Briton he looked to-day, in high spirits and a
bright-blue frock-coat, the highest mode--his arm no longer in a sling.
So open-looking and candid, too; but candid people have their secrets,
and secrets leave no lines in young faces.
"Upon my word," he said, as they entered the cool cloisters, "I think
the cottagers have the best of it: these cloisters make a delightful
dining-room on a hot day. That was capital advice of yours, Irwine,
about the dinners--to let them be as orderly and comfortable as
possible, and only for the tenants: especially as I had only a limited
sum after all; for though my grandfather talked of a carte blanche, he
couldn't make up his mind to trust me, when it came to the point."
"Never mind, you'll give more pleasure in this quiet way," said Mr.
Irwine. "In this sort of thing people are constantly confounding
liberality with riot and disorder. It sounds very grand to say that so
many sheep and oxen were roasted whole, and everybody ate who liked
to come; but in the end it generally happens that no one has had an
enjoyable meal. If the people get a good dinner and a moderate quantity
of ale in the middle of the day, they'll be able to enjoy the games
as the day cools. You can't hinder some of them from getting too much
towards evening, but drunkenness and darkness go better together than
drunkenness and daylight."
"Well, I hope there won't be much of it. I've kept the Treddleston
people away by having a feast for them in the town; and I've got Casson
and Adam Bede and some other good fellows to look to the giving out of
ale in the booths, and to take care things don't go too far. Come, let
us go up above now and see the dinner-tables for the large tenants."
They went up the stone staircase leading simply to the long gallery
above the cloisters, a gallery where all the dusty worthless old
pictures had been banished for the last three generations--mouldy
portraits of Queen Elizabeth and her ladies, General Monk with his eye
knocked out, Daniel very much in the dark among the lions, and Julius
Caesar on horseback, with a high nose and laurel crown, holding his
Commentaries in his hand.
"What a capital thing it is that they saved this piece of the old
abbey!" said Arthur. "If I'm ever master here, I shall do up the gallery
in first-rate style. We've got no room in the house a third as large
as this. That second table is for the farmers' wives and children: Mrs.
Best said it would be more comfortable for the mothers and children
to be by themselves. I was determined to have the children, and make a
regular family thing of it. I shall be 'the old squire' to those little
lads and lasses some day, and they'll tell their children what a much
finer young fellow I was than my own son. There's a table for the women
and children below as well. But you will see them all--you will come up
with me after dinner, I hope?"
"Yes, to be sure," said Mr. Irwine. "I wouldn't miss your maiden speech
to the tenantry."
"And there will be something else you'll like to hear," said Arthur.
"Let us go into the library and I'll tell you all about it while my
grandfather is in the drawing-room with the ladies. Something that will
surprise you," he continued, as they sat down. "My grandfather has come
round after all."
"What, about Adam?"
"Yes; I should have ridden over to tell you about it, only I was so
busy. You know I told you I had quite given up arguing the matter with
him--I thought it was hopeless--but yesterday morning he asked me to
come in here to him before I went out, and astonished me by saying that
he had decided on all the new arrangements he should make in consequence
of old Satchell being obliged to lay by work, and that he intended to
employ Adam in superintending the woods at a salary of a guinea a-week,
and the use of a pony to be kept here. I believe the secret of it is,
he saw from the first it would be a profitable plan, but he had some
particular dislike of Adam to get over--and besides, the fact that I
propose a thing is generally a reason with him for rejecting it. There's
the most curious contradiction in my grandfather: I know he means to
leave me all the money he has saved, and he is likely enough to have cut
off poor Aunt Lydia, who has been a slave to him all her life, with only
five hundred a-year, for the sake of giving me all the more; and yet I
sometimes think he positively hates me because I'm his heir. I believe
if I were to break my neck, he would feel it the greatest misfortune
that could befall him, and yet it seems a pleasure to him to make my
life a series of petty annoyances."
"Ah, my boy, it is not only woman's love that is [two greek words
omitted] as old AEschylus calls it. There's plenty of 'unloving love' in
the world of a masculine kind. But tell me about Adam. Has he accepted
the post? I don't see that it can be much more profitable than his
present work, though, to be sure, it will leave him a good deal of time
on his own hands.
"Well, I felt some doubt about it when I spoke to him and he seemed to
hesitate at first. His objection was that he thought he should not be
able to satisfy my grandfather. But I begged him as a personal favour
to me not to let any reason prevent him from accepting the place, if he
really liked the employment and would not be giving up anything that
was more profitable to him. And he assured me he should like it of all
things--it would be a great step forward for him in business, and it
would enable him to do what he had long wished to do, to give up working
for Burge. He says he shall have plenty of time to superintend a little
business of his own, which he and Seth will carry on, and will perhaps
be able to enlarge by degrees. So he has agreed at last, and I have
arranged that he shall dine with the large tenants to-day; and I mean to
announce the appointment to them, and ask them to drink Adam's health.
It's a little drama I've got up in honour of my friend Adam. He's a fine
fellow, and I like the opportunity of letting people know that I think
so."
"A drama in which friend Arthur piques himself on having a pretty part
to play," said Mr. Irwine, smiling. But when he saw Arthur colour, he
went on relentingly, "My part, you know, is always that of the old fogy
who sees nothing to admire in the young folks. I don't like to admit
that I'm proud of my pupil when he does graceful things. But I must play
the amiable old gentleman for once, and second your toast in honour of
Adam. Has your grandfather yielded on the other point too, and agreed to
have a respectable man as steward?"
"Oh no," said Arthur, rising from his chair with an air of impatience
and walking along the room with his hands in his pockets. "He's got
some project or other about letting the Chase Farm and bargaining for
a supply of milk and butter for the house. But I ask no questions about
it--it makes me too angry. I believe he means to do all the business
himself, and have nothing in the shape of a steward. It's amazing what
energy he has, though."
"Well, we'll go to the ladies now," said Mr. Irwine, rising too. "I want
to tell my mother what a splendid throne you've prepared for her under
the marquee."
"Yes, and we must be going to luncheon too," said Arthur. "It must be
two o'clock, for there is the gong beginning to sound for the tenants'
dinners." | Captain Donnithorne's coming-of-age party begins. As she gets ready, Hetty tries on the earrings Captain Donnithorne has given her and wears the locket with his hair in it that he has given her but keeps it under her dress. People from the parish, including the Poysers, begin to arrive, and the Chase, the Squire's home, is consumed in a fairlike atmosphere. Captain Donnithorne and Mr. Irwine survey the dinner arrangements and discuss Adam. The Squire has agreed to hire Adam to look after his timber. Captain Donnithorne complains about how little money the Squire has given him for the party, but Mr. Irwine tells him that a quieter party will be more appreciated than a more raucous event would have been |
From this day natural philosophy, and particularly chemistry, in the
most comprehensive sense of the term, became nearly my sole occupation.
I read with ardour those works, so full of genius and discrimination,
which modern inquirers have written on these subjects. I attended the
lectures, and cultivated the acquaintance, of the men of science of the
university; and I found even in M. Krempe a great deal of sound sense
and real information, combined, it is true, with a repulsive physiognomy
and manners, but not on that account the less valuable. In M. Waldman I
found a true friend. His gentleness was never tinged by dogmatism; and
his instructions were given with an air of frankness and good nature,
that banished every idea of pedantry. It was, perhaps, the amiable
character of this man that inclined me more to that branch of natural
philosophy which he professed, than an intrinsic love for the science
itself. But this state of mind had place only in the first steps towards
knowledge: the more fully I entered into the science, the more
exclusively I pursued it for its own sake. That application, which at
first had been a matter of duty and resolution, now became so ardent and
eager, that the stars often disappeared in the light of morning whilst
I was yet engaged in my laboratory.
As I applied so closely, it may be easily conceived that I improved
rapidly. My ardour was indeed the astonishment of the students; and my
proficiency, that of the masters. Professor Krempe often asked me, with
a sly smile, how Cornelius Agrippa went on? whilst M. Waldman expressed
the most heart-felt exultation in my progress. Two years passed in this
manner, during which I paid no visit to Geneva, but was engaged, heart
and soul, in the pursuit of some discoveries, which I hoped to make.
None but those who have experienced them can conceive of the enticements
of science. In other studies you go as far as others have gone before
you, and there is nothing more to know; but in a scientific pursuit
there is continual food for discovery and wonder. A mind of moderate
capacity, which closely pursues one study, must infallibly arrive at
great proficiency in that study; and I, who continually sought the
attainment of one object of pursuit, and was solely wrapt up in this,
improved so rapidly, that, at the end of two years, I made some
discoveries in the improvement of some chemical instruments, which
procured me great esteem and admiration at the university. When I had
arrived at this point, and had become as well acquainted with the theory
and practice of natural philosophy as depended on the lessons of any of
the professors at Ingolstadt, my residence there being no longer
conducive to my improvements, I thought of returning to my friends and
my native town, when an incident happened that protracted my stay.
One of the phenomena which had peculiarly attracted my attention was the
structure of the human frame, and, indeed, any animal endued with life.
Whence, I often asked myself, did the principle of life proceed? It was
a bold question, and one which has ever been considered as a mystery;
yet with how many things are we upon the brink of becoming acquainted,
if cowardice or carelessness did not restrain our inquiries. I revolved
these circumstances in my mind, and determined thenceforth to apply
myself more particularly to those branches of natural philosophy which
relate to physiology. Unless I had been animated by an almost
supernatural enthusiasm, my application to this study would have been
irksome, and almost intolerable. To examine the causes of life, we must
first have recourse to death. I became acquainted with the science of
anatomy: but this was not sufficient; I must also observe the natural
decay and corruption of the human body. In my education my father had
taken the greatest precautions that my mind should be impressed with no
supernatural horrors. I do not ever remember to have trembled at a tale
of superstition, or to have feared the apparition of a spirit. Darkness
had no effect upon my fancy; and a church-yard was to me merely the
receptacle of bodies deprived of life, which, from being the seat of
beauty and strength, had become food for the worm. Now I was led to
examine the cause and progress of this decay, and forced to spend days
and nights in vaults and charnel houses. My attention was fixed upon
every object the most insupportable to the delicacy of the human
feelings. I saw how the fine form of man was degraded and wasted; I
beheld the corruption of death succeed to the blooming cheek of life; I
saw how the worm inherited the wonders of the eye and brain. I paused,
examining and analysing all the minutiae of causation, as exemplified in
the change from life to death, and death to life, until from the midst
of this darkness a sudden light broke in upon me--a light so brilliant
and wondrous, yet so simple, that while I became dizzy with the
immensity of the prospect which it illustrated, I was surprised that
among so many men of genius, who had directed their inquiries towards
the same science, that I alone should be reserved to discover so
astonishing a secret.
Remember, I am not recording the vision of a madman. The sun does not
more certainly shine in the heavens, than that which I now affirm is
true. Some miracle might have produced it, yet the stages of the
discovery were distinct and probable. After days and nights of
incredible labour and fatigue, I succeeded in discovering the cause of
generation and life; nay, more, I became myself capable of bestowing
animation upon lifeless matter.
The astonishment which I had at first experienced on this discovery soon
gave place to delight and rapture. After so much time spent in painful
labour, to arrive at once at the summit of my desires, was the most
gratifying consummation of my toils. But this discovery was so great
and overwhelming, that all the steps by which I had been progressively
led to it were obliterated, and I beheld only the result. What had been
the study and desire of the wisest men since the creation of the world,
was now within my grasp. Not that, like a magic scene, it all opened
upon me at once: the information I had obtained was of a nature rather
to direct my endeavours so soon as I should point them towards the
object of my search, than to exhibit that object already accomplished. I
was like the Arabian who had been buried with the dead, and found a
passage to life aided only by one glimmering, and seemingly ineffectual
light.
I see by your eagerness, and the wonder and hope which your eyes
express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with
which I am acquainted; that cannot be: listen patiently until the end of
my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon that
subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to
your destruction and infallible misery. Learn from me, if not by my
precepts, at least by my example, how dangerous is the acquirement of
knowledge, and how much happier that man is who believes his native town
to be the world, than he who aspires to become greater than his nature
will allow.
When I found so astonishing a power placed within my hands, I hesitated
a long time concerning the manner in which I should employ it. Although
I possessed the capacity of bestowing animation, yet to prepare a frame
for the reception of it, with all its intricacies of fibres, muscles,
and veins, still remained a work of inconceivable difficulty and labour.
I doubted at first whether I should attempt the creation of a being like
myself or one of simpler organization; but my imagination was too much
exalted by my first success to permit me to doubt of my ability to give
life to an animal as complex and wonderful as man. The materials at
present within my command hardly appeared adequate to so arduous an
undertaking; but I doubted not that I should ultimately succeed. I
prepared myself for a multitude of reverses; my operations might be
incessantly baffled, and at last my work be imperfect: yet, when I
considered the improvement which every day takes place in science and
mechanics, I was encouraged to hope my present attempts would at least
lay the foundations of future success. Nor could I consider the
magnitude and complexity of my plan as any argument of its
impracticability. It was with these feelings that I began the creation
of a human being. As the minuteness of the parts formed a great
hindrance to my speed, I resolved, contrary to my first intention, to
make the being of a gigantic stature; that is to say, about eight feet
in height, and proportionably large. After having formed this
determination, and having spent some months in successfully collecting
and arranging my materials, I began.
No one can conceive the variety of feelings which bore me onwards, like
a hurricane, in the first enthusiasm of success. Life and death appeared
to me ideal bounds, which I should first break through, and pour a
torrent of light into our dark world. A new species would bless me as
its creator and source; many happy and excellent natures would owe their
being to me. No father could claim the gratitude of his child so
completely as I should deserve their's. Pursuing these reflections, I
thought, that if I could bestow animation upon lifeless matter, I might
in process of time (although I now found it impossible) renew life where
death had apparently devoted the body to corruption.
These thoughts supported my spirits, while I pursued my undertaking with
unremitting ardour. My cheek had grown pale with study, and my person
had become emaciated with confinement. Sometimes, on the very brink of
certainty, I failed; yet still I clung to the hope which the next day or
the next hour might realize. One secret which I alone possessed was the
hope to which I had dedicated myself; and the moon gazed on my midnight
labours, while, with unrelaxed and breathless eagerness, I pursued
nature to her hiding places. Who shall conceive the horrors of my secret
toil, as I dabbled among the unhallowed damps of the grave, or tortured
the living animal to animate the lifeless clay? My limbs now tremble,
and my eyes swim with the remembrance; but then a resistless, and almost
frantic impulse, urged me forward; I seemed to have lost all soul or
sensation but for this one pursuit. It was indeed but a passing trance,
that only made me feel with renewed acuteness so soon as, the unnatural
stimulus ceasing to operate, I had returned to my old habits. I
collected bones from charnel houses; and disturbed, with profane
fingers, the tremendous secrets of the human frame. In a solitary
chamber, or rather cell, at the top of the house, and separated from all
the other apartments by a gallery and staircase, I kept my workshop of
filthy creation; my eyeballs were starting from their sockets in
attending to the details of my employment. The dissecting room and the
slaughter-house furnished many of my materials; and often did my human
nature turn with loathing from my occupation, whilst, still urged on by
an eagerness which perpetually increased, I brought my work near to a
conclusion.
The summer months passed while I was thus engaged, heart and soul, in
one pursuit. It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow
a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage:
but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same
feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to
forget those friends who were so many miles absent, and whom I had not
seen for so long a time. I knew my silence disquieted them; and I well
remembered the words of my father: "I know that while you are pleased
with yourself, you will think of us with affection, and we shall hear
regularly from you. You must pardon me, if I regard any interruption in
your correspondence as a proof that your other duties are equally
neglected."
I knew well therefore what would be my father's feelings; but I could
not tear my thoughts from my employment, loathsome in itself, but which
had taken an irresistible hold of my imagination. I wished, as it were,
to procrastinate all that related to my feelings of affection until the
great object, which swallowed up every habit of my nature, should be
completed.
I then thought that my father would be unjust if he ascribed my neglect
to vice, or faultiness on my part; but I am now convinced that he was
justified in conceiving that I should not be altogether free from blame.
A human being in perfection ought always to preserve a calm and peaceful
mind, and never to allow passion or a transitory desire to disturb his
tranquillity. I do not think that the pursuit of knowledge is an
exception to this rule. If the study to which you apply yourself has a
tendency to weaken your affections, and to destroy your taste for those
simple pleasures in which no alloy can possibly mix, then that study is
certainly unlawful, that is to say, not befitting the human mind. If
this rule were always observed; if no man allowed any pursuit
whatsoever to interfere with the tranquillity of his domestic
affections, Greece had not been enslaved; Caesar would have spared his
country; America would have been discovered more gradually; and the
empires of Mexico and Peru had not been destroyed.
But I forget that I am moralizing in the most interesting part of my
tale; and your looks remind me to proceed.
My father made no reproach in his letters; and only took notice of my
silence by inquiring into my occupations more particularly than before.
Winter, spring, and summer, passed away during my labours; but I did not
watch the blossom or the expanding leaves--sights which before always
yielded me supreme delight, so deeply was I engrossed in my occupation.
The leaves of that year had withered before my work drew near to a
close; and now every day shewed me more plainly how well I had
succeeded. But my enthusiasm was checked by my anxiety, and I appeared
rather like one doomed by slavery to toil in the mines, or any other
unwholesome trade, than an artist occupied by his favourite employment.
Every night I was oppressed by a slow fever, and I became nervous to a
most painful degree; a disease that I regretted the more because I had
hitherto enjoyed most excellent health, and had always boasted of the
firmness of my nerves. But I believed that exercise and amusement would
soon drive away such symptoms; and I promised myself both of these, when
my creation should be complete. | Victor becomes--and we say this lovingly--a huge nerd. He doesn't make friends, and he doesn't write home, not even to his hot sister/future wife, Elizabeth. He probably doesn't even have a Facebook page. On the plus side, Victor's studies advance rapidly, which tends to happen when you're in self-prescribed social exile. Soon, he has mastered everything there possibly is to know in the world. In all fairness, there was a lot less to know at the beginning of the nineteenth century, like all the lyrics from toy commercials of the '80s and what that one actor who played that kid's brother on Saved By the Bell is doing now. He becomes obsessed with the way some things are alive and others...aren't really. He wants to figure out how to make non-living things into living ones. From a psychological perspective, this probably has something to do with the fact that Victor's mother just died. This is not a healthy alternative to counseling, but apparently the University of Ingolstadt didn't have much in the way of Student Services. Victor studies anatomy to learn about how bodies live and die. He decides he wants to make a new race of creatures, and in his spare time he starts assembling pieces of corpses. No one mentions this, but it probably smells really bad at his place. Quick Brain Snack: Anatomy was more of a theoretical science than an actual science for hundreds of years, because Christians believed that you were literally going to be resurrected when Jesus returned--which meant that you wanted to have all your body parts in one piece. There was none of this "donate your body to science" business. Artists and scientists who wanted to see what was actually going on underneath the skin resorted to grave robbing. So, where is Victor Frankenstein getting these bodies? He's sneaking off in the middle of the night with a shovel and digging them up--or paying someone to do it for him. Yeah, the guy's just a little obsessed. |
IT must not be supposed that the life of a personage naturally so
active as Phoebe could be wholly confined within the precincts of the
old Pyncheon House. Clifford's demands upon her time were usually
satisfied, in those long days, considerably earlier than sunset. Quiet
as his daily existence seemed, it nevertheless drained all the
resources by which he lived. It was not physical exercise that
overwearied him,--for except that he sometimes wrought a little with a
hoe, or paced the garden-walk, or, in rainy weather, traversed a large
unoccupied room,--it was his tendency to remain only too quiescent, as
regarded any toil of the limbs and muscles. But, either there was a
smouldering fire within him that consumed his vital energy, or the
monotony that would have dragged itself with benumbing effect over a
mind differently situated was no monotony to Clifford. Possibly, he
was in a state of second growth and recovery, and was constantly
assimilating nutriment for his spirit and intellect from sights,
sounds, and events which passed as a perfect void to persons more
practised with the world. As all is activity and vicissitude to the
new mind of a child, so might it be, likewise, to a mind that had
undergone a kind of new creation, after its long-suspended life.
Be the cause what it might, Clifford commonly retired to rest,
thoroughly exhausted, while the sunbeams were still melting through his
window-curtains, or were thrown with late lustre on the chamber wall.
And while he thus slept early, as other children do, and dreamed of
childhood, Phoebe was free to follow her own tastes for the remainder
of the day and evening.
This was a freedom essential to the health even of a character so
little susceptible of morbid influences as that of Phoebe. The old
house, as we have already said, had both the dry-rot and the damp-rot
in its walls; it was not good to breathe no other atmosphere than that.
Hepzibah, though she had her valuable and redeeming traits, had grown
to be a kind of lunatic by imprisoning herself so long in one place,
with no other company than a single series of ideas, and but one
affection, and one bitter sense of wrong. Clifford, the reader may
perhaps imagine, was too inert to operate morally on his
fellow-creatures, however intimate and exclusive their relations with
him. But the sympathy or magnetism among human beings is more subtile
and universal than we think; it exists, indeed, among different classes
of organized life, and vibrates from one to another. A flower, for
instance, as Phoebe herself observed, always began to droop sooner in
Clifford's hand, or Hepzibah's, than in her own; and by the same law,
converting her whole daily life into a flower fragrance for these two
sickly spirits, the blooming girl must inevitably droop and fade much
sooner than if worn on a younger and happier breast. Unless she had
now and then indulged her brisk impulses, and breathed rural air in a
suburban walk, or ocean breezes along the shore,--had occasionally
obeyed the impulse of Nature, in New England girls, by attending a
metaphysical or philosophical lecture, or viewing a seven-mile
panorama, or listening to a concert,--had gone shopping about the city,
ransacking entire depots of splendid merchandise, and bringing home a
ribbon,--had employed, likewise, a little time to read the Bible in her
chamber, and had stolen a little more to think of her mother and her
native place--unless for such moral medicines as the above, we should
soon have beheld our poor Phoebe grow thin and put on a bleached,
unwholesome aspect, and assume strange, shy ways, prophetic of
old-maidenhood and a cheerless future.
Even as it was, a change grew visible; a change partly to be regretted,
although whatever charm it infringed upon was repaired by another,
perhaps more precious. She was not so constantly gay, but had her
moods of thought, which Clifford, on the whole, liked better than her
former phase of unmingled cheerfulness; because now she understood him
better and more delicately, and sometimes even interpreted him to
himself. Her eyes looked larger, and darker, and deeper; so deep, at
some silent moments, that they seemed like Artesian wells, down, down,
into the infinite. She was less girlish than when we first beheld her
alighting from the omnibus; less girlish, but more a woman.
The only youthful mind with which Phoebe had an opportunity of frequent
intercourse was that of the daguerreotypist. Inevitably, by the
pressure of the seclusion about them, they had been brought into habits
of some familiarity. Had they met under different circumstances,
neither of these young persons would have been likely to bestow much
thought upon the other, unless, indeed, their extreme dissimilarity
should have proved a principle of mutual attraction. Both, it is true,
were characters proper to New England life, and possessing a common
ground, therefore, in their more external developments; but as unlike,
in their respective interiors, as if their native climes had been at
world-wide distance. During the early part of their acquaintance,
Phoebe had held back rather more than was customary with her frank and
simple manners from Holgrave's not very marked advances. Nor was she
yet satisfied that she knew him well, although they almost daily met
and talked together, in a kind, friendly, and what seemed to be a
familiar way.
The artist, in a desultory manner, had imparted to Phoebe something of
his history. Young as he was, and had his career terminated at the
point already attained, there had been enough of incident to fill, very
creditably, an autobiographic volume. A romance on the plan of Gil
Blas, adapted to American society and manners, would cease to be a
romance. The experience of many individuals among us, who think it
hardly worth the telling, would equal the vicissitudes of the
Spaniard's earlier life; while their ultimate success, or the point
whither they tend, may be incomparably higher than any that a novelist
would imagine for his hero. Holgrave, as he told Phoebe somewhat
proudly, could not boast of his origin, unless as being exceedingly
humble, nor of his education, except that it had been the scantiest
possible, and obtained by a few winter-months' attendance at a district
school. Left early to his own guidance, he had begun to be
self-dependent while yet a boy; and it was a condition aptly suited to
his natural force of will. Though now but twenty-two years old
(lacking some months, which are years in such a life), he had already
been, first, a country schoolmaster; next, a salesman in a country
store; and, either at the same time or afterwards, the political editor
of a country newspaper. He had subsequently travelled New England and
the Middle States, as a peddler, in the employment of a Connecticut
manufactory of cologne-water and other essences. In an episodical way
he had studied and practised dentistry, and with very flattering
success, especially in many of the factory-towns along our inland
streams. As a supernumerary official, of some kind or other, aboard a
packet-ship, he had visited Europe, and found means, before his return,
to see Italy, and part of France and Germany. At a later period he had
spent some months in a community of Fourierists. Still more recently
he had been a public lecturer on Mesmerism, for which science (as he
assured Phoebe, and, indeed, satisfactorily proved, by putting
Chanticleer, who happened to be scratching near by, to sleep) he had
very remarkable endowments.
His present phase, as a daguerreotypist, was of no more importance in
his own view, nor likely to be more permanent, than any of the
preceding ones. It had been taken up with the careless alacrity of an
adventurer, who had his bread to earn. It would be thrown aside as
carelessly, whenever he should choose to earn his bread by some other
equally digressive means. But what was most remarkable, and, perhaps,
showed a more than common poise in the young man, was the fact that,
amid all these personal vicissitudes, he had never lost his identity.
Homeless as he had been,--continually changing his whereabout, and,
therefore, responsible neither to public opinion nor to
individuals,--putting off one exterior, and snatching up another, to be
soon shifted for a third,--he had never violated the innermost man, but
had carried his conscience along with him. It was impossible to know
Holgrave without recognizing this to be the fact. Hepzibah had seen
it. Phoebe soon saw it likewise, and gave him the sort of confidence
which such a certainty inspires. She was startled, however, and
sometimes repelled,--not by any doubt of his integrity to whatever law
he acknowledged, but by a sense that his law differed from her own. He
made her uneasy, and seemed to unsettle everything around her, by his
lack of reverence for what was fixed, unless, at a moment's warning, it
could establish its right to hold its ground.
Then, moreover, she scarcely thought him affectionate in his nature.
He was too calm and cool an observer. Phoebe felt his eye, often; his
heart, seldom or never. He took a certain kind of interest in Hepzibah
and her brother, and Phoebe herself. He studied them attentively, and
allowed no slightest circumstance of their individualities to escape
him. He was ready to do them whatever good he might; but, after all,
he never exactly made common cause with them, nor gave any reliable
evidence that he loved them better in proportion as he knew them more.
In his relations with them, he seemed to be in quest of mental food,
not heart-sustenance. Phoebe could not conceive what interested him so
much in her friends and herself, intellectually, since he cared nothing
for them, or, comparatively, so little, as objects of human affection.
Always, in his interviews with Phoebe, the artist made especial inquiry
as to the welfare of Clifford, whom, except at the Sunday festival, he
seldom saw.
"Does he still seem happy?" he asked one day.
"As happy as a child," answered Phoebe; "but--like a child, too--very
easily disturbed."
"How disturbed?" inquired Holgrave. "By things without, or by thoughts
within?"
"I cannot see his thoughts! How should I?" replied Phoebe with simple
piquancy. "Very often his humor changes without any reason that can be
guessed at, just as a cloud comes over the sun. Latterly, since I have
begun to know him better, I feel it to be not quite right to look
closely into his moods. He has had such a great sorrow, that his heart
is made all solemn and sacred by it. When he is cheerful,--when the
sun shines into his mind,--then I venture to peep in, just as far as
the light reaches, but no further. It is holy ground where the shadow
falls!"
"How prettily you express this sentiment!" said the artist. "I can
understand the feeling, without possessing it. Had I your
opportunities, no scruples would prevent me from fathoming Clifford to
the full depth of my plummet-line!"
"How strange that you should wish it!" remarked Phoebe involuntarily.
"What is Cousin Clifford to you?"
"Oh, nothing,--of course, nothing!" answered Holgrave with a smile.
"Only this is such an odd and incomprehensible world! The more I look
at it, the more it puzzles me, and I begin to suspect that a man's
bewilderment is the measure of his wisdom. Men and women, and
children, too, are such strange creatures, that one never can be
certain that he really knows them; nor ever guess what they have been
from what he sees them to be now. Judge Pyncheon! Clifford! What a
complex riddle--a complexity of complexities--do they present! It
requires intuitive sympathy, like a young girl's, to solve it. A mere
observer, like myself (who never have any intuitions, and am, at best,
only subtile and acute), is pretty certain to go astray."
The artist now turned the conversation to themes less dark than that
which they had touched upon. Phoebe and he were young together; nor
had Holgrave, in his premature experience of life, wasted entirely that
beautiful spirit of youth, which, gushing forth from one small heart
and fancy, may diffuse itself over the universe, making it all as
bright as on the first day of creation. Man's own youth is the world's
youth; at least, he feels as if it were, and imagines that the earth's
granite substance is something not yet hardened, and which he can mould
into whatever shape he likes. So it was with Holgrave. He could talk
sagely about the world's old age, but never actually believed what he
said; he was a young man still, and therefore looked upon the
world--that gray-bearded and wrinkled profligate, decrepit, without
being venerable--as a tender stripling, capable of being improved into
all that it ought to be, but scarcely yet had shown the remotest
promise of becoming. He had that sense, or inward prophecy,--which a
young man had better never have been born than not to have, and a
mature man had better die at once than utterly to relinquish,--that we
are not doomed to creep on forever in the old bad way, but that, this
very now, there are the harbingers abroad of a golden era, to be
accomplished in his own lifetime. It seemed to Holgrave,--as doubtless
it has seemed to the hopeful of every century since the epoch of Adam's
grandchildren,--that in this age, more than ever before, the moss-grown
and rotten Past is to be torn down, and lifeless institutions to be
thrust out of the way, and their dead corpses buried, and everything to
begin anew.
As to the main point,--may we never live to doubt it!--as to the better
centuries that are coming, the artist was surely right. His error lay
in supposing that this age, more than any past or future one, is
destined to see the tattered garments of Antiquity exchanged for a new
suit, instead of gradually renewing themselves by patchwork; in
applying his own little life-span as the measure of an interminable
achievement; and, more than all, in fancying that it mattered anything
to the great end in view whether he himself should contend for it or
against it. Yet it was well for him to think so. This enthusiasm,
infusing itself through the calmness of his character, and thus taking
an aspect of settled thought and wisdom, would serve to keep his youth
pure, and make his aspirations high. And when, with the years settling
down more weightily upon him, his early faith should be modified by
inevitable experience, it would be with no harsh and sudden revolution
of his sentiments. He would still have faith in man's brightening
destiny, and perhaps love him all the better, as he should recognize
his helplessness in his own behalf; and the haughty faith, with which
he began life, would be well bartered for a far humbler one at its
close, in discerning that man's best directed effort accomplishes a
kind of dream, while God is the sole worker of realities.
Holgrave had read very little, and that little in passing through the
thoroughfare of life, where the mystic language of his books was
necessarily mixed up with the babble of the multitude, so that both one
and the other were apt to lose any sense that might have been properly
their own. He considered himself a thinker, and was certainly of a
thoughtful turn, but, with his own path to discover, had perhaps hardly
yet reached the point where an educated man begins to think. The true
value of his character lay in that deep consciousness of inward
strength, which made all his past vicissitudes seem merely like a
change of garments; in that enthusiasm, so quiet that he scarcely knew
of its existence, but which gave a warmth to everything that he laid
his hand on; in that personal ambition, hidden--from his own as well as
other eyes--among his more generous impulses, but in which lurked a
certain efficacy, that might solidify him from a theorist into the
champion of some practicable cause. Altogether in his culture and want
of culture,--in his crude, wild, and misty philosophy, and the
practical experience that counteracted some of its tendencies; in his
magnanimous zeal for man's welfare, and his recklessness of whatever
the ages had established in man's behalf; in his faith, and in his
infidelity; in what he had, and in what he lacked,--the artist might
fitly enough stand forth as the representative of many compeers in his
native land.
His career it would be difficult to prefigure. There appeared to be
qualities in Holgrave, such as, in a country where everything is free
to the hand that can grasp it, could hardly fail to put some of the
world's prizes within his reach. But these matters are delightfully
uncertain. At almost every step in life, we meet with young men of
just about Holgrave's age, for whom we anticipate wonderful things, but
of whom, even after much and careful inquiry, we never happen to hear
another word. The effervescence of youth and passion, and the fresh
gloss of the intellect and imagination, endow them with a false
brilliancy, which makes fools of themselves and other people. Like
certain chintzes, calicoes, and ginghams, they show finely in their
first newness, but cannot stand the sun and rain, and assume a very
sober aspect after washing-day.
But our business is with Holgrave as we find him on this particular
afternoon, and in the arbor of the Pyncheon garden. In that point of
view, it was a pleasant sight to behold this young man, with so much
faith in himself, and so fair an appearance of admirable powers,--so
little harmed, too, by the many tests that had tried his metal,--it was
pleasant to see him in his kindly intercourse with Phoebe. Her thought
had scarcely done him justice when it pronounced him cold; or, if so,
he had grown warmer now. Without such purpose on her part, and
unconsciously on his, she made the House of the Seven Gables like a
home to him, and the garden a familiar precinct. With the insight on
which he prided himself, he fancied that he could look through Phoebe,
and all around her, and could read her off like a page of a child's
story-book. But these transparent natures are often deceptive in their
depth; those pebbles at the bottom of the fountain are farther from us
than we think. Thus the artist, whatever he might judge of Phoebe's
capacity, was beguiled, by some silent charm of hers, to talk freely of
what he dreamed of doing in the world. He poured himself out as to
another self. Very possibly, he forgot Phoebe while he talked to her,
and was moved only by the inevitable tendency of thought, when rendered
sympathetic by enthusiasm and emotion, to flow into the first safe
reservoir which it finds. But, had you peeped at them through the
chinks of the garden-fence, the young man's earnestness and heightened
color might have led you to suppose that he was making love to the
young girl!
At length, something was said by Holgrave that made it apposite for
Phoebe to inquire what had first brought him acquainted with her cousin
Hepzibah, and why he now chose to lodge in the desolate old Pyncheon
House. Without directly answering her, he turned from the Future,
which had heretofore been the theme of his discourse, and began to
speak of the influences of the Past. One subject, indeed, is but the
reverberation of the other.
"Shall we never, never get rid of this Past?" cried he, keeping up the
earnest tone of his preceding conversation. "It lies upon the Present
like a giant's dead body In fact, the case is just as if a young giant
were compelled to waste all his strength in carrying about the corpse
of the old giant, his grandfather, who died a long while ago, and only
needs to be decently buried. Just think a moment, and it will startle
you to see what slaves we are to bygone times,--to Death, if we give
the matter the right word!"
"But I do not see it," observed Phoebe.
"For example, then," continued Holgrave: "a dead man, if he happens to
have made a will, disposes of wealth no longer his own; or, if he die
intestate, it is distributed in accordance with the notions of men much
longer dead than he. A dead man sits on all our judgment-seats; and
living judges do but search out and repeat his decisions. We read in
dead men's books! We laugh at dead men's jokes, and cry at dead men's
pathos! We are sick of dead men's diseases, physical and moral, and die
of the same remedies with which dead doctors killed their patients! We
worship the living Deity according to dead men's forms and creeds.
Whatever we seek to do, of our own free motion, a dead man's icy hand
obstructs us! Turn our eyes to what point we may, a dead man's white,
immitigable face encounters them, and freezes our very heart! And we
must be dead ourselves before we can begin to have our proper influence
on our own world, which will then be no longer our world, but the world
of another generation, with which we shall have no shadow of a right to
interfere. I ought to have said, too, that we live in dead men's
houses; as, for instance, in this of the Seven Gables!"
"And why not," said Phoebe, "so long as we can be comfortable in them?"
"But we shall live to see the day, I trust," went on the artist, "when
no man shall build his house for posterity. Why should he? He might
just as reasonably order a durable suit of clothes,--leather, or
guttapercha, or whatever else lasts longest,--so that his
great-grandchildren should have the benefit of them, and cut precisely
the same figure in the world that he himself does. If each generation
were allowed and expected to build its own houses, that single change,
comparatively unimportant in itself, would imply almost every reform
which society is now suffering for. I doubt whether even our public
edifices--our capitols, state-houses, court-houses, city-hall, and
churches,--ought to be built of such permanent materials as stone or
brick. It were better that they should crumble to ruin once in twenty
years, or thereabouts, as a hint to the people to examine into and
reform the institutions which they symbolize."
"How you hate everything old!" said Phoebe in dismay. "It makes me
dizzy to think of such a shifting world!"
"I certainly love nothing mouldy," answered Holgrave. "Now, this old
Pyncheon House! Is it a wholesome place to live in, with its black
shingles, and the green moss that shows how damp they are?--its dark,
low-studded rooms--its grime and sordidness, which are the
crystallization on its walls of the human breath, that has been drawn
and exhaled here in discontent and anguish? The house ought to be
purified with fire,--purified till only its ashes remain!"
"Then why do you live in it?" asked Phoebe, a little piqued.
"Oh, I am pursuing my studies here; not in books, however," replied
Holgrave. "The house, in my view, is expressive of that odious and
abominable Past, with all its bad influences, against which I have just
been declaiming. I dwell in it for a while, that I may know the better
how to hate it. By the bye, did you ever hear the story of Maule, the
wizard, and what happened between him and your immeasurably
great-grandfather?"
"Yes, indeed!" said Phoebe; "I heard it long ago, from my father, and
two or three times from my cousin Hepzibah, in the month that I have
been here. She seems to think that all the calamities of the Pyncheons
began from that quarrel with the wizard, as you call him. And you, Mr.
Holgrave look as if you thought so too! How singular that you should
believe what is so very absurd, when you reject many things that are a
great deal worthier of credit!"
"I do believe it," said the artist seriously; "not as a superstition,
however, but as proved by unquestionable facts, and as exemplifying a
theory. Now, see: under those seven gables, at which we now look
up,--and which old Colonel Pyncheon meant to be the house of his
descendants, in prosperity and happiness, down to an epoch far beyond
the present,--under that roof, through a portion of three centuries,
there has been perpetual remorse of conscience, a constantly defeated
hope, strife amongst kindred, various misery, a strange form of death,
dark suspicion, unspeakable disgrace,--all, or most of which calamity I
have the means of tracing to the old Puritan's inordinate desire to
plant and endow a family. To plant a family! This idea is at the
bottom of most of the wrong and mischief which men do. The truth is,
that, once in every half-century, at longest, a family should be merged
into the great, obscure mass of humanity, and forget all about its
ancestors. Human blood, in order to keep its freshness, should run in
hidden streams, as the water of an aqueduct is conveyed in subterranean
pipes. In the family existence of these Pyncheons, for
instance,--forgive me Phoebe, but I cannot think of you as one of
them,--in their brief New England pedigree, there has been time enough
to infect them all with one kind of lunacy or another."
"You speak very unceremoniously of my kindred," said Phoebe, debating
with herself whether she ought to take offence.
"I speak true thoughts to a true mind!" answered Holgrave, with a
vehemence which Phoebe had not before witnessed in him. "The truth is
as I say! Furthermore, the original perpetrator and father of this
mischief appears to have perpetuated himself, and still walks the
street,--at least, his very image, in mind and body,--with the fairest
prospect of transmitting to posterity as rich and as wretched an
inheritance as he has received! Do you remember the daguerreotype, and
its resemblance to the old portrait?"
"How strangely in earnest you are!" exclaimed Phoebe, looking at him
with surprise and perplexity; half alarmed and partly inclined to
laugh. "You talk of the lunacy of the Pyncheons; is it contagious?"
"I understand you!" said the artist, coloring and laughing. "I believe
I am a little mad. This subject has taken hold of my mind with the
strangest tenacity of clutch since I have lodged in yonder old gable.
As one method of throwing it off, I have put an incident of the
Pyncheon family history, with which I happen to be acquainted, into the
form of a legend, and mean to publish it in a magazine."
"Do you write for the magazines?" inquired Phoebe.
"Is it possible you did not know it?" cried Holgrave. "Well, such is
literary fame! Yes. Miss Phoebe Pyncheon, among the multitude of my
marvellous gifts I have that of writing stories; and my name has
figured, I can assure you, on the covers of Graham and Godey, making as
respectable an appearance, for aught I could see, as any of the
canonized bead-roll with which it was associated. In the humorous
line, I am thought to have a very pretty way with me; and as for
pathos, I am as provocative of tears as an onion. But shall I read you
my story?"
"Yes, if it is not very long," said Phoebe,--and added
laughingly,--"nor very dull."
As this latter point was one which the daguerreotypist could not decide
for himself, he forthwith produced his roll of manuscript, and, while
the late sunbeams gilded the seven gables, began to read. | The Daguerreotypist: When Clifford slept, Phoebe was free to follow her own tastes for the remainder of the day and evening. This freedom was essential to Phoebe's health, for the old house had dry-rot in its walls and was not good to breathe. Phoebe began to understand Clifford better, and Clifford liked that she was not so constantly happy, for her eyes seemed larger, darker and deeper. The only youthful mind with whom Phoebe had regular contact was Holgrave. Both were true New England characters. Holgrave did not come from an elite family, and was self-dependent while still a boy. He was now twenty-two and had been a schoolmaster, a salesman and the political editor of a country newspaper. His present phase as a daguerreotypist was likely to be as impermanent as the previous professions. It was remarkable that he had not lost his identity among these various changes. Holgrave made Phoebe uneasy by his lack of reverence for what was fixed. He appeared to study Phoebe, Clifford and Hepzibah; he seemed to be in the quest of mental food, not heart-sustenance. Phoebe asks what Clifford is to Holgrave, and he answers nothing except an odd and incomprehensible world. He views Clifford and Judge Pyncheon as complexities. Holgrave's error lay in supposing that this age was to trade antiquity entirely for what is new. He had a deep consciousness of inward strength and considered himself a thinker. Holgrave hopes to see the day when no man shall build a house for posterity. He even claims that he lives in the house that he finds abominable in order to know how better to hate it. Clifford mentions the story of Maule to Phoebe. Holgrave believes that the Pyncheons that live in the house have been infected with a kind of lunacy. Holgrave has been writing a family history of the Pyncheons that he intends to publish. |
CHAPTER XI. ONLY A PAGE OR SO.
The transaction concluded, the two still remained seated, falling into
familiar conversation, by degrees verging into that confidential sort of
sympathetic silence, the last refinement and luxury of unaffected good
feeling. A kind of social superstition, to suppose that to be truly
friendly one must be saying friendly words all the time, any more than
be doing friendly deeds continually. True friendliness, like true
religion, being in a sort independent of works.
At length, the good merchant, whose eyes were pensively resting upon the
gay tables in the distance, broke the spell by saying that, from the
spectacle before them, one would little divine what other quarters of
the boat might reveal. He cited the case, accidentally encountered but
an hour or two previous, of a shrunken old miser, clad in shrunken old
moleskin, stretched out, an invalid, on a bare plank in the emigrants'
quarters, eagerly clinging to life and lucre, though the one was gasping
for outlet, and about the other he was in torment lest death, or some
other unprincipled cut-purse, should be the means of his losing it; by
like feeble tenure holding lungs and pouch, and yet knowing and
desiring nothing beyond them; for his mind, never raised above mould,
was now all but mouldered away. To such a degree, indeed, that he had no
trust in anything, not even in his parchment bonds, which, the better to
preserve from the tooth of time, he had packed down and sealed up, like
brandy peaches, in a tin case of spirits.
The worthy man proceeded at some length with these dispiriting
particulars. Nor would his cheery companion wholly deny that there might
be a point of view from which such a case of extreme want of confidence
might, to the humane mind, present features not altogether welcome as
wine and olives after dinner. Still, he was not without compensatory
considerations, and, upon the whole, took his companion to task for
evincing what, in a good-natured, round-about way, he hinted to be a
somewhat jaundiced sentimentality. Nature, he added, in Shakespeare's
words, had meal and bran; and, rightly regarded, the bran in its way was
not to be condemned.
The other was not disposed to question the justice of Shakespeare's
thought, but would hardly admit the propriety of the application in this
instance, much less of the comment. So, after some further temperate
discussion of the pitiable miser, finding that they could not entirely
harmonize, the merchant cited another case, that of the negro cripple.
But his companion suggested whether the alleged hardships of that
alleged unfortunate might not exist more in the pity of the observer
than the experience of the observed. He knew nothing about the cripple,
nor had seen him, but ventured to surmise that, could one but get at the
real state of his heart, he would be found about as happy as most men,
if not, in fact, full as happy as the speaker himself. He added that
negroes were by nature a singularly cheerful race; no one ever heard of
a native-born African Zimmermann or Torquemada; that even from religion
they dismissed all gloom; in their hilarious rituals they danced, so to
speak, and, as it were, cut pigeon-wings. It was improbable, therefore,
that a negro, however reduced to his stumps by fortune, could be ever
thrown off the legs of a laughing philosophy.
Foiled again, the good merchant would not desist, but ventured still a
third case, that of the man with the weed, whose story, as narrated by
himself, and confirmed and filled out by the testimony of a certain man
in a gray coat, whom the merchant had afterwards met, he now proceeded
to give; and that, without holding back those particulars disclosed by
the second informant, but which delicacy had prevented the unfortunate
man himself from touching upon.
But as the good merchant could, perhaps, do better justice to the man
than the story, we shall venture to tell it in other words than his,
though not to any other effect. | After their backroom deal, Mr. Roberts and Tassel chat. Looking back on the gamblers, Mr. Roberts wonders what other secret lives the ship holds. He's a curious guy. Mr. Roberts brings up a story of a dying miser he came across maybe an hour or so ago. The miser didn't want to let go of life due to his love of money and his fear of losing it by death or theft. Mr. Roberts wants to feel pity for this man; Tassel, not so much. Mr. Roberts then brings up Guinea and his difficult life, which is dependent on charity. Tassel counters again. This time it's with an offensive notion that black people just don't get sad or stay sad. Mr. Roberts, undaunted in his goal to demonstrate that pitying one's fellow human is a valid thing to do, references the man with the weed on his hat. Reminder: this is the dude that 1) told Mr. Roberts a sob-story about being a down-and-out fellow mason to get moolah; 2) weirded out the college kid; and 3) told Mr. Roberts about the company for which Tassel works. Apparently, Grey-and-white, the man collecting money for widows and orphans, told Mr. Roberts more about Weeds. We're going to need a Facebook group or yearbook or something to keep all these peeps straight. The narrator then throws some mad shade on Mr. Roberts when he lets us know that while Mr. Roberts can do right by Weeds, he can't really deliver on the story about Weeds. Harsh. |
SCENE III.
_Another part of the island._
_Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,
and others._
_Gon._ By'r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here's a maze trod, indeed,
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,
I needs must rest me.
_Alon._ Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach'd with weariness, 5
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown'd
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 10
_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] I am right glad that he's so out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] The next advantage
Will we take throughly.
_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress'd with travel, they 15
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.
_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] I say, to-night: no more.
[_Solemn and strange music._
_Alon._ What harmony is this?--My good friends, hark!
_Gon._ Marvellous sweet music!
_Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes,
bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of
salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart._
_Alon._ Give us kind keepers, heavens!--What were these? 20
_Seb._ A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phoenix' throne; one phoenix
At this hour reigning there.
_Ant._ I'll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me, 25
And I'll be sworn 'tis true: travellers ne'er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn 'em.
_Gon._ If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders,--
For, certes, these are people of the island,-- 30
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] Honest lord,
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present 35
Are worse than devils.
_Alon._ I cannot too much muse
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing--
Although they want the use of tongue--a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] Praise in departing.
_Fran._ They vanish'd strangely.
_Seb._ No matter, since 40
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.--
Will't please you taste of what is here?
_Alon._ Not I.
_Gon._ Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp'd like bulls, whose throats had hanging at 'em 45
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.
_Alon._ I will stand to, and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel 50
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,
Stand to, and do as we.
_Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his
wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet
vanishes._
_Ari._ You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,--
That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in't,--the never-surfeited sea 55
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island,
Where man doth not inhabit,--you 'mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
And even with such-like valour men hang and drown
Their proper selves. [_Alon., Seb. &c. draw their swords._
You fools! I and my fellows 60
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper'd, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock'd-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that's in my plume: my fellow-ministers 65
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But remember,--
For that's my business to you,--that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero; 70
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 75
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition--worse than any death
Can be at once--shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,--
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 80
Upon your heads,--is nothing but heart-sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.
_He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes
again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the
table._
_Pros._ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform'd, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 85
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done. My high charms work,
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power; 90
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand,--whom they suppose is drown'd,--
And his and mine loved darling. [_Exit above._
_Gon._ I' the name of something holy, sir, why stand you
In this strange stare?
_Alon._ O, it is monstrous, monstrous! 95
Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i' th' ooze is bedded; and 100
I'll seek him deeper than e'er plummet sounded,
And with him there lie mudded. [_Exit._
_Seb._ But one fiend at a time,
I'll fight their legions o'er.
_Ant._ I'll be thy second.
[_Exeunt Seb. and Ant._
_Gon._ All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after, 105
Now 'gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,
And hinder them from what this ecstasy
May now provoke them to.
_Adr._ Follow, I pray you. [_Exeunt._
Notes: III, 3.
2: _ache_] _ake_ F2 F3 F4. _akes_ F1.
3: _forth-rights_] F2 F3 F4. _fourth rights_ F1.
8: _flatterer_] F1. _flatterers_ F2 F3 F4.
17: Prospero above] Malone. Prosper on the top Ff. See note (XIV).
20: _were_] F1 F2 F3. _are_ F4.
26: _'tis true_] _to 't_ Steevens conj.
_did lie_] _lied_ Hanmer.
29: _islanders_] F2 F3 F4. _islands_ F1.
32: _gentle-kind_] Theobald. _gentle, kind_ Ff. _gentle kind_ Rowe.
36: _muse_] F1 F2 F3. _muse_, F4. _muse_; Capell.
48: _of five for one_] Ff. _on five for one_ Theobald.
_of one for five_ Malone, (Thirlby conj.) See note (XV).
49-51: _I will ... past_] Mason conjectured that these lines formed
a rhyming couplet.
53: SCENE IV. Pope.
54: _instrument_] _instruments_ F4.
56: _belch up you_] F1 F2 F3. _belch you up_ F4. _belch up_ Theobald.
60: [... draw their swords] Hanmer.
65: _dowle_] _down_ Pope.]
_plume_] Rowe. _plumbe_ F1 F2 F3. _plumb_ F4.
67: _strengths_] _strength_ F4.
79: _wraths_] _wrath_ Theobald.
81: _heart-sorrow_] Edd. _hearts-sorrow_ Ff. _heart's-sorrow_ Rowe.
_heart's sorrow_ Pope.
82: mocks] mopps Theobald.
86: _life_] _list_ Johnson conj.
90: _now_] om. Pope.
92: _whom_] _who_ Hanmer.
93: _mine_] _my_ Rowe.
[Exit above] Theobald.]
94: _something holy, sir_,] _something, holy Sir_, F4.
99: _bass_] Johnson. _base_ Ff.
106: _do_] om. Pope. | The royal party has searched futilely for Ferdinand and collapses, exhausted upon the beach. Unknown to the royal party, Prospero arrives and watches their actions. Within a few moments, a number of ghostly shapes arrive and with them, a lavish banquet. After gesturing to the party that they should approach and eat, the spirit shapes depart. The royal party is incredulous, but they are also hungry and ready to eat. Yet Ariel appears, disguised as a harpy. He makes the banquet disappear and accuses Antonio, Sebastian, and Alonso of being the instruments of sin. Although the men draw their swords, they are frozen in place by magic and unable to lift up their arms. The king is shaken by what he has seen and heard, and he flees, as do Antonio and Sebastian. Worried that they might do themselves harm, Gonzalo sends Adrian and Francisco to watch them. |
The appeal duly found its way to the breakfast-table of the quiet
Vicarage to the westward, in that valley where the air is so soft and
the soil so rich that the effort of growth requires but superficial
aid by comparison with the tillage at Flintcomb-Ash, and where to
Tess the human world seemed so different (though it was much the
same). It was purely for security that she had been requested by
Angel to send her communications through his father, whom he kept
pretty well informed of his changing addresses in the country he
had gone to exploit for himself with a heavy heart.
"Now," said old Mr Clare to his wife, when he had read the envelope,
"if Angel proposes leaving Rio for a visit home at the end of next
month, as he told us that he hoped to do, I think this may hasten his
plans; for I believe it to be from his wife." He breathed deeply at
the thought of her; and the letter was redirected to be promptly sent
on to Angel.
"Dear fellow, I hope he will get home safely," murmured Mrs Clare.
"To my dying day I shall feel that he has been ill-used. You should
have sent him to Cambridge in spite of his want of faith and given
him the same chance as the other boys had. He would have grown out
of it under proper influence, and perhaps would have taken Orders
after all. Church or no Church, it would have been fairer to him."
This was the only wail with which Mrs Clare ever disturbed her
husband's peace in respect to their sons. And she did not vent this
often; for she was as considerate as she was devout, and knew that
his mind too was troubled by doubts as to his justice in this matter.
Only too often had she heard him lying awake at night, stifling sighs
for Angel with prayers. But the uncompromising Evangelical did not
even now hold that he would have been justified in giving his son,
an unbeliever, the same academic advantages that he had given to the
two others, when it was possible, if not probable, that those very
advantages might have been used to decry the doctrines which he had
made it his life's mission and desire to propagate, and the mission
of his ordained sons likewise. To put with one hand a pedestal
under the feet of the two faithful ones, and with the other to exalt
the unfaithful by the same artificial means, he deemed to be alike
inconsistent with his convictions, his position, and his hopes.
Nevertheless, he loved his misnamed Angel, and in secret mourned
over this treatment of him as Abraham might have mourned over the
doomed Isaac while they went up the hill together. His silent
self-generated regrets were far bitterer than the reproaches which
his wife rendered audible.
They blamed themselves for this unlucky marriage. If Angel had never
been destined for a farmer he would never have been thrown with
agricultural girls. They did not distinctly know what had separated
him and his wife, nor the date on which the separation had taken
place. At first they had supposed it must be something of the nature
of a serious aversion. But in his later letters he occasionally
alluded to the intention of coming home to fetch her; from which
expressions they hoped the division might not owe its origin to
anything so hopelessly permanent as that. He had told them that she
was with her relatives, and in their doubts they had decided not to
intrude into a situation which they knew no way of bettering.
The eyes for which Tess's letter was intended were gazing at this
time on a limitless expanse of country from the back of a mule which
was bearing him from the interior of the South-American Continent
towards the coast. His experiences of this strange land had been
sad. The severe illness from which he had suffered shortly after
his arrival had never wholly left him, and he had by degrees almost
decided to relinquish his hope of farming here, though, as long as
the bare possibility existed of his remaining, he kept this change
of view a secret from his parents.
The crowds of agricultural labourers who had come out to the country
in his wake, dazzled by representations of easy independence, had
suffered, died, and wasted away. He would see mothers from English
farms trudging along with their infants in their arms, when the child
would be stricken with fever and would die; the mother would pause
to dig a hole in the loose earth with her bare hands, would bury the
babe therein with the same natural grave-tools, shed one tear, and
again trudge on.
Angel's original intention had not been emigration to Brazil but a
northern or eastern farm in his own country. He had come to this
place in a fit of desperation, the Brazil movement among the English
agriculturists having by chance coincided with his desire to escape
from his past existence.
During this time of absence he had mentally aged a dozen years.
What arrested him now as of value in life was less its beauty than
its pathos. Having long discredited the old systems of mysticism,
he now began to discredit the old appraisements of morality. He
thought they wanted readjusting. Who was the moral man? Still more
pertinently, who was the moral woman? The beauty or ugliness of
a character lay not only in its achievements, but in its aims and
impulses; its true history lay, not among things done, but among
things willed.
How, then, about Tess?
Viewing her in these lights, a regret for his hasty judgement began
to oppress him. Did he reject her eternally, or did he not? He
could no longer say that he would always reject her, and not to say
that was in spirit to accept her now.
This growing fondness for her memory coincided in point of time
with her residence at Flintcomb-Ash, but it was before she had felt
herself at liberty to trouble him with a word about her circumstances
or her feelings. He was greatly perplexed; and in his perplexity as
to her motives in withholding intelligence, he did not inquire. Thus
her silence of docility was misinterpreted. How much it really said
if he had understood!--that she adhered with literal exactness to
orders which he had given and forgotten; that despite her natural
fearlessness she asserted no rights, admitted his judgement to be in
every respect the true one, and bent her head dumbly thereto.
In the before-mentioned journey by mules through the interior of the
country, another man rode beside him. Angel's companion was also an
Englishman, bent on the same errand, though he came from another part
of the island. They were both in a state of mental depression, and
they spoke of home affairs. Confidence begat confidence. With that
curious tendency evinced by men, more especially when in distant
lands, to entrust to strangers details of their lives which they
would on no account mention to friends, Angel admitted to this man
as they rode along the sorrowful facts of his marriage.
The stranger had sojourned in many more lands and among many more
peoples than Angel; to his cosmopolitan mind such deviations from the
social norm, so immense to domesticity, were no more than are the
irregularities of vale and mountain-chain to the whole terrestrial
curve. He viewed the matter in quite a different light from Angel;
thought that what Tess had been was of no importance beside what she
would be, and plainly told Clare that he was wrong in coming away
from her.
The next day they were drenched in a thunder-storm. Angel's companion
was struck down with fever, and died by the week's end. Clare waited
a few hours to bury him, and then went on his way.
The cursory remarks of the large-minded stranger, of whom he knew
absolutely nothing beyond a commonplace name, were sublimed by his
death, and influenced Clare more than all the reasoned ethics of the
philosophers. His own parochialism made him ashamed by its contrast.
His inconsistencies rushed upon him in a flood. He had persistently
elevated Hellenic Paganism at the expense of Christianity; yet in
that civilization an illegal surrender was not certain disesteem.
Surely then he might have regarded that abhorrence of the un-intact
state, which he had inherited with the creed of mysticism, as at
least open to correction when the result was due to treachery. A
remorse struck into him. The words of Izz Huett, never quite stilled
in his memory, came back to him. He had asked Izz if she loved him,
and she had replied in the affirmative. Did she love him more than
Tess did? No, she had replied; Tess would lay down her life for him,
and she herself could do no more.
He thought of Tess as she had appeared on the day of the wedding.
How her eyes had lingered upon him; how she had hung upon his words
as if they were a god's! And during the terrible evening over the
hearth, when her simple soul uncovered itself to his, how pitiful her
face had looked by the rays of the fire, in her inability to realize
that his love and protection could possibly be withdrawn.
Thus from being her critic he grew to be her advocate. Cynical
things he had uttered to himself about her; but no man can be always
a cynic and live; and he withdrew them. The mistake of expressing
them had arisen from his allowing himself to be influenced by general
principles to the disregard of the particular instance.
But the reasoning is somewhat musty; lovers and husbands have gone
over the ground before to-day. Clare had been harsh towards her;
there is no doubt of it. Men are too often harsh with women they
love or have loved; women with men. And yet these harshnesses are
tenderness itself when compared with the universal harshness out
of which they grow; the harshness of the position towards the
temperament, of the means towards the aims, of to-day towards
yesterday, of hereafter towards to-day.
The historic interest of her family--that masterful line of
d'Urbervilles--whom he had despised as a spent force, touched his
sentiments now. Why had he not known the difference between the
political value and the imaginative value of these things? In
the latter aspect her d'Urberville descent was a fact of great
dimensions; worthless to economics, it was a most useful ingredient
to the dreamer, to the moralizer on declines and falls. It was a
fact that would soon be forgotten--that bit of distinction in poor
Tess's blood and name, and oblivion would fall upon her hereditary
link with the marble monuments and leaded skeletons at Kingsbere. So
does Time ruthlessly destroy his own romances. In recalling her face
again and again, he thought now that he could see therein a flash of
the dignity which must have graced her grand-dames; and the vision
sent that _aura_ through his veins which he had formerly felt, and
which left behind it a sense of sickness.
Despite her not-inviolate past, what still abode in such a woman as
Tess outvalued the freshness of her fellows. Was not the gleaning
of the grapes of Ephraim better than the vintage of Abiezer?
So spoke love renascent, preparing the way for Tess's devoted
outpouring, which was then just being forwarded to him by his father;
though owing to his distance inland it was to be a long time in
reaching him.
Meanwhile the writer's expectation that Angel would come in response
to the entreaty was alternately great and small. What lessened it
was that the facts of her life which had led to the parting had
not changed--could never change; and that, if her presence had not
attenuated them, her absence could not. Nevertheless she addressed
her mind to the tender question of what she could do to please him
best if he should arrive. Sighs were expended on the wish that she
had taken more notice of the tunes he played on his harp, that she
had inquired more curiously of him which were his favourite ballads
among those the country-girls sang. She indirectly inquired of Amby
Seedling, who had followed Izz from Talbothays, and by chance Amby
remembered that, amongst the snatches of melody in which they had
indulged at the dairyman's, to induce the cows to let down their
milk, Clare had seemed to like "Cupid's Gardens", "I have parks, I
have hounds", and "The break o' the day"; and had seemed not to care
for "The Tailor's Breeches" and "Such a beauty I did grow", excellent
ditties as they were.
To perfect the ballads was now her whimsical desire. She practised
them privately at odd moments, especially "The break o' the day":
Arise, arise, arise!
And pick your love a posy,
All o' the sweetest flowers
That in the garden grow.
The turtle doves and sma' birds
In every bough a-building,
So early in the May-time
At the break o' the day!
It would have melted the heart of a stone to hear her singing these
ditties whenever she worked apart from the rest of the girls in this
cold dry time; the tears running down her cheeks all the while at the
thought that perhaps he would not, after all, come to hear her, and
the simple silly words of the songs resounding in painful mockery of
the aching heart of the singer.
Tess was so wrapt up in this fanciful dream that she seemed not to
know how the season was advancing; that the days had lengthened, that
Lady-Day was at hand, and would soon be followed by Old Lady-Day, the
end of her term here.
But before the quarter-day had quite come, something happened which
made Tess think of far different matters. She was at her lodging as
usual one evening, sitting in the downstairs room with the rest of
the family, when somebody knocked at the door and inquired for Tess.
Through the doorway she saw against the declining light a figure
with the height of a woman and the breadth of a child, a tall, thin,
girlish creature whom she did not recognize in the twilight till the
girl said "Tess!"
"What--is it 'Liza-Lu?" asked Tess, in startled accents. Her sister,
whom a little over a year ago she had left at home as a child, had
sprung up by a sudden shoot to a form of this presentation, of which
as yet Lu seemed herself scarce able to understand the meaning.
Her thin legs, visible below her once-long frock, now short by her
growing, and her uncomfortable hands and arms revealed her youth and
inexperience.
"Yes, I have been traipsing about all day, Tess," said Lu, with
unemotional gravity, "a-trying to find 'ee; and I'm very tired."
"What is the matter at home?"
"Mother is took very bad, and the doctor says she's dying, and as
father is not very well neither, and says 'tis wrong for a man of
such a high family as his to slave and drave at common labouring
work, we don't know what to do."
Tess stood in reverie a long time before she thought of asking
'Liza-Lu to come in and sit down. When she had done so, and 'Liza-Lu
was having some tea, she came to a decision. It was imperative that
she should go home. Her agreement did not end till Old Lady-Day, the
sixth of April, but as the interval thereto was not a long one she
resolved to run the risk of starting at once.
To go that night would be a gain of twelve-hours; but her sister
was too tired to undertake such a distance till the morrow. Tess
ran down to where Marian and Izz lived, informed them of what had
happened, and begged them to make the best of her case to the farmer.
Returning, she got Lu a supper, and after that, having tucked the
younger into her own bed, packed up as many of her belongings as
would go into a withy basket, and started, directing Lu to follow
her next morning. | Angel's parents send the letter to their son in Brazil. His worried mother takes out her sorrow on Reverend Clare for not insisting that Angel attend Cambridge like his brothers. However, Reverend Clare feels no such regret but is saddened by the situation. A more mature Angel, who has forgiven Tess and regrets his hasty actions, is ready to come home, especially when an older man he admires tells him before he dies that he was wrong to abandon her. Meanwhile, Tess's sister Liza Lu arrives at Flintcomb-Ash to tell Tess that their mother has taken ill and to return home |
"Some time elapsed before I learned the history of my friends. It was
one which could not fail to impress itself deeply on my mind, unfolding
as it did a number of circumstances each interesting and wonderful to
one so utterly inexperienced as I was.
"The name of the old man was De Lacey. He was descended from a good
family in France, where he had lived for many years in affluence,
respected by his superiors, and beloved by his equals. His son was bred
in the service of his country; and Agatha had ranked with ladies of the
highest distinction. A few months before my arrival, they had lived in a
large and luxurious city, called Paris, surrounded by friends, and
possessed of every enjoyment which virtue, refinement of intellect, or
taste, accompanied by a moderate fortune, could afford.
"The father of Safie had been the cause of their ruin. He was a Turkish
merchant, and had inhabited Paris for many years, when, for some reason
which I could not learn, he became obnoxious to the government. He was
seized and cast into prison the very day that Safie arrived from
Constantinople to join him. He was tried, and condemned to death. The
injustice of his sentence was very flagrant; all Paris was indignant;
and it was judged that his religion and wealth, rather than the crime
alleged against him, had been the cause of his condemnation.
"Felix had been present at the trial; his horror and indignation were
uncontrollable, when he heard the decision of the court. He made, at
that moment, a solemn vow to deliver him, and then looked around for the
means. After many fruitless attempts to gain admittance to the prison,
he found a strongly grated window in an unguarded part of the building,
which lighted the dungeon of the unfortunate Mahometan; who, loaded with
chains, waited in despair the execution of the barbarous sentence. Felix
visited the grate at night, and made known to the prisoner his
intentions in his favour. The Turk, amazed and delighted, endeavoured to
kindle the zeal of his deliverer by promises of reward and wealth. Felix
rejected his offers with contempt; yet when he saw the lovely Safie, who
was allowed to visit her father, and who, by her gestures, expressed her
lively gratitude, the youth could not help owning to his own mind, that
the captive possessed a treasure which would fully reward his toil and
hazard.
"The Turk quickly perceived the impression that his daughter had made on
the heart of Felix, and endeavoured to secure him more entirely in his
interests by the promise of her hand in marriage, so soon as he should
be conveyed to a place of safety. Felix was too delicate to accept this
offer; yet he looked forward to the probability of that event as to the
consummation of his happiness.
"During the ensuing days, while the preparations were going forward for
the escape of the merchant, the zeal of Felix was warmed by several
letters that he received from this lovely girl, who found means to
express her thoughts in the language of her lover by the aid of an old
man, a servant of her father's, who understood French. She thanked him
in the most ardent terms for his intended services towards her father;
and at the same time she gently deplored her own fate.
"I have copies of these letters; for I found means, during my residence
in the hovel, to procure the implements of writing; and the letters were
often in the hands of Felix or Agatha. Before I depart, I will give them
to you, they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the
sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the
substance of them to you.
"Safie related, that her mother was a Christian Arab, seized and made a
slave by the Turks; recommended by her beauty, she had won the heart of
the father of Safie, who married her. The young girl spoke in high and
enthusiastic terms of her mother, who, born in freedom spurned the
bondage to which she was now reduced. She instructed her daughter in the
tenets of her religion, and taught her to aspire to higher powers of
intellect, and an independence of spirit, forbidden to the female
followers of Mahomet. This lady died; but her lessons were indelibly
impressed on the mind of Safie, who sickened at the prospect of again
returning to Asia, and the being immured within the walls of a haram,
allowed only to occupy herself with puerile amusements, ill suited to
the temper of her soul, now accustomed to grand ideas and a noble
emulation for virtue. The prospect of marrying a Christian, and
remaining in a country where women were allowed to take a rank in
society, was enchanting to her.
"The day for the execution of the Turk was fixed; but, on the night
previous to it, he had quitted prison, and before morning was distant
many leagues from Paris. Felix had procured passports in the name of his
father, sister, and himself. He had previously communicated his plan to
the former, who aided the deceit by quitting his house, under the
pretence of a journey, and concealed himself, with his daughter, in an
obscure part of Paris.
"Felix conducted the fugitives through France to Lyons, and across Mont
Cenis to Leghorn, where the merchant had decided to wait a favourable
opportunity of passing into some part of the Turkish dominions.
"Safie resolved to remain with her father until the moment of his
departure, before which time the Turk renewed his promise that she
should be united to his deliverer; and Felix remained with them in
expectation of that event; and in the mean time he enjoyed the society
of the Arabian, who exhibited towards him the simplest and tenderest
affection. They conversed with one another through the means of an
interpreter, and sometimes with the interpretation of looks; and Safie
sang to him the divine airs of her native country.
"The Turk allowed this intimacy to take place, and encouraged the hopes
of the youthful lovers, while in his heart he had formed far other
plans. He loathed the idea that his daughter should be united to a
Christian; but he feared the resentment of Felix if he should appear
lukewarm; for he knew that he was still in the power of his deliverer,
if he should choose to betray him to the Italian state which they
inhabited. He revolved a thousand plans by which he should be enabled to
prolong the deceit until it might be no longer necessary, and secretly
to take his daughter with him when he departed. His plans were greatly
facilitated by the news which arrived from Paris.
"The government of France were greatly enraged at the escape of their
victim, and spared no pains to detect and punish his deliverer. The plot
of Felix was quickly discovered, and De Lacey and Agatha were thrown
into prison. The news reached Felix, and roused him from his dream of
pleasure. His blind and aged father, and his gentle sister, lay in a
noisome dungeon, while he enjoyed the free air, and the society of her
whom he loved. This idea was torture to him. He quickly arranged with
the Turk, that if the latter should find a favourable opportunity for
escape before Felix could return to Italy, Safie should remain as a
boarder at a convent at Leghorn; and then, quitting the lovely Arabian,
he hastened to Paris, and delivered himself up to the vengeance of the
law, hoping to free De Lacey and Agatha by this proceeding.
"He did not succeed. They remained confined for five months before the
trial took place; the result of which deprived them of their fortune,
and condemned them to a perpetual exile from their native country.
"They found a miserable asylum in the cottage in Germany, where I
discovered them. Felix soon learned that the treacherous Turk, for whom
he and his family endured such unheard-of oppression, on discovering
that his deliverer was thus reduced to poverty and impotence, became a
traitor to good feeling and honour, and had quitted Italy with his
daughter, insultingly sending Felix a pittance of money to aid him, as
he said, in some plan of future maintenance.
"Such were the events that preyed on the heart of Felix, and rendered
him, when I first saw him, the most miserable of his family. He could
have endured poverty, and when this distress had been the meed of his
virtue, he would have gloried in it: but the ingratitude of the Turk,
and the loss of his beloved Safie, were misfortunes more bitter and
irreparable. The arrival of the Arabian now infused new life into his
soul.
"When the news reached Leghorn, that Felix was deprived of his wealth
and rank, the merchant commanded his daughter to think no more of her
lover, but to prepare to return with him to her native country. The
generous nature of Safie was outraged by this command; she attempted to
expostulate with her father, but he left her angrily, reiterating his
tyrannical mandate.
"A few days after, the Turk entered his daughter's apartment, and told
her hastily, that he had reason to believe that his residence at Leghorn
had been divulged, and that he should speedily be delivered up to the
French government; he had, consequently, hired a vessel to convey him
to Constantinople, for which city he should sail in a few hours. He
intended to leave his daughter under the care of a confidential servant,
to follow at her leisure with the greater part of his property, which
had not yet arrived at Leghorn.
"When alone, Safie resolved in her own mind the plan of conduct that it
would become her to pursue in this emergency. A residence in Turkey was
abhorrent to her; her religion and feelings were alike adverse to it. By
some papers of her father's, which fell into her hands, she heard of the
exile of her lover, and learnt the name of the spot where he then
resided. She hesitated some time, but at length she formed her
determination. Taking with her some jewels that belonged to her, and a
small sum of money, she quitted Italy, with an attendant, a native of
Leghorn, but who understood the common language of Turkey, and departed
for Germany.
"She arrived in safety at a town about twenty leagues from the cottage
of De Lacey, when her attendant fell dangerously ill. Safie nursed her
with the most devoted affection; but the poor girl died, and the Arabian
was left alone, unacquainted with the language of the country, and
utterly ignorant of the customs of the world. She fell, however, into
good hands. The Italian had mentioned the name of the spot for which
they were bound; and, after her death, the woman of the house in which
they had lived took care that Safie should arrive in safety at the
cottage of her lover."
"Such was the history of my beloved cottagers. It impressed me deeply. I
learned, from the views of social life which it developed, to admire
their virtues, and to deprecate the vices of mankind.
"As yet I looked upon crime as a distant evil; benevolence and
generosity were ever present before me, inciting within me a desire to
become an actor in the busy scene where so many admirable qualities were
called forth and displayed. But, in giving an account of the progress of
my intellect, I must not omit a circumstance which occurred in the
beginning of the month of August of the same year.
"One night, during my accustomed visit to the neighbouring wood, where I
collected my own food, and brought home firing for my protectors, I
found on the ground a leathern portmanteau, containing several articles
of dress and some books. I eagerly seized the prize, and returned with
it to my hovel. Fortunately the books were written in the language the
elements of which I had acquired at the cottage; they consisted of
_Paradise Lost_, a volume of _Plutarch's Lives_, and the _Sorrows of
Werter_. The possession of these treasures gave me extreme delight; I
now continually studied and exercised my mind upon these histories,
whilst my friends were employed in their ordinary occupations.
"I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books. They produced
in me an infinity of new images and feelings, that sometimes raised me
to ecstacy, but more frequently sunk me into the lowest dejection. In
the _Sorrows of Werter_, besides the interest of its simple and
affecting story, so many opinions are canvassed, and so many lights
thrown upon what had hitherto been to me obscure subjects, that I found
in it a never-ending source of speculation and astonishment. The gentle
and domestic manners it described, combined with lofty sentiments and
feelings, which had for their object something out of self, accorded
well with my experience among my protectors, and with the wants which
were for ever alive in my own bosom. But I thought Werter himself a more
divine being than I had ever beheld or imagined; his character contained
no pretension, but it sunk deep. The disquisitions upon death and
suicide were calculated to fill me with wonder. I did not pretend to
enter into the merits of the case, yet I inclined towards the opinions
of the hero, whose extinction I wept, without precisely understanding
it.
"As I read, however, I applied much personally to my own feelings and
condition. I found myself similar, yet at the same time strangely unlike
the beings concerning whom I read, and to whose conversation I was a
listener. I sympathized with, and partly understood them, but I was
unformed in mind; I was dependent on none, and related to none. 'The
path of my departure was free;' and there was none to lament my
annihilation. My person was hideous, and my stature gigantic: what did
this mean? Who was I? What was I? Whence did I come? What was my
destination? These questions continually recurred, but I was unable to
solve them.
"The volume of _Plutarch's Lives_ which I possessed, contained the
histories of the first founders of the ancient republics. This book had
a far different effect upon me from the _Sorrows of Werter_. I learned
from Werter's imaginations despondency and gloom: but Plutarch taught me
high thoughts; he elevated me above the wretched sphere of my own
reflections, to admire and love the heroes of past ages. Many things I
read surpassed my understanding and experience. I had a very confused
knowledge of kingdoms, wide extents of country, mighty rivers, and
boundless seas. But I was perfectly unacquainted with towns, and large
assemblages of men. The cottage of my protectors had been the only
school in which I had studied human nature; but this book developed new
and mightier scenes of action. I read of men concerned in public affairs
governing or massacring their species. I felt the greatest ardour for
virtue rise within me, and abhorrence for vice, as far as I understood
the signification of those terms, relative as they were, as I applied
them, to pleasure and pain alone. Induced by these feelings, I was of
course led to admire peaceable law-givers, Numa, Solon, and Lycurgus,
in preference to Romulus and Theseus. The patriarchal lives of my
protectors caused these impressions to take a firm hold on my mind;
perhaps, if my first introduction to humanity had been made by a young
soldier, burning for glory and slaughter, I should have been imbued with
different sensations.
"But _Paradise Lost_ excited different and far deeper emotions. I read
it, as I had read the other volumes which had fallen into my hands, as a
true history. It moved every feeling of wonder and awe, that the picture
of an omnipotent God warring with his creatures was capable of exciting.
I often referred the several situations, as their similarity struck me,
to my own. Like Adam, I was created apparently united by no link to any
other being in existence; but his state was far different from mine in
every other respect. He had come forth from the hands of God a perfect
creature, happy and prosperous, guarded by the especial care of his
Creator; he was allowed to converse with, and acquire knowledge from
beings of a superior nature: but I was wretched, helpless, and alone.
Many times I considered Satan as the fitter emblem of my condition; for
often, like him, when I viewed the bliss of my protectors, the bitter
gall of envy rose within me.
"Another circumstance strengthened and confirmed these feelings. Soon
after my arrival in the hovel, I discovered some papers in the pocket of
the dress which I had taken from your laboratory. At first I had
neglected them; but now that I was able to decypher the characters in
which they were written, I began to study them with diligence. It was
your journal of the four months that preceded my creation. You minutely
described in these papers every step you took in the progress of your
work; this history was mingled with accounts of domestic occurrences.
You, doubtless, recollect these papers. Here they are. Every thing is
related in them which bears reference to my accursed origin; the whole
detail of that series of disgusting circumstances which produced it is
set in view; the minutest description of my odious and loathsome person
is given, in language which painted your own horrors, and rendered mine
ineffaceable. I sickened as I read. 'Hateful day when I received life!'
I exclaimed in agony. 'Cursed creator! Why did you form a monster so
hideous that even you turned from me in disgust? God in pity made man
beautiful and alluring, after his own image; but my form is a filthy
type of your's, more horrid from its very resemblance. Satan had his
companions, fellow-devils, to admire and encourage him; but I am
solitary and detested.'
"These were the reflections of my hours of despondency and solitude; but
when I contemplated the virtues of the cottagers, their amiable and
benevolent dispositions, I persuaded myself that when they should become
acquainted with my admiration of their virtues, they would compassionate
me, and overlook my personal deformity. Could they turn from their door
one, however monstrous, who solicited their compassion and friendship?
I resolved, at least, not to despair, but in every way to fit myself for
an interview with them which would decide my fate. I postponed this
attempt for some months longer; for the importance attached to its
success inspired me with a dread lest I should fail. Besides, I found
that my understanding improved so much with every day's experience, that
I was unwilling to commence this undertaking until a few more months
should have added to my wisdom.
"Several changes, in the mean time, took place in the cottage. The
presence of Safie diffused happiness among its inhabitants; and I also
found that a greater degree of plenty reigned there. Felix and Agatha
spent more time in amusement and conversation, and were assisted in
their labours by servants. They did not appear rich, but they were
contented and happy; their feelings were serene and peaceful, while mine
became every day more tumultuous. Increase of knowledge only discovered
to me more clearly what a wretched outcast I was. I cherished hope, it
is true; but it vanished, when I beheld my person reflected in water, or
my shadow in the moon-shine, even as that frail image and that
inconstant shade.
"I endeavoured to crush these fears, and to fortify myself for the trial
which in a few months I resolved to undergo; and sometimes I allowed my
thoughts, unchecked by reason, to ramble in the fields of Paradise, and
dared to fancy amiable and lovely creatures sympathizing with my
feelings and cheering my gloom; their angelic countenances breathed
smiles of consolation. But it was all a dream: no Eve soothed my
sorrows, or shared my thoughts; I was alone. I remembered Adam's
supplication to his Creator; but where was mine? he had abandoned me,
and, in the bitterness of my heart, I cursed him.
"Autumn passed thus. I saw, with surprise and grief, the leaves decay
and fall, and nature again assume the barren and bleak appearance it had
worn when I first beheld the woods and the lovely moon. Yet I did not
heed the bleakness of the weather; I was better fitted by my
conformation for the endurance of cold than heat. But my chief delights
were the sight of the flowers, the birds, and all the gay apparel of
summer; when those deserted me, I turned with more attention towards the
cottagers. Their happiness was not decreased by the absence of summer.
They loved, and sympathized with one another; and their joys, depending
on each other, were not interrupted by the casualties that took place
around them. The more I saw of them, the greater became my desire to
claim their protection and kindness; my heart yearned to be known and
loved by these amiable creatures: to see their sweet looks turned
towards me with affection, was the utmost limit of my ambition. I dared
not think that they would turn them from me with disdain and horror. The
poor that stopped at their door were never driven away. I asked, it is
true, for greater treasures than a little food or rest; I required
kindness and sympathy; but I did not believe myself utterly unworthy of
it.
"The winter advanced, and an entire revolution of the seasons had taken
place since I awoke into life. My attention, at this time, was solely
directed towards my plan of introducing myself into the cottage of my
protectors. I revolved many projects; but that on which I finally fixed
was, to enter the dwelling when the blind old man should be alone. I had
sagacity enough to discover, that the unnatural hideousness of my person
was the chief object of horror with those who had formerly beheld me. My
voice, although harsh, had nothing terrible in it; I thought, therefore,
that if, in the absence of his children, I could gain the good-will and
mediation of the old De Lacy, I might, by his means, be tolerated by my
younger protectors.
"One day, when the sun shone on the red leaves that strewed the ground,
and diffused cheerfulness, although it denied warmth, Safie, Agatha, and
Felix, departed on a long country walk, and the old man, at his own
desire, was left alone in the cottage. When his children had departed,
he took up his guitar, and played several mournful, but sweet airs, more
sweet and mournful than I had ever heard him play before. At first his
countenance was illuminated with pleasure, but, as he continued,
thoughtfulness and sadness succeeded; at length, laying aside the
instrument, he sat absorbed in reflection.
"My heart beat quick; this was the hour and moment of trial, which
would decide my hopes, or realize my fears. The servants were gone to a
neighbouring fair. All was silent in and around the cottage: it was an
excellent opportunity; yet, when I proceeded to execute my plan, my
limbs failed me, and I sunk to the ground. Again I rose; and, exerting
all the firmness of which I was master, removed the planks which I had
placed before my hovel to conceal my retreat. The fresh air revived me,
and, with renewed determination, I approached the door of their cottage.
"I knocked. 'Who is there?' said the old man--'Come in.'
"I entered; 'Pardon this intrusion,' said I, 'I am a traveller in want
of a little rest; you would greatly oblige me, if you would allow me to
remain a few minutes before the fire.'
"'Enter,' said De Lacy; 'and I will try in what manner I can relieve
your wants; but, unfortunately, my children are from home, and, as I am
blind, I am afraid I shall find it difficult to procure food for you.'
"'Do not trouble yourself, my kind host, I have food; it is warmth and
rest only that I need.'
"I sat down, and a silence ensued. I knew that every minute was precious
to me, yet I remained irresolute in what manner to commence the
interview; when the old man addressed me--
"'By your language, stranger, I suppose you are my countryman;--are you
French?'
"'No; but I was educated by a French family, and understand that
language only. I am now going to claim the protection of some friends,
whom I sincerely love, and of whose favour I have some hopes.'
"'Are these Germans?'
"'No, they are French. But let us change the subject. I am an
unfortunate and deserted creature; I look around, and I have no relation
or friend upon earth. These amiable people to whom I go have never seen
me, and know little of me. I am full of fears; for if I fail there, I am
an outcast in the world for ever.'
"'Do not despair. To be friendless is indeed to be unfortunate; but the
hearts of men, when unprejudiced by any obvious self-interest, are full
of brotherly love and charity. Rely, therefore, on your hopes; and if
these friends are good and amiable, do not despair.'
"'They are kind--they are the most excellent creatures in the world;
but, unfortunately, they are prejudiced against me. I have good
dispositions; my life has been hitherto harmless, and, in some degree,
beneficial; but a fatal prejudice clouds their eyes, and where they
ought to see a feeling and kind friend, they behold only a detestable
monster.'
"'That is indeed unfortunate; but if you are really blameless, cannot
you undeceive them?'
"'I am about to undertake that task; and it is on that account that I
feel so many overwhelming terrors. I tenderly love these friends; I
have, unknown to them, been for many months in the habits of daily
kindness towards them; but they believe that I wish to injure them, and
it is that prejudice which I wish to overcome.'
"'Where do these friends reside?'
"'Near this spot.'
"The old man paused, and then continued, 'If you will unreservedly
confide to me the particulars of your tale, I perhaps may be of use in
undeceiving them. I am blind, and cannot judge of your countenance, but
there is something in your words which persuades me that you are
sincere. I am poor, and an exile; but it will afford me true pleasure to
be in any way serviceable to a human creature.'
"'Excellent man! I thank you, and accept your generous offer. You raise
me from the dust by this kindness; and I trust that, by your aid, I
shall not be driven from the society and sympathy of your
fellow-creatures.'
"'Heaven forbid! even if you were really criminal; for that can only
drive you to desperation, and not instigate you to virtue. I also am
unfortunate; I and my family have been condemned, although innocent:
judge, therefore, if I do not feel for your misfortunes.'
"'How can I thank you, my best and only benefactor? from your lips first
have I heard the voice of kindness directed towards me; I shall be for
ever grateful; and your present humanity assures me of success with
those friends whom I am on the point of meeting.'
"'May I know the names and residence of those friends?'
"I paused. This, I thought, was the moment of decision, which was to rob
me of, or bestow happiness on me for ever. I struggled vainly for
firmness sufficient to answer him, but the effort destroyed all my
remaining strength; I sank on the chair, and sobbed aloud. At that
moment I heard the steps of my younger protectors. I had not a moment to
lose; but, seizing the hand of the old man, I cried, 'Now is the
time!--save and protect me! You and your family are the friends whom I
seek. Do not you desert me in the hour of trial!'
"'Great God!' exclaimed the old man, 'who are you?'
"At that instant the cottage door was opened, and Felix, Safie, and
Agatha entered. Who can describe their horror and consternation on
beholding me? Agatha fainted; and Safie, unable to attend to her friend,
rushed out of the cottage. Felix darted forward, and with supernatural
force tore me from his father, to whose knees I clung: in a transport of
fury, he dashed me to the ground, and struck me violently with a stick.
I could have torn him limb from limb, as the lion rends the antelope.
But my heart sunk within me as with bitter sickness, and I refrained. I
saw him on the point of repeating his blow, when, overcome by pain and
anguish, I quitted the cottage, and in the general tumult escaped
unperceived to my hovel." | The monster continues with his story concerning the De Lacey family. They were a well-to-do French family, living in Paris, enjoying wealth and social status. Felix was concerned about the unfairness of the French judicial system and together with Safie's father; they hatch a plot to undermine the French system with a view to freeing her father, a Turkish merchant, from a death sentence. During this time, Safie wrote to Felix encouraging his endeavors. The monster has copies of these. However, the French authorities discover their plans and the De Laceys are deported, losing all their wealth. The De Laceys' fortunes look up on the arrival of Safie who brings some wealth with her. The monster still views the family from a distance, but as Safie improves her education, so does the monster. He wears Victor's overcoat and is now able to understand the books in one of the pockets of the coat, which are Milton's "Paradise Lost", and Victor's own Notebooks, which explain how the monster was created. The monster is horrified to learn how he came into existence. |
MOTHER
Elizabeth Willard, the mother of George Willard, was
tall and gaunt and her face was marked with smallpox
scars. Although she was but forty-five, some obscure
disease had taken the fire out of her figure.
Listlessly she went about the disorderly old hotel
looking at the faded wall-paper and the ragged carpets
and, when she was able to be about, doing the work of a
chambermaid among beds soiled by the slumbers of fat
traveling men. Her husband, Tom Willard, a slender,
graceful man with square shoulders, a quick military
step, and a black mustache trained to turn sharply up
at the ends, tried to put the wife out of his mind. The
presence of the tall ghostly figure, moving slowly
through the halls, he took as a reproach to himself.
When he thought of her he grew angry and swore. The
hotel was unprofitable and forever on the edge of
failure and he wished himself out of it. He thought of
the old house and the woman who lived there with him as
things defeated and done for. The hotel in which he had
begun life so hopefully was now a mere ghost of what a
hotel should be. As he went spruce and business-like
through the streets of Winesburg, he sometimes stopped
and turned quickly about as though fearing that the
spirit of the hotel and of the woman would follow him
even into the streets. "Damn such a life, damn it!" he
sputtered aimlessly.
Tom Willard had a passion for village politics and for
years had been the leading Democrat in a strongly
Republican community. Some day, he told himself, the
tide of things political will turn in my favor and the
years of ineffectual service count big in the bestowal
of rewards. He dreamed of going to Congress and even of
becoming governor. Once when a younger member of the
party arose at a political conference and began to
boast of his faithful service, Tom Willard grew white
with fury. "Shut up, you," he roared, glaring about.
"What do you know of service? What are you but a boy?
Look at what I've done here! I was a Democrat here in
Winesburg when it was a crime to be a Democrat. In the
old days they fairly hunted us with guns."
Between Elizabeth and her one son George there was a
deep unexpressed bond of sympathy, based on a girlhood
dream that had long ago died. In the son's presence she
was timid and reserved, but sometimes while he hurried
about town intent upon his duties as a reporter, she
went into his room and closing the door knelt by a
little desk, made of a kitchen table, that sat near a
window. In the room by the desk she went through a
ceremony that was half a prayer, half a demand,
addressed to the skies. In the boyish figure she
yearned to see something half forgotten that had once
been a part of herself recreated. The prayer concerned
that. "Even though I die, I will in some way keep
defeat from you," she cried, and so deep was her
determination that her whole body shook. Her eyes
glowed and she clenched her fists. "If I am dead and
see him becoming a meaningless drab figure like myself,
I will come back," she declared. "I ask God now to give
me that privilege. I demand it. I will pay for it. God
may beat me with his fists. I will take any blow that
may befall if but this my boy be allowed to express
something for us both." Pausing uncertainly, the woman
stared about the boy's room. "And do not let him become
smart and successful either," she added vaguely.
The communion between George Willard and his mother was
outwardly a formal thing without meaning. When she was
ill and sat by the window in her room he sometimes went
in the evening to make her a visit. They sat by a
window that looked over the roof of a small frame
building into Main Street. By turning their heads they
could see through another window, along an alleyway
that ran behind the Main Street stores and into the
back door of Abner Groff's bakery. Sometimes as they
sat thus a picture of village life presented itself to
them. At the back door of his shop appeared Abner Groff
with a stick or an empty milk bottle in his hand. For a
long time there was a feud between the baker and a grey
cat that belonged to Sylvester West, the druggist. The
boy and his mother saw the cat creep into the door of
the bakery and presently emerge followed by the baker,
who swore and waved his arms about. The baker's eyes
were small and red and his black hair and beard were
filled with flour dust. Sometimes he was so angry that,
although the cat had disappeared, he hurled sticks,
bits of broken glass, and even some of the tools of his
trade about. Once he broke a window at the back of
Sinning's Hardware Store. In the alley the grey cat
crouched behind barrels filled with torn paper and
broken bottles above which flew a black swarm of flies.
Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged
and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker,
Elizabeth Willard put her head down on her long white
hands and wept. After that she did not look along the
alleyway any more, but tried to forget the contest
between the bearded man and the cat. It seemed like a
rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness.
In the evening when the son sat in the room with his
mother, the silence made them both feel awkward.
Darkness came on and the evening train came in at the
station. In the street below feet tramped up and down
upon a board sidewalk. In the station yard, after the
evening train had gone, there was a heavy silence.
Perhaps Skinner Leason, the express agent, moved a
truck the length of the station platform. Over on Main
Street sounded a man's voice, laughing. The door of the
express office banged. George Willard arose and
crossing the room fumbled for the doorknob. Sometimes
he knocked against a chair, making it scrape along the
floor. By the window sat the sick woman, perfectly
still, listless. Her long hands, white and bloodless,
could be seen drooping over the ends of the arms of the
chair. "I think you had better be out among the boys.
You are too much indoors," she said, striving to
relieve the embarrassment of the departure. "I thought
I would take a walk," replied George Willard, who felt
awkward and confused.
One evening in July, when the transient guests who made
the New Willard House their temporary home had become
scarce, and the hallways, lighted only by kerosene
lamps turned low, were plunged in gloom, Elizabeth
Willard had an adventure. She had been ill in bed for
several days and her son had not come to visit her. She
was alarmed. The feeble blaze of life that remained in
her body was blown into a flame by her anxiety and she
crept out of bed, dressed and hurried along the hallway
toward her son's room, shaking with exaggerated fears.
As she went along she steadied herself with her hand,
slipped along the papered walls of the hall and
breathed with difficulty. The air whistled through her
teeth. As she hurried forward she thought how foolish
she was. "He is concerned with boyish affairs," she
told herself. "Perhaps he has now begun to walk about
in the evening with girls."
Elizabeth Willard had a dread of being seen by guests
in the hotel that had once belonged to her father and
the ownership of which still stood recorded in her name
in the county courthouse. The hotel was continually
losing patronage because of its shabbiness and she
thought of herself as also shabby. Her own room was in
an obscure corner and when she felt able to work she
voluntarily worked among the beds, preferring the labor
that could be done when the guests were abroad seeking
trade among the merchants of Winesburg.
By the door of her son's room the mother knelt upon the
floor and listened for some sound from within. When she
heard the boy moving about and talking in low tones a
smile came to her lips. George Willard had a habit of
talking aloud to himself and to hear him doing so had
always given his mother a peculiar pleasure. The habit
in him, she felt, strengthened the secret bond that
existed between them. A thousand times she had
whispered to herself of the matter. "He is groping
about, trying to find himself," she thought. "He is not
a dull clod, all words and smartness. Within him there
is a secret something that is striving to grow. It is
the thing I let be killed in myself."
In the darkness in the hallway by the door the sick
woman arose and started again toward her own room. She
was afraid that the door would open and the boy come
upon her. When she had reached a safe distance and was
about to turn a corner into a second hallway she
stopped and bracing herself with her hands waited,
thinking to shake off a trembling fit of weakness that
had come upon her. The presence of the boy in the room
had made her happy. In her bed, during the long hours
alone, the little fears that had visited her had become
giants. Now they were all gone. "When I get back to my
room I shall sleep," she murmured gratefully.
But Elizabeth Willard was not to return to her bed and
to sleep. As she stood trembling in the darkness the
door of her son's room opened and the boy's father, Tom
Willard, stepped out. In the light that steamed out at
the door he stood with the knob in his hand and talked.
What he said infuriated the woman.
Tom Willard was ambitious for his son. He had always
thought of himself as a successful man, although
nothing he had ever done had turned out successfully.
However, when he was out of sight of the New Willard
House and had no fear of coming upon his wife, he
swaggered and began to dramatize himself as one of the
chief men of the town. He wanted his son to succeed. He
it was who had secured for the boy the position on the
Winesburg Eagle. Now, with a ring of earnestness in his
voice, he was advising concerning some course of
conduct. "I tell you what, George, you've got to wake
up," he said sharply. "Will Henderson has spoken to me
three times concerning the matter. He says you go along
for hours not hearing when you are spoken to and acting
like a gawky girl. What ails you?" Tom Willard laughed
good-naturedly. "Well, I guess you'll get over it," he
said. "I told Will that. You're not a fool and you're
not a woman. You're Tom Willard's son and you'll wake
up. I'm not afraid. What you say clears things up. If
being a newspaper man had put the notion of becoming a
writer into your mind that's all right. Only I guess
you'll have to wake up to do that too, eh?"
Tom Willard went briskly along the hallway and down a
flight of stairs to the office. The woman in the
darkness could hear him laughing and talking with a
guest who was striving to wear away a dull evening by
dozing in a chair by the office door. She returned to
the door of her son's room. The weakness had passed
from her body as by a miracle and she stepped boldly
along. A thousand ideas raced through her head. When
she heard the scraping of a chair and the sound of a
pen scratching upon paper, she again turned and went
back along the hallway to her own room.
A definite determination had come into the mind of the
defeated wife of the Winesburg hotel keeper. The
determination was the result of long years of quiet and
rather ineffectual thinking. "Now," she told herself,
"I will act. There is something threatening my boy and
I will ward it off." The fact that the conversation
between Tom Willard and his son had been rather quiet
and natural, as though an understanding existed between
them, maddened her. Although for years she had hated
her husband, her hatred had always before been a quite
impersonal thing. He had been merely a part of
something else that she hated. Now, and by the few
words at the door, he had become the thing personified.
In the darkness of her own room she clenched her fists
and glared about. Going to a cloth bag that hung on a
nail by the wall she took out a long pair of sewing
scissors and held them in her hand like a dagger. "I
will stab him," she said aloud. "He has chosen to be
the voice of evil and I will kill him. When I have
killed him something will snap within myself and I will
die also. It will be a release for all of us."
In her girlhood and before her marriage with Tom
Willard, Elizabeth had borne a somewhat shaky
reputation in Winesburg. For years she had been what is
called "stage-struck" and had paraded through the
streets with traveling men guests at her father's
hotel, wearing loud clothes and urging them to tell her
of life in the cities out of which they had come. Once
she startled the town by putting on men's clothes and
riding a bicycle down Main Street.
In her own mind the tall dark girl had been in those
days much confused. A great restlessness was in her and
it expressed itself in two ways. First there was an
uneasy desire for change, for some big definite
movement to her life. It was this feeling that had
turned her mind to the stage. She dreamed of joining
some company and wandering over the world, seeing
always new faces and giving something out of herself to
all people. Sometimes at night she was quite beside
herself with the thought, but when she tried to talk of
the matter to the members of the theatrical companies
that came to Winesburg and stopped at her father's
hotel, she got nowhere. They did not seem to know what
she meant, or if she did get something of her passion
expressed, they only laughed. "It's not like that,"
they said. "It's as dull and uninteresting as this
here. Nothing comes of it."
With the traveling men when she walked about with them,
and later with Tom Willard, it was quite different.
Always they seemed to understand and sympathize with
her. On the side streets of the village, in the
darkness under the trees, they took hold of her hand
and she thought that something unexpressed in herself
came forth and became a part of an unexpressed
something in them.
And then there was the second expression of her
restlessness. When that came she felt for a time
released and happy. She did not blame the men who
walked with her and later she did not blame Tom
Willard. It was always the same, beginning with kisses
and ending, after strange wild emotions, with peace and
then sobbing repentance. When she sobbed she put her
hand upon the face of the man and had always the same
thought. Even though he were large and bearded she
thought he had become suddenly a little boy. She
wondered why he did not sob also.
In her room, tucked away in a corner of the old Willard
House, Elizabeth Willard lighted a lamp and put it on a
dressing table that stood by the door. A thought had
come into her mind and she went to a closet and brought
out a small square box and set it on the table. The box
contained material for make-up and had been left with
other things by a theatrical company that had once been
stranded in Winesburg. Elizabeth Willard had decided
that she would be beautiful. Her hair was still black
and there was a great mass of it braided and coiled
about her head. The scene that was to take place in the
office below began to grow in her mind. No ghostly
worn-out figure should confront Tom Willard, but
something quite unexpected and startling. Tall and with
dusky cheeks and hair that fell in a mass from her
shoulders, a figure should come striding down the
stairway before the startled loungers in the hotel
office. The figure would be silent--it would be swift
and terrible. As a tigress whose cub had been
threatened would she appear, coming out of the shadows,
stealing noiselessly along and holding the long wicked
scissors in her hand.
With a little broken sob in her throat, Elizabeth
Willard blew out the light that stood upon the table
and stood weak and trembling in the darkness. The
strength that had been as a miracle in her body left
and she half reeled across the floor, clutching at the
back of the chair in which she had spent so many long
days staring out over the tin roofs into the main
street of Winesburg. In the hallway there was the sound
of footsteps and George Willard came in at the door.
Sitting in a chair beside his mother he began to talk.
"I'm going to get out of here," he said. "I don't know
where I shall go or what I shall do but I am going
away."
The woman in the chair waited and trembled. An impulse
came to her. "I suppose you had better wake up," she
said. "You think that? You will go to the city and make
money, eh? It will be better for you, you think, to be
a business man, to be brisk and smart and alive?" She
waited and trembled.
The son shook his head. "I suppose I can't make you
understand, but oh, I wish I could," he said earnestly.
"I can't even talk to father about it. I don't try.
There isn't any use. I don't know what I shall do. I
just want to go away and look at people and think."
Silence fell upon the room where the boy and woman sat
together. Again, as on the other evenings, they were
embarrassed. After a time the boy tried again to talk.
"I suppose it won't be for a year or two but I've been
thinking about it," he said, rising and going toward
the door. "Something father said makes it sure that I
shall have to go away." He fumbled with the doorknob.
In the room the silence became unbearable to the woman.
She wanted to cry out with joy because of the words
that had come from the lips of her son, but the
expression of joy had become impossible to her. "I
think you had better go out among the boys. You are too
much indoors," she said. "I thought I would go for a
little walk," replied the son stepping awkwardly out of
the room and closing the door. | We move after "Paper Pills" to a story about George Willard's mother and thus get better acquainted with George, the central character of Winesburg, Ohio. Elizabeth Willard is an unhappy woman of forty-five; once she was a tall, dark, restless young girl who dreamed of joining an acting company and "giving something out of herself to all people." The citizens of Winesburg, however, said she was "stage-struck" and they shook their heads in disapproval when they saw her on dates with traveling men who were staying at her father's hotel. Elizabeth, frustrated and bored, found some release in sexual relations with these men and eventually with Tom Willard, a handsome fellow with a military step and a black mustache. Finally, Elizabeth married Tom, who turned out to be a big talker and a dabbler in village politics, but an ineffectual provider. The hotel, under his management, became increasingly dusty, faded, and run-down. In loneliness and despair, Elizabeth turned her dreams on her son George hoping that he might "be allowed to express something for us both." Thus she states what so many of the characters seem to feel about the young reporter, that perhaps he can communicate their suppressed needs, desires, and insights. In wanting him to tell their story, they are like Pirandello's characters -- in search of an author. The characters sense in George, however, an uncertainty about his own goals. Wing Biddlebaum tells the boy, "You are afraid of dreams. You want to be like others in town here." In "Mother," the action, what little there is, begins with Elizabeth's jealous suspicions that George is going to be the kind of man his father wants him to be, a hustling success. In her prayers, Elizabeth begs God not to let George become a "meaningless drab figure like myself," but not to let him "become smart and successful either." As she overhears Tom Willard telling George that he must "wake up" and stop dreaming at the newspaper office, Elizabeth feels such rage that she thinks of stabbing Tom with her sewing scissors. In the smoldering conflict between the ideals held by Tom and Elizabeth, Sherwood Anderson dramatizes the clash of American materialism and artistic values which the author felt in his own life. Like George Willard, Anderson had a rather charming but shiftless father. Like George, Anderson had a mother who died because of hard work and poverty when her son was nineteen. Like George, Anderson had to make a choice between being a sharp, successful businessman or a literary artist. But, unlike George, Anderson did not make his choice until that day when he, at the age of thirty-six walked out of his factory office to become a writer. George states his decision when he says, "I'm going to get out of here . . . I just want to go away and look at people and think." Elizabeth, realizing that she has won, wants to cry out with joy, but both she and George are too embarrassed to communicate with each other openly. In this scene, at the end of the story, Anderson wrote for the two characters exactly the same dialogue he had written earlier in the narrative. This repetition suggests, again, the monotony and loneliness of human beings, but the fact that George is going to try to escape to a bigger world is encouraging. Some critics have said that "Mother" is evidence of Anderson's knowledge of Freud and they have argued that Elizabeth's love for her son is Oedipal. It seems more likely, however, that Anderson is portraying a frustrated dreamer who hopes that her son can discover the opportunities and outlets for creative impulses which she couldn't find. Elizabeth's unhappiness and helplessness is sensed when she watches from her bedroom window a series of battles in a feud between the town baker and a stray cat. We are told, "Once when she was alone, and after watching a prolonged and ineffectual outburst on the part of the baker, Elizabeth Willard put her head down on her long white hands and wept . . . It seemed like a rehearsal of her own life, terrible in its vividness." Yet pathetic as she is, Elizabeth, like Doctor Reefy, is proof that the twisted, gnarled apples are often the sweetest. The first draft of the Winesburg, Ohio manuscript shows that Anderson actually wrote "Mother" sixth but, in preparing his manuscript for publication, he made it the third of his stories. Thus he has introduced his pervasive theme of frustration in the first three stories: "Hands" concerns a person unable to communicate his desire to help others, "Paper Pills" presents a person unable to communicate his ideas, and "Mother" tells the story of a person unable to communicate her love. In this little village that seems to be for Anderson a microcosm of the world, the author shows in case after case that humans must live and die alone. |
CHAPTER XIII
As when a shepherd of the Hebrid-Isles,
Placed far amid the melancholy main,
(Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles,
Or that aerial beings sometimes deign
To stand embodied to our senses plain)
Sees on the naked hill, or valley low,
The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain,
A vast assembly moving to and fro,
Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show.
CASTLE OF INDOLENCE
Madame Cheron's avarice at length yielded to her vanity. Some very
splendid entertainments, which Madame Clairval had given, and the
general adulation, which was paid her, made the former more anxious than
before to secure an alliance, that would so much exalt her in her own
opinion and in that of the world. She proposed terms for the immediate
marriage of her niece, and offered to give Emily a dower, provided
Madame Clairval observed equal terms, on the part of her nephew. Madame
Clairval listened to the proposal, and, considering that Emily was the
apparent heiress of her aunt's wealth, accepted it. Meanwhile, Emily
knew nothing of the transaction, till Madame Cheron informed her, that
she must make preparation for the nuptials, which would be celebrated
without further delay; then, astonished and wholly unable to account for
this sudden conclusion, which Valancourt had not solicited (for he was
ignorant of what had passed between the elder ladies, and had not
dared to hope such good fortune), she decisively objected to it. Madame
Cheron, however, quite as jealous of contradiction now, as she had been
formerly, contended for a speedy marriage with as much vehemence as she
had formerly opposed whatever had the most remote possibility of leading
to it; and Emily's scruples disappeared, when she again saw Valancourt,
who was now informed of the happiness, designed for him, and came to
claim a promise of it from herself.
While preparations were making for these nuptials, Montoni became the
acknowledged lover of Madame Cheron; and, though Madame Clairval was
much displeased, when she heard of the approaching connection, and was
willing to prevent that of Valancourt with Emily, her conscience told
her, that she had no right thus to trifle with their peace, and Madame
Clairval, though a woman of fashion, was far less advanced than
her friend in the art of deriving satisfaction from distinction and
admiration, rather than from conscience.
Emily observed with concern the ascendancy, which Montoni had acquired
over Madame Cheron, as well as the increasing frequency of his visits;
and her own opinion of this Italian was confirmed by that of Valancourt,
who had always expressed a dislike of him. As she was, one morning,
sitting at work in the pavilion, enjoying the pleasant freshness of
spring, whose colours were now spread upon the landscape, and listening
to Valancourt, who was reading, but who often laid aside the book to
converse, she received a summons to attend Madame Cheron immediately,
and had scarcely entered the dressing-room, when she observed with
surprise the dejection of her aunt's countenance, and the contrasted
gaiety of her dress. 'So, niece!'--said Madame, and she stopped under
some degree of embarrassment.--'I sent for you--I--I wished to see you;
I have news to tell you. From this hour you must consider the Signor
Montoni as your uncle--we were married this morning.'
Astonished--not so much at the marriage, as at the secrecy with which
it had been concluded, and the agitation with which it was announced,
Emily, at length, attributed the privacy to the wish of Montoni, rather
than of her aunt. His wife, however, intended, that the contrary should
be believed, and therefore added, 'you see I wished to avoid a bustle;
but now the ceremony is over I shall do so no longer; and I wish to
announce to my servants that they must receive the Signor Montoni for
their master.' Emily made a feeble attempt to congratulate her on these
apparently imprudent nuptials. 'I shall now celebrate my marriage with
some splendour,' continued Madame Montoni, 'and to save time I shall
avail myself of the preparation that has been made for yours, which
will, of course, be delayed a little while. Such of your wedding clothes
as are ready I shall expect you will appear in, to do honour to this
festival. I also wish you to inform Monsieur Valancourt, that I have
changed my name, and he will acquaint Madame Clairval. In a few days
I shall give a grand entertainment, at which I shall request their
presence.'
Emily was so lost in surprise and various thought, that she made Madame
Montoni scarcely any reply, but, at her desire, she returned to inform
Valancourt of what had passed. Surprise was not his predominant emotion
on hearing of these hasty nuptials; and, when he learned, that they were
to be the means of delaying his own, and that the very ornaments of the
chateau, which had been prepared to grace the nuptial day of his Emily,
were to be degraded to the celebration of Madame Montoni's, grief and
indignation agitated him alternately. He could conceal neither from the
observation of Emily, whose efforts to abstract him from these serious
emotions, and to laugh at the apprehensive considerations, that assailed
him, were ineffectual; and, when, at length, he took leave, there was an
earnest tenderness in his manner, that extremely affected her; she even
shed tears, when he disappeared at the end of the terrace, yet knew not
exactly why she should do so.
Montoni now took possession of the chateau, and the command of its
inhabitants, with the ease of a man, who had long considered it to be
his own. His friend Cavigni, who had been extremely serviceable,
in having paid Madame Cheron the attention and flattery, which she
required, but from which Montoni too often revolted, had apartments
assigned to him, and received from the domestics an equal degree of
obedience with the master of the mansion.
Within a few days, Madame Montoni, as she had promised, gave a
magnificent entertainment to a very numerous company, among whom was
Valancourt; but at which Madame Clairval excused herself from attending.
There was a concert, ball and supper. Valancourt was, of course, Emily's
partner, and though, when he gave a look to the decorations of the
apartments, he could not but remember, that they were designed for
other festivities, than those they now contributed to celebrate, he
endeavoured to check his concern by considering, that a little
while only would elapse before they would be given to their original
destination. During this evening, Madame Montoni danced, laughed
and talked incessantly; while Montoni, silent, reserved and somewhat
haughty, seemed weary of the parade, and of the frivolous company it had
drawn together.
This was the first and the last entertainment, given in celebration
of their nuptials. Montoni, though the severity of his temper and the
gloominess of his pride prevented him from enjoying such festivities,
was extremely willing to promote them. It was seldom, that he could meet
in any company a man of more address, and still seldomer one of more
understanding, than himself; the balance of advantage in such parties,
or in the connections, which might arise from them, must, therefore, be
on his side; and, knowing, as he did, the selfish purposes, for which
they are generally frequented, he had no objection to measure his
talents of dissimulation with those of any other competitor for
distinction and plunder. But his wife, who, when her own interest was
immediately concerned, had sometimes more discernment than vanity,
acquired a consciousness of her inferiority to other women, in personal
attractions, which, uniting with the jealousy natural to the discovery,
counteracted his readiness for mingling with all the parties Tholouse
could afford. Till she had, as she supposed, the affections of an
husband to lose, she had no motive for discovering the unwelcome truth,
and it had never obtruded itself upon her; but, now that it influenced
her policy, she opposed her husband's inclination for company, with the
more eagerness, because she believed him to be really as well received
in the female society of the place, as, during his addresses to her, he
had affected to be.
A few weeks only had elapsed, since the marriage, when Madame Montoni
informed Emily, that the Signor intended to return to Italy, as soon as
the necessary preparation could be made for so long a journey. 'We shall
go to Venice,' said she, 'where the Signor has a fine mansion, and from
thence to his estate in Tuscany. Why do you look so grave, child?--You,
who are so fond of a romantic country and fine views, will doubtless be
delighted with this journey.'
'Am I then to be of the party, madam?' said Emily, with extreme surprise
and emotion. 'Most certainly,' replied her aunt, 'how could you imagine
we should leave you behind? But I see you are thinking of the Chevalier;
he is not yet, I believe, informed of the journey, but he very soon
will be so. Signor Montoni is gone to acquaint Madame Clairval of our
journey, and to say, that the proposed connection between the families
must from this time be thought of no more.'
The unfeeling manner, in which Madame Montoni thus informed her niece,
that she must be separated, perhaps for ever, from the man, with whom
she was on the point of being united for life, added to the dismay,
which she must otherwise have suffered at such intelligence. When
she could speak, she asked the cause of the sudden change in Madame's
sentiments towards Valancourt, but the only reply she could obtain was,
that the Signor had forbade the connection, considering it to be greatly
inferior to what Emily might reasonably expect.
'I now leave the affair entirely to the Signor,' added Madame Montoni,
'but I must say, that M. Valancourt never was a favourite with me, and
I was overpersuaded, or I should not have given my consent to the
connection. I was weak enough--I am so foolish sometimes!--to suffer
other people's uneasiness to affect me, and so my better judgment
yielded to your affliction. But the Signor has very properly pointed out
the folly of this, and he shall not have to reprove me a second time. I
am determined, that you shall submit to those, who know how to guide you
better than yourself--I am determined, that you shall be conformable.'
Emily would have been astonished at the assertions of this eloquent
speech, had not her mind been so overwhelmed by the sudden shock it had
received, that she scarcely heard a word of what was latterly addressed
to her. Whatever were the weaknesses of Madame Montoni, she might have
avoided to accuse herself with those of compassion and tenderness to the
feelings of others, and especially to those of Emily. It was the same
ambition, that lately prevailed upon her to solicit an alliance with
Madame Clairval's family, which induced her to withdraw from it, now
that her marriage with Montoni had exalted her self-consequence, and,
with it, her views for her niece.
Emily was, at this time, too much affected to employ either
remonstrance, or entreaty on this topic; and when, at length, she
attempted the latter, her emotion overcame her speech, and she retired
to her apartment, to think, if in the present state of her mind to think
was possible, upon this sudden and overwhelming subject. It was very
long, before her spirits were sufficiently composed to permit the
reflection, which, when it came, was dark and even terrible. She saw,
that Montoni sought to aggrandise himself in his disposal of her, and
it occurred, that his friend Cavigni was the person, for whom he was
interested. The prospect of going to Italy was still rendered darker,
when she considered the tumultuous situation of that country, then
torn by civil commotion, where every petty state was at war with its
neighbour, and even every castle liable to the attack of an invader.
She considered the person, to whose immediate guidance she would
be committed, and the vast distance, that was to separate her from
Valancourt, and, at the recollection of him, every other image vanished
from her mind, and every thought was again obscured by grief.
In this perturbed state she passed some hours, and, when she was
summoned to dinner, she entreated permission to remain in her own
apartment; but Madame Montoni was alone, and the request was refused.
Emily and her aunt said little during the repast; the one occupied
by her griefs, the other engrossed by the disappointment, which the
unexpected absence of Montoni occasioned; for not only was her vanity
piqued by the neglect, but her jealousy alarmed by what she considered
as a mysterious engagement. When the cloth was drawn and they were
alone, Emily renewed the mention of Valancourt; but her aunt, neither
softened to pity, or awakened to remorse, became enraged, that her will
should be opposed, and the authority of Montoni questioned, though this
was done by Emily with her usual gentleness, who, after a long, and
torturing conversation, retired in tears.
As she crossed the hall, a person entered it by the great door, whom, as
her eyes hastily glanced that way, she imagined to be Montoni, and she
was passing on with quicker steps, when she heard the well-known voice
of Valancourt.
'Emily, O! my Emily!' cried he in a tone faltering with impatience,
while she turned, and, as he advanced, was alarmed at the expression of
his countenance and the eager desperation of his air. 'In tears, Emily!
I would speak with you,' said he, 'I have much to say; conduct me to
where we may converse. But you tremble--you are ill! Let me lead you to
a seat.'
He observed the open door of an apartment, and hastily took her hand
to lead her thither; but she attempted to withdraw it, and said, with a
languid smile, 'I am better already; if you wish to see my aunt she
is in the dining-parlour.' 'I must speak with YOU, my Emily,' replied
Valancourt, 'Good God! is it already come to this? Are you indeed so
willing to resign me?' But this is an improper place--I am overheard.
Let me entreat your attention, if only for a few minutes.'--'When you
have seen my aunt,' said Emily. 'I was wretched enough when I came
hither,' exclaimed Valancourt, 'do not increase my misery by this
coldness--this cruel refusal.'
The despondency, with which he spoke this, affected her almost to tears,
but she persisted in refusing to hear him, till he had conversed with
Madame Montoni. 'Where is her husband, where, then, is Montoni?' said
Valancourt, in an altered tone: 'it is he, to whom I must speak.'
Emily, terrified for the consequence of the indignation, that flashed
in his eyes, tremblingly assured him, that Montoni was not at home,
and entreated he would endeavour to moderate his resentment. At the
tremulous accents of her voice, his eyes softened instantly from
wildness into tenderness. 'You are ill, Emily,' said he, 'they will
destroy us both! Forgive me, that I dared to doubt your affection.'
Emily no longer opposed him, as he led her into an adjoining parlour;
the manner, in which he had named Montoni, had so much alarmed her
for his own safety, that she was now only anxious to prevent the
consequences of his just resentment. He listened to her entreaties,
with attention, but replied to them only with looks of despondency and
tenderness, concealing, as much as possible, the sentiments he
felt towards Montoni, that he might soothe the apprehensions, which
distressed her. But she saw the veil he had spread over his resentment,
and, his assumed tranquillity only alarming her more, she urged, at
length, the impolicy of forcing an interview with Montoni, and of
taking any measure, which might render their separation irremediable.
Valancourt yielded to these remonstrances, and her affecting entreaties
drew from him a promise, that, however Montoni might persist in his
design of disuniting them, he would not seek to redress his wrongs by
violence. 'For my sake,' said Emily, 'let the consideration of what I
should suffer deter you from such a mode of revenge!' 'For your sake,
Emily,' replied Valancourt, his eyes filling with tears of tenderness
and grief, while he gazed upon her. 'Yes--yes--I shall subdue myself.
But, though I have given you my solemn promise to do this, do not
expect, that I can tamely submit to the authority of Montoni; if I
could, I should be unworthy of you. Yet, O Emily! how long may he
condemn me to live without you,--how long may it be before you return to
France!'
Emily endeavoured to sooth him with assurances of her unalterable
affection, and by representing, that, in little more than a year, she
should be her own mistress, as far as related to her aunt, from whose
guardianship her age would then release her; assurances, which gave
little consolation to Valancourt, who considered, that she would then
be in Italy and in the power of those, whose dominion over her would not
cease with their rights; but he affected to be consoled by them.
Emily, comforted by the promise she had obtained, and by his apparent
composure, was about to leave him, when her aunt entered the room.
She threw a glance of sharp reproof upon her niece, who immediately
withdrew, and of haughty displeasure upon Valancourt.
'This is not the conduct I should have expected from you, sir;' said
she, 'I did not expect to see you in my house, after you had been
informed, that your visits were no longer agreeable, much less, that
you would seek a clandestine interview with my niece, and that she would
grant one.'
Valancourt, perceiving it necessary to vindicate Emily from such a
design, explained, that the purpose of his own visit had been to request
an interview with Montoni, and he then entered upon the subject of it,
with the tempered spirit which the sex, rather than the respectability,
of Madame Montoni, demanded.
His expostulations were answered with severe rebuke; she lamented again,
that her prudence had ever yielded to what she termed compassion, and
added, that she was so sensible of the folly of her former consent,
that, to prevent the possibility of a repetition, she had committed the
affair entirely to the conduct of Signor Montoni.
The feeling eloquence of Valancourt, however, at length, made her
sensible in some measure of her unworthy conduct, and she became
susceptible to shame, but not remorse: she hated Valancourt, who
awakened her to this painful sensation, and, in proportion as she grew
dissatisfied with herself, her abhorrence of him increased. This was
also the more inveterate, because his tempered words and manner were
such as, without accusing her, compelled her to accuse herself, and
neither left her a hope, that the odious portrait was the caricature
of his prejudice, or afforded her an excuse for expressing the violent
resentment, with which she contemplated it. At length, her anger rose
to such an height, that Valancourt was compelled to leave the house
abruptly, lest he should forfeit his own esteem by an intemperate reply.
He was then convinced, that from Madame Montoni he had nothing to hope,
for what of either pity, or justice could be expected from a person, who
could feel the pain of guilt, without the humility of repentance?
To Montoni he looked with equal despondency, since it was nearly
evident, that this plan of separation originated with him, and it was
not probable, that he would relinquish his own views to entreaties, or
remonstrances, which he must have foreseen and have been prepared to
resist. Yet, remembering his promise to Emily, and more solicitous,
concerning his love, than jealous of his consequence, Valancourt was
careful to do nothing that might unnecessarily irritate Montoni, he
wrote to him, therefore, not to demand an interview, but to solicit one,
and, having done this, he endeavoured to wait with calmness his reply.
Madame Clairval was passive in the affair. When she gave her approbation
to Valancourt's marriage, it was in the belief, that Emily would be the
heiress of Madame Montoni's fortune; and, though, upon the nuptials
of the latter, when she perceived the fallacy of this expectation, her
conscience had withheld her from adopting any measure to prevent the
union, her benevolence was not sufficiently active to impel her towards
any step, that might now promote it. She was, on the contrary, secretly
pleased, that Valancourt was released from an engagement, which she
considered to be as inferior, in point of fortune, to his merit, as
his alliance was thought by Montoni to be humiliating to the beauty of
Emily; and, though her pride was wounded by this rejection of a member
of her family, she disdained to shew resentment otherwise, than by
silence.
Montoni, in his reply to Valancourt, said, that as an interview could
neither remove the objections of the one, or overcome the wishes of the
other, it would serve only to produce useless altercation between them.
He, therefore, thought proper to refuse it.
In consideration of the policy, suggested by Emily, and of his promise
to her, Valancourt restrained the impulse, that urged him to the house
of Montoni, to demand what had been denied to his entreaties. He only
repeated his solicitations to see him; seconding them with all the
arguments his situation could suggest. Thus several days passed, in
remonstrance, on one side, and inflexible denial, on the other; for,
whether it was fear, or shame, or the hatred, which results from both,
that made Montoni shun the man he had injured, he was peremptory in
his refusal, and was neither softened to pity by the agony, which
Valancourt's letters pourtrayed, or awakened to a repentance of his
own injustice by the strong remonstrances he employed. At length,
Valancourt's letters were returned unopened, and then, in the first
moments of passionate despair, he forgot every promise to Emily, except
the solemn one, which bound him to avoid violence, and hastened to
Montoni's chateau, determined to see him by whatever other means might
be necessary. Montoni was denied, and Valancourt, when he afterwards
enquired for Madame, and Ma'amselle St. Aubert, was absolutely refused
admittance by the servants. Not choosing to submit himself to a contest
with these, he, at length, departed, and, returning home in a state of
mind approaching to frenzy, wrote to Emily of what had passed, expressed
without restraint all the agony of his heart, and entreated, that, since
he must not otherwise hope to see her immediately, she would allow him
an interview unknown to Montoni. Soon after he had dispatched this, his
passions becoming more temperate, he was sensible of the error he had
committed in having given Emily a new subject of distress in the strong
mention of his own suffering, and would have given half the world, had
it been his, to recover the letter. Emily, however, was spared the
pain she must have received from it by the suspicious policy of Madame
Montoni, who had ordered, that all letters, addressed to her niece,
should be delivered to herself, and who, after having perused this and
indulged the expressions of resentment, which Valancourt's mention of
Montoni provoked, had consigned it to the flames.
Montoni, meanwhile, every day more impatient to leave France, gave
repeated orders for dispatch to the servants employed in preparations
for the journey, and to the persons, with whom he was transacting some
particular business. He preserved a steady silence to the letters in
which Valancourt, despairing of greater good, and having subdued the
passion, that had transgressed against his policy, solicited only the
indulgence of being allowed to bid Emily farewell. But, when the latter
[Valancourt] learned, that she was really to set out in a very few days,
and that it was designed he should see her no more, forgetting every
consideration of prudence, he dared, in a second letter to Emily, to
propose a clandestine marriage. This also was transmitted to Madame
Montoni, and the last day of Emily's stay at Tholouse arrived, without
affording Valancourt even a line to sooth his sufferings, or a hope,
that he should be allowed a parting interview.
During this period of torturing suspense to Valancourt, Emily was sunk
into that kind of stupor, with which sudden and irremediable misfortune
sometimes overwhelms the mind. Loving him with the tenderest affection,
and having long been accustomed to consider him as the friend and
companion of all her future days, she had no ideas of happiness, that
were not connected with him. What, then, must have been her suffering,
when thus suddenly they were to be separated, perhaps, for ever,
certainly to be thrown into distant parts of the world, where they could
scarcely hear of each other's existence; and all this in obedience to
the will of a stranger, for such as Montoni, and of a person, who had
but lately been anxious to hasten their nuptials! It was in vain, that
she endeavoured to subdue her grief, and resign herself to an event,
which she could not avoid. The silence of Valancourt afflicted more than
it surprised her, since she attributed it to its just occasion; but,
when the day, preceding that, on which she was to quit Tholouse,
arrived, and she had heard no mention of his being permitted to take
leave of her, grief overcame every consideration, that had made her
reluctant to speak of him, and she enquired of Madame Montoni, whether
this consolation had been refused. Her aunt informed her that it had,
adding, that, after the provocation she had herself received from
Valancourt, in their last interview, and the persecution, which the
Signor had suffered from his letters, no entreaties should avail to
procure it.
'If the Chevalier expected this favour from us,' said she, 'he should
have conducted himself in a very different manner; he should have waited
patiently, till he knew whether we were disposed to grant it, and not
have come and reproved me, because I did not think proper to bestow
my niece upon him,--and then have persisted in troubling the Signor,
because he did not think proper to enter into any dispute about
so childish an affair. His behaviour throughout has been extremely
presumptuous and impertinent, and I desire, that I may never hear his
name repeated, and that you will get the better of those foolish sorrows
and whims, and look like other people, and not appear with that dismal
countenance, as if you were ready to cry. For, though you say nothing,
you cannot conceal your grief from my penetration. I can see you are
ready to cry at this moment, though I am reproving you for it; aye, even
now, in spite of my commands.'
Emily, having turned away to hide her tears, quitted the room to indulge
them, and the day was passed in an intensity of anguish, such as she
had, perhaps, never known before. When she withdrew to her chamber for
the night, she remained in the chair where she had placed herself, on
entering the room, absorbed in her grief, till long after every member
of the family, except herself, was retired to rest. She could not divest
herself of a belief, that she had parted with Valancourt to meet no
more; a belief, which did not arise merely from foreseen circumstances,
for, though the length of the journey she was about to commence,
the uncertainty as to the period of her return, together with the
prohibitions she had received, seemed to justify it, she yielded also to
an impression, which she mistook for a pre-sentiment, that she was going
from Valancourt for ever. How dreadful to her imagination, too, was the
distance that would separate them--the Alps, those tremendous barriers!
would rise, and whole countries extend between the regions where each
must exist! To live in adjoining provinces, to live even in the same
country, though without seeing him, was comparative happiness to the
conviction of this dreadful length of distance.
Her mind was, at length, so much agitated by the consideration of her
state, and the belief, that she had seen Valancourt for the last time,
that she suddenly became very faint, and, looking round the chamber for
something, that might revive her, she observed the casements, and had
just strength to throw one open, near which she seated herself. The air
recalled her spirits, and the still moon-light, that fell upon the
elms of a long avenue, fronting the window, somewhat soothed them,
and determined her to try whether exercise and the open air would not
relieve the intense pain that bound her temples. In the chateau all was
still; and, passing down the great stair-case into the hall, from whence
a passage led immediately to the garden, she softly and unheard, as she
thought, unlocked the door, and entered the avenue. Emily passed on with
steps now hurried, and now faltering, as, deceived by the shadows
among the trees, she fancied she saw some person move in the distant
perspective, and feared, that it was a spy of Madame Montoni. Her
desire, however, to re-visit the pavilion, where she had passed so many
happy hours with Valancourt, and had admired with him the extensive
prospect over Languedoc and her native Gascony, overcame her
apprehension of being observed, and she moved on towards the terrace,
which, running along the upper garden, commanded the whole of the
lower one, and communicated with it by a flight of marble steps, that
terminated the avenue.
Having reached these steps, she paused a moment to look round, for her
distance from the chateau now increased the fear, which the stillness
and obscurity of the hour had awakened. But, perceiving nothing that
could justify it, she ascended to the terrace, where the moon-light
shewed the long broad walk, with the pavilion at its extremity, while
the rays silvered the foliage of the high trees and shrubs, that
bordered it on the right, and the tufted summits of those, that rose
to a level with the balustrade on the left, from the garden below. Her
distance from the chateau again alarming her, she paused to listen; the
night was so calm, that no sound could have escaped her, but she heard
only the plaintive sweetness of the nightingale, with the light shiver
of the leaves, and she pursued her way towards the pavilion, having
reached which, its obscurity did not prevent the emotion, that a fuller
view of its well-known scene would have excited. The lattices were
thrown back, and shewed beyond their embowered arch the moon-light
landscape, shadowy and soft; its groves, and plains extending gradually
and indistinctly to the eye, its distant mountains catching a stronger
gleam, and the nearer river reflecting the moon, and trembling to her
rays.
Emily, as she approached the lattice, was sensible of the features of
this scene only as they served to bring Valancourt more immediately to
her fancy. 'Ah!' said she, with a heavy sigh, as she threw herself
into a chair by the window, 'how often have we sat together in this
spot--often have looked upon that landscape! Never, never more shall we
view it together--never--never more, perhaps, shall we look upon each
other!'
Her tears were suddenly stopped by terror--a voice spoke near her in
the pavilion; she shrieked--it spoke again, and she distinguished the
well-known tones of Valancourt. It was indeed Valancourt who supported
her in his arms! For some moments their emotion would not suffer either
to speak. 'Emily,' said Valancourt at length, as he pressed her hand in
his. 'Emily!' and he was again silent, but the accent, in which he had
pronounced her name, expressed all his tenderness and sorrow.
'O my Emily!' he resumed, after a long pause, 'I do then see you once
again, and hear again the sound of that voice! I have haunted this
place--these gardens, for many--many nights, with a faint, very faint
hope of seeing you. This was the only chance that remained to me, and
thank heaven! it has at length succeeded--I am not condemned to absolute
despair!'
Emily said something, she scarcely knew what, expressive of her
unalterable affection, and endeavoured to calm the agitation of
his mind; but Valancourt could for some time only utter incoherent
expressions of his emotions; and, when he was somewhat more composed, he
said, 'I came hither, soon after sun-set, and have been watching in the
gardens, and in this pavilion ever since; for, though I had now given up
all hope of seeing you, I could not resolve to tear myself from a place
so near to you, and should probably have lingered about the chateau till
morning dawned. O how heavily the moments have passed, yet with what
various emotion have they been marked, as I sometimes thought I heard
footsteps, and fancied you were approaching, and then again--perceived
only a dead and dreary silence! But, when you opened the door of the
pavilion, and the darkness prevented my distinguishing with certainty,
whether it was my love--my heart beat so strongly with hopes and fears,
that I could not speak. The instant I heard the plaintive accents of
your voice, my doubts vanished, but not my fears, till you spoke of
me; then, losing the apprehension of alarming you in the excess of my
emotion, I could no longer be silent. O Emily! these are moments, in
which joy and grief struggle so powerfully for pre-eminence, that the
heart can scarcely support the contest!'
Emily's heart acknowledged the truth of this assertion, but the joy
she felt on thus meeting Valancourt, at the very moment when she was
lamenting, that they must probably meet no more, soon melted into grief,
as reflection stole over her thoughts, and imagination prompted visions
of the future. She struggled to recover the calm dignity of mind, which
was necessary to support her through this last interview, and which
Valancourt found it utterly impossible to attain, for the transports of
his joy changed abruptly into those of suffering, and he expressed in
the most impassioned language his horror of this separation, and his
despair of their ever meeting again. Emily wept silently as she listened
to him, and then, trying to command her own distress, and to sooth his,
she suggested every circumstance that could lead to hope. But the energy
of his fears led him instantly to detect the friendly fallacies, which
she endeavoured to impose on herself and him, and also to conjure up
illusions too powerful for his reason.
'You are going from me,' said he, 'to a distant country, O how
distant!--to new society, new friends, new admirers, with people too,
who will try to make you forget me, and to promote new connections! How
can I know this, and not know, that you will never return for me--never
can be mine.' His voice was stifled by sighs.
'You believe, then,' said Emily, 'that the pangs I suffer proceed from a
trivial and temporary interest; you believe--'
'Suffer!' interrupted Valancourt, 'suffer for me! O Emily--how
sweet--how bitter are those words; what comfort, what anguish do they
give! I ought not to doubt the steadiness of your affection, yet such
is the inconsistency of real love, that it is always awake to suspicion,
however unreasonable; always requiring new assurances from the object
of its interest, and thus it is, that I always feel revived, as by a
new conviction, when your words tell me I am dear to you; and, wanting
these, I relapse into doubt, and too often into despondency.' Then
seeming to recollect himself, he exclaimed, 'But what a wretch am I,
thus to torture you, and in these moments, too! I, who ought to support
and comfort you!'
This reflection overcame Valancourt with tenderness, but, relapsing into
despondency, he again felt only for himself, and lamented again this
cruel separation, in a voice and words so impassioned, that Emily
could no longer struggle to repress her own grief, or to sooth his.
Valancourt, between these emotions of love and pity, lost the power, and
almost the wish, of repressing his agitation; and, in the intervals of
convulsive sobs, he, at one moment, kissed away her tears, then told
her cruelly, that possibly she might never again weep for him, and then
tried to speak more calmly, but only exclaimed, 'O Emily--my heart will
break!--I cannot--cannot leave you! Now--I gaze upon that countenance,
now I hold you in my arms! a little while, and all this will appear a
dream. I shall look, and cannot see you; shall try to recollect your
features--and the impression will be fled from my imagination;--to hear
the tones of your voice, and even memory will be silent!--I cannot,
cannot leave you! why should we confide the happiness of our whole lives
to the will of people, who have no right to interrupt, and, except in
giving you to me, have no power to promote it? O Emily! venture to trust
your own heart, venture to be mine for ever!' His voice trembled, and
he was silent; Emily continued to weep, and was silent also, when
Valancourt proceeded to propose an immediate marriage, and that at an
early hour on the following morning, she should quit Madame Montoni's
house, and be conducted by him to the church of the Augustines, where a
friar should await to unite them.
The silence, with which she listened to a proposal, dictated by love and
despair, and enforced at a moment, when it seemed scarcely possible
for her to oppose it;--when her heart was softened by the sorrows of
a separation, that might be eternal, and her reason obscured by the
illusions of love and terror, encouraged him to hope, that it would not
be rejected. 'Speak, my Emily!' said Valancourt eagerly, 'let me hear
your voice, let me hear you confirm my fate.' she spoke not; her cheek
was cold, and her senses seemed to fail her, but she did not faint. To
Valancourt's terrified imagination she appeared to be dying; he called
upon her name, rose to go to the chateau for assistance, and then,
recollecting her situation, feared to go, or to leave her for a moment.
After a few minutes, she drew a deep sigh, and began to revive. The
conflict she had suffered, between love and the duty she at present owed
to her father's sister; her repugnance to a clandestine marriage,
her fear of emerging on the world with embarrassments, such as
might ultimately involve the object of her affection in misery and
repentance;--all this various interest was too powerful for a mind,
already enervated by sorrow, and her reason had suffered a transient
suspension. But duty, and good sense, however hard the conflict, at
length, triumphed over affection and mournful presentiment; above all,
she dreaded to involve Valancourt in obscurity and vain regret, which
she saw, or thought she saw, must be the too certain consequence of a
marriage in their present circumstances; and she acted, perhaps, with
somewhat more than female fortitude, when she resolved to endure a
present, rather than provoke a distant misfortune.
With a candour, that proved how truly she esteemed and loved him,
and which endeared her to him, if possible, more than ever, she told
Valancourt all her reasons for rejecting his proposals. Those, which
influenced her concerning his future welfare, he instantly refuted, or
rather contradicted; but they awakened tender considerations for her,
which the frenzy of passion and despair had concealed before, and love,
which had but lately prompted him to propose a clandestine and immediate
marriage, now induced him to renounce it. The triumph was almost too
much for his heart; for Emily's sake, he endeavoured to stifle his
grief, but the swelling anguish would not be restrained. 'O Emily!' said
he, 'I must leave you--I MUST leave you, and I know it is for ever!'
Convulsive sobs again interrupted his words, and they wept together in
silence, till Emily, recollecting the danger of being discovered, and
the impropriety of prolonging an interview, which might subject her to
censure, summoned all her fortitude to utter a last farewell.
'Stay!' said Valancourt, 'I conjure you stay, for I have much to tell
you. The agitation of my mind has hitherto suffered me to speak only
on the subject that occupied it;--I have forborne to mention a doubt of
much importance, partly, lest it should appear as if I told it with
an ungenerous view of alarming you into a compliance with my late
proposal.'
Emily, much agitated, did not leave Valancourt, but she led him from the
pavilion, and, as they walked upon the terrace, he proceeded as follows:
'This Montoni: I have heard some strange hints concerning him. Are you
certain he is of Madame Quesnel's family, and that his fortune is what
it appears to be?'
'I have no reason to doubt either,' replied Emily, in a voice of alarm.
'Of the first, indeed, I cannot doubt, but I have no certain means
of judging of the latter, and I entreat you will tell me all you have
heard.'
'That I certainly will, but it is very imperfect, and unsatisfactory
information. I gathered it by accident from an Italian, who was speaking
to another person of this Montoni. They were talking of his marriage;
the Italian said, that if he was the person he meant, he was not likely
to make Madame Cheron happy. He proceeded to speak of him in general
terms of dislike, and then gave some particular hints, concerning his
character, that excited my curiosity, and I ventured to ask him a few
questions. He was reserved in his replies, but, after hesitating for
some time, he owned, that he had understood abroad, that Montoni was a
man of desperate fortune and character. He said something of a castle
of Montoni's, situated among the Apennines, and of some strange
circumstances, that might be mentioned, as to his former mode of life.
I pressed him to inform me further, but I believe the strong interest I
felt was visible in my manner, and alarmed him; for no entreaties could
prevail with him to give any explanation of the circumstances he had
alluded to, or to mention any thing further concerning Montoni. I
observed to him, that, if Montoni was possessed of a castle in the
Apennines, it appeared from such a circumstance, that he was of some
family, and also seemed to contradict the report, that he was a man of
entirely broken fortunes. He shook his head, and looked as if he could
have said a great deal, but made no reply.
'A hope of learning something more satisfactory, or more positive,
detained me in his company a considerable time, and I renewed the
subject repeatedly, but the Italian wrapped himself up in reserve,
said--that what he had mentioned he had caught only from a floating
report, and that reports frequently arose from personal malice, and were
very little to be depended upon. I forbore to press the subject farther,
since it was obvious that he was alarmed for the consequence of what
he had already said, and I was compelled to remain in uncertainty on a
point where suspense is almost intolerable. Think, Emily, what I must
suffer to see you depart for a foreign country, committed to the power
of a man of such doubtful character as is this Montoni! But I will not
alarm you unnecessarily;--it is possible, as the Italian said, at first,
that this is not the Montoni he alluded to. Yet, Emily, consider well
before you resolve to commit yourself to him. O! I must not trust
myself to speak--or I shall renounce all the motives, which so lately
influenced me to resign the hope of your becoming mine immediately.'
Valancourt walked upon the terrace with hurried steps, while Emily
remained leaning on the balustrade in deep thought. The information she
had just received excited, perhaps, more alarm than it could justify,
and raised once more the conflict of contrasted interests. She had never
liked Montoni. The fire and keenness of his eye, its proud exultation,
its bold fierceness, its sullen watchfulness, as occasion, and even
slight occasion, had called forth the latent soul, she had often
observed with emotion; while from the usual expression of his
countenance she had always shrunk. From such observations she was the
more inclined to believe, that it was this Montoni, of whom the Italian
had uttered his suspicious hints. The thought of being solely in his
power, in a foreign land, was terrifying to her, but it was not
by terror alone that she was urged to an immediate marriage with
Valancourt. The tenderest love had already pleaded his cause, but had
been unable to overcome her opinion, as to her duty, her disinterested
considerations for Valancourt, and the delicacy, which made her revolt
from a clandestine union. It was not to be expected, that a vague terror
would be more powerful, than the united influence of love and grief. But
it recalled all their energy, and rendered a second conquest necessary.
With Valancourt, whose imagination was now awake to the suggestion of
every passion; whose apprehensions for Emily had acquired strength by
the mere mention of them, and became every instant more powerful, as
his mind brooded over them--with Valancourt no second conquest was
attainable. He thought he saw in the clearest light, and love assisted
the fear, that this journey to Italy would involve Emily in misery; he
determined, therefore, to persevere in opposing it, and in conjuring her
to bestow upon him the title of her lawful protector.
'Emily!' said he, with solemn earnestness, 'this is no time for
scrupulous distinctions, for weighing the dubious and comparatively
trifling circumstances, that may affect our future comfort. I now see,
much more clearly than before, the train of serious dangers you are
going to encounter with a man of Montoni's character. Those dark
hints of the Italian spoke much, but not more than the idea I have of
Montoni's disposition, as exhibited even in his countenance. I think I
see at this moment all that could have been hinted, written there. He is
the Italian, whom I fear, and I conjure you for your own sake, as well
as for mine, to prevent the evils I shudder to foresee. O Emily! let my
tenderness, my arms withhold you from them--give me the right to defend
you!'
Emily only sighed, while Valancourt proceeded to remonstrate and to
entreat with all the energy that love and apprehension could inspire.
But, as his imagination magnified to her the possible evils she was
going to meet, the mists of her own fancy began to dissipate, and
allowed her to distinguish the exaggerated images, which imposed on his
reason. She considered, that there was no proof of Montoni being the
person, whom the stranger had meant; that, even if he was so, the
Italian had noticed his character and broken fortunes merely from
report; and that, though the countenance of Montoni seemed to give
probability to a part of the rumour, it was not by such circumstances
that an implicit belief of it could be justified. These considerations
would probably not have arisen so distinctly to her mind, at this
time, had not the terrors of Valancourt presented to her such obvious
exaggerations of her danger, as incited her to distrust the fallacies of
passion. But, while she endeavoured in the gentlest manner to convince
him of his error, she plunged him into a new one. His voice and
countenance changed to an expression of dark despair. 'Emily!' said
he, 'this, this moment is the bitterest that is yet come to me. You
do not--cannot love me!--It would be impossible for you to reason thus
coolly, thus deliberately, if you did. I, _I_ am torn with anguish at
the prospect of our separation, and of the evils that may await you in
consequence of it; I would encounter any hazards to prevent it--to save
you. No! Emily, no!--you cannot love me.'
'We have now little time to waste in exclamation, or assertion,' said
Emily, endeavouring to conceal her emotion: 'if you are yet to learn how
dear you are, and ever must be, to my heart, no assurances of mine can
give you conviction.'
The last words faltered on her lips, and her tears flowed fast. These
words and tears brought, once more, and with instantaneous force,
conviction of her love to Valancourt. He could only exclaim, 'Emily!
Emily!' and weep over the hand he pressed to his lips; but she, after
some moments, again roused herself from the indulgence of sorrow, and
said, 'I must leave you; it is late, and my absence from the chateau may
be discovered. Think of me--love me--when I am far away; the belief of
this will be my comfort!'
'Think of you!--love you!' exclaimed Valancourt.
'Try to moderate these transports,' said Emily, 'for my sake, try.'
'For your sake!'
'Yes, for my sake,' replied Emily, in a tremulous voice, 'I cannot leave
you thus!'
'Then do not leave me!' said Valancourt, with quickness. 'Why should we
part, or part for longer than till to-morrow?'
'I am, indeed I am, unequal to these moments,' replied Emily, 'you tear
my heart, but I never can consent to this hasty, imprudent proposal!'
'If we could command our time, my Emily, it should not be thus hasty; we
must submit to circumstances.'
'We must indeed! I have already told you all my heart--my spirits are
gone. You allowed the force of my objections, till your tenderness
called up vague terrors, which have given us both unnecessary anguish.
Spare me! do not oblige me to repeat the reasons I have already urged.'
'Spare you!' cried Valancourt, 'I am a wretch--a very wretch, that have
felt only for myself!--I! who ought to have shewn the fortitude of a
man, who ought to have supported you, I! have increased your sufferings
by the conduct of a child! Forgive me, Emily! think of the distraction
of my mind now that I am about to part with all that is dear to me--and
forgive me! When you are gone, I shall recollect with bitter remorse
what I have made you suffer, and shall wish in vain that I could see
you, if only for a moment, that I might sooth your grief.'
Tears again interrupted his voice, and Emily wept with him. 'I will shew
myself more worthy of your love,' said Valancourt, at length; 'I will
not prolong these moments. My Emily--my own Emily! never forget me! God
knows when we shall meet again! I resign you to his care.--O God!--O
God!--protect and bless her!'
He pressed her hand to his heart. Emily sunk almost lifeless on his
bosom, and neither wept, nor spoke. Valancourt, now commanding his own
distress, tried to comfort and re-assure her, but she appeared totally
unaffected by what he said, and a sigh, which she uttered, now and then,
was all that proved she had not fainted.
He supported her slowly towards the chateau, weeping and speaking to
her; but she answered only in sighs, till, having reached the gate, that
terminated the avenue, she seemed to have recovered her consciousness,
and, looking round, perceived how near they were to the chateau. 'We
must part here,' said she, stopping, 'Why prolong these moments? Teach
me the fortitude I have forgot.'
Valancourt struggled to assume a composed air. 'Farewell, my love!' said
he, in a voice of solemn tenderness--'trust me we shall meet again--meet
for each other--meet to part no more!' His voice faltered, but,
recovering it, he proceeded in a firmer tone. 'You know not what I shall
suffer, till I hear from you; I shall omit no opportunity of conveying
to you my letters, yet I tremble to think how few may occur. And trust
me, love, for your dear sake, I will try to bear this absence with
fortitude. O how little I have shewn to-night!'
'Farewell!' said Emily faintly. 'When you are gone, I shall think of
many things I would have said to you.' 'And I of many--many!' said
Valancourt; 'I never left you yet, that I did not immediately remember
some question, or some entreaty, or some circumstance, concerning my
love, that I earnestly wished to mention, and feel wretched because I
could not. O Emily! this countenance, on which I now gaze--will, in a
moment, be gone from my eyes, and not all the efforts of fancy will be
able to recall it with exactness. O! what an infinite difference between
this moment and the next! NOW, I am in your presence, can behold you!
THEN, all will be a dreary blank--and I shall be a wanderer, exiled from
my only home!'
Valancourt again pressed her to his heart, and held her there in
silence, weeping. Tears once again calmed her oppressed mind. They again
bade each other farewell, lingered a moment, and then parted. Valancourt
seemed to force himself from the spot; he passed hastily up the avenue,
and Emily, as she moved slowly towards the chateau, heard his distant
steps. She listened to the sounds, as they sunk fainter and fainter,
till the melancholy stillness of night alone remained; and then
hurried to her chamber, to seek repose, which, alas! was fled from her
wretchedness. | Madame Cheron is ready to lock Valancourt down as Emily's husband, still thinking that he's Mr. Moneybags. Madame Clairval, Valancourt's aunt, is all too happy to consent. After all, she thinks Emily is the sole heiress of Madame Cheron's fortune. Everyone's a little confused here. Oh yeah, and Madame Cheron casually lets Em know that she married Montoni. That was fast. So Madame Cheron is now Madame Montoni. Just to shake things up even more, Madame Montoni tells Emily that the whole family is going to Montoni's mansion in Venice. Yes, Emily, "family" includes you. And FYI, the wedding with Valancourt is off. Em is more than a little surprised and upset. Time to tell Valancourt. Valancourt is livid that his beloved bride is being yanked away from him. He tells Em that there are some nasty rumors about Montoni floating around. Valancourt tries to orchestrate a hasty marriage with Emily, but she refuses to run away with him. She's a proper lady, after all. Still, there are some major tears being shed. They plan to write letters and find a way to be together. |
As for Tess Durbeyfield, she did not so easily dislodge the incident
from her consideration. She had no spirit to dance again for a long
time, though she might have had plenty of partners; but ah! they did
not speak so nicely as the strange young man had done. It was not
till the rays of the sun had absorbed the young stranger's retreating
figure on the hill that she shook off her temporary sadness and
answered her would-be partner in the affirmative.
She remained with her comrades till dusk, and participated with a
certain zest in the dancing; though, being heart-whole as yet, she
enjoyed treading a measure purely for its own sake; little divining
when she saw "the soft torments, the bitter sweets, the pleasing
pains, and the agreeable distresses" of those girls who had been
wooed and won, what she herself was capable of in that kind. The
struggles and wrangles of the lads for her hand in a jig were an
amusement to her--no more; and when they became fierce she rebuked
them.
She might have stayed even later, but the incident of her father's
odd appearance and manner returned upon the girl's mind to make her
anxious, and wondering what had become of him she dropped away from
the dancers and bent her steps towards the end of the village at
which the parental cottage lay.
While yet many score yards off, other rhythmic sounds than those she
had quitted became audible to her; sounds that she knew well--so
well. They were a regular series of thumpings from the interior of
the house, occasioned by the violent rocking of a cradle upon a stone
floor, to which movement a feminine voice kept time by singing, in a
vigorous gallopade, the favourite ditty of "The Spotted Cow"--
I saw her lie do'-own in yon'-der green gro'-ove;
Come, love!' and I'll tell' you where!'
The cradle-rocking and the song would cease simultaneously for a
moment, and an exclamation at highest vocal pitch would take the
place of the melody.
"God bless thy diment eyes! And thy waxen cheeks! And thy cherry
mouth! And thy Cubit's thighs! And every bit o' thy blessed body!"
After this invocation the rocking and the singing would recommence,
and the "Spotted Cow" proceed as before. So matters stood when Tess
opened the door and paused upon the mat within it, surveying the
scene.
The interior, in spite of the melody, struck upon the girl's senses
with an unspeakable dreariness. From the holiday gaieties of the
field--the white gowns, the nosegays, the willow-wands, the whirling
movements on the green, the flash of gentle sentiment towards the
stranger--to the yellow melancholy of this one-candled spectacle,
what a step! Besides the jar of contrast there came to her a chill
self-reproach that she had not returned sooner, to help her mother
in these domesticities, instead of indulging herself out-of-doors.
There stood her mother amid the group of children, as Tess had left
her, hanging over the Monday washing-tub, which had now, as always,
lingered on to the end of the week. Out of that tub had come the day
before--Tess felt it with a dreadful sting of remorse--the very white
frock upon her back which she had so carelessly greened about the
skirt on the damping grass--which had been wrung up and ironed by her
mother's own hands.
As usual, Mrs Durbeyfield was balanced on one foot beside the tub,
the other being engaged in the aforesaid business of rocking her
youngest child. The cradle-rockers had done hard duty for so many
years, under the weight of so many children, on that flagstone floor,
that they were worn nearly flat, in consequence of which a huge jerk
accompanied each swing of the cot, flinging the baby from side to
side like a weaver's shuttle, as Mrs Durbeyfield, excited by her
song, trod the rocker with all the spring that was left in her after
a long day's seething in the suds.
Nick-knock, nick-knock, went the cradle; the candle-flame stretched
itself tall, and began jigging up and down; the water dribbled from
the matron's elbows, and the song galloped on to the end of the
verse, Mrs Durbeyfield regarding her daughter the while. Even now,
when burdened with a young family, Joan Durbeyfield was a passionate
lover of tune. No ditty floated into Blackmoor Vale from the outer
world but Tess's mother caught up its notation in a week.
There still faintly beamed from the woman's features something of
the freshness, and even the prettiness, of her youth; rendering it
probable that the personal charms which Tess could boast of were in
main part her mother's gift, and therefore unknightly, unhistorical.
"I'll rock the cradle for 'ee, mother," said the daughter gently.
"Or I'll take off my best frock and help you wring up? I thought you
had finished long ago."
Her mother bore Tess no ill-will for leaving the housework to her
single-handed efforts for so long; indeed, Joan seldom upbraided
her thereon at any time, feeling but slightly the lack of Tess's
assistance whilst her instinctive plan for relieving herself of her
labours lay in postponing them. To-night, however, she was even in a
blither mood than usual. There was a dreaminess, a pre-occupation,
an exaltation, in the maternal look which the girl could not
understand.
"Well, I'm glad you've come," her mother said, as soon as the last
note had passed out of her. "I want to go and fetch your father;
but what's more'n that, I want to tell 'ee what have happened. Y'll
be fess enough, my poppet, when th'st know!" (Mrs Durbeyfield
habitually spoke the dialect; her daughter, who had passed the Sixth
Standard in the National School under a London-trained mistress,
spoke two languages: the dialect at home, more or less; ordinary
English abroad and to persons of quality.)
"Since I've been away?" Tess asked.
"Ay!"
"Had it anything to do with father's making such a mommet of himself
in thik carriage this afternoon? Why did 'er? I felt inclined to
sink into the ground with shame!"
"That wer all a part of the larry! We've been found to be the
greatest gentlefolk in the whole county--reaching all back long
before Oliver Grumble's time--to the days of the Pagan Turks--with
monuments, and vaults, and crests, and 'scutcheons, and the Lord
knows what all. In Saint Charles's days we was made Knights o' the
Royal Oak, our real name being d'Urberville! ... Don't that make
your bosom plim? 'Twas on this account that your father rode home
in the vlee; not because he'd been drinking, as people supposed."
"I'm glad of that. Will it do us any good, mother?"
"O yes! 'Tis thoughted that great things may come o't. No doubt a
mampus of volk of our own rank will be down here in their carriages
as soon as 'tis known. Your father learnt it on his way hwome
from Shaston, and he has been telling me the whole pedigree of the
matter."
"Where is father now?" asked Tess suddenly.
Her mother gave irrelevant information by way of answer: "He called
to see the doctor to-day in Shaston. It is not consumption at all,
it seems. It is fat round his heart, 'a says. There, it is like
this." Joan Durbeyfield, as she spoke, curved a sodden thumb
and forefinger to the shape of the letter C, and used the other
forefinger as a pointer. "'At the present moment,' he says to your
father, 'your heart is enclosed all round there, and all round
there; this space is still open,' 'a says. 'As soon as it do
meet, so,'"--Mrs Durbeyfield closed her fingers into a circle
complete--"'off you will go like a shadder, Mr Durbeyfield,' 'a says.
'You mid last ten years; you mid go off in ten months, or ten days.'"
Tess looked alarmed. Her father possibly to go behind the eternal
cloud so soon, notwithstanding this sudden greatness!
"But where IS father?" she asked again.
Her mother put on a deprecating look. "Now don't you be bursting out
angry! The poor man--he felt so rafted after his uplifting by the
pa'son's news--that he went up to Rolliver's half an hour ago. He do
want to get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load
of beehives, which must be delivered, family or no. He'll have to
start shortly after twelve to-night, as the distance is so long."
"Get up his strength!" said Tess impetuously, the tears welling to
her eyes. "O my God! Go to a public-house to get up his strength!
And you as well agreed as he, mother!"
Her rebuke and her mood seemed to fill the whole room, and to impart
a cowed look to the furniture, and candle, and children playing
about, and to her mother's face.
"No," said the latter touchily, "I be not agreed. I have been
waiting for 'ee to bide and keep house while I go fetch him."
"I'll go."
"O no, Tess. You see, it would be no use."
Tess did not expostulate. She knew what her mother's objection
meant. Mrs Durbeyfield's jacket and bonnet were already hanging
slily upon a chair by her side, in readiness for this contemplated
jaunt, the reason for which the matron deplored more than its
necessity.
"And take the _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ to the outhouse," Joan
continued, rapidly wiping her hands, and donning the garments.
The _Compleat Fortune-Teller_ was an old thick volume, which lay on a
table at her elbow, so worn by pocketing that the margins had reached
the edge of the type. Tess took it up, and her mother started.
This going to hunt up her shiftless husband at the inn was one of
Mrs Durbeyfield's still extant enjoyments in the muck and muddle of
rearing children. To discover him at Rolliver's, to sit there for
an hour or two by his side and dismiss all thought and care of the
children during the interval, made her happy. A sort of halo, an
occidental glow, came over life then. Troubles and other realities
took on themselves a metaphysical impalpability, sinking to mere
mental phenomena for serene contemplation, and no longer stood as
pressing concretions which chafed body and soul. The youngsters,
not immediately within sight, seemed rather bright and desirable
appurtenances than otherwise; the incidents of daily life were not
without humorousness and jollity in their aspect there. She felt a
little as she had used to feel when she sat by her now wedded husband
in the same spot during his wooing, shutting her eyes to his defects
of character, and regarding him only in his ideal presentation as
lover.
Tess, being left alone with the younger children, went first to the
outhouse with the fortune-telling book, and stuffed it into the
thatch. A curious fetishistic fear of this grimy volume on the part
of her mother prevented her ever allowing it to stay in the house all
night, and hither it was brought back whenever it had been consulted.
Between the mother, with her fast-perishing lumber of superstitions,
folk-lore, dialect, and orally transmitted ballads, and the daughter,
with her trained National teachings and Standard knowledge under an
infinitely Revised Code, there was a gap of two hundred years as
ordinarily understood. When they were together the Jacobean and the
Victorian ages were juxtaposed.
Returning along the garden path Tess mused on what the mother could
have wished to ascertain from the book on this particular day. She
guessed the recent ancestral discovery to bear upon it, but did not
divine that it solely concerned herself. Dismissing this, however,
she busied herself with sprinkling the linen dried during the
day-time, in company with her nine-year-old brother Abraham, and her
sister Eliza-Louisa of twelve and a half, called "'Liza-Lu," the
youngest ones being put to bed. There was an interval of four years
and more between Tess and the next of the family, the two who had
filled the gap having died in their infancy, and this lent her a
deputy-maternal attitude when she was alone with her juniors. Next
in juvenility to Abraham came two more girls, Hope and Modesty; then
a boy of three, and then the baby, who had just completed his first
year.
All these young souls were passengers in the Durbeyfield
ship--entirely dependent on the judgement of the two Durbeyfield
adults for their pleasures, their necessities, their health, even
their existence. If the heads of the Durbeyfield household chose
to sail into difficulty, disaster, starvation, disease, degradation,
death, thither were these half-dozen little captives under hatches
compelled to sail with them--six helpless creatures, who had never
been asked if they wished for life on any terms, much less if they
wished for it on such hard conditions as were involved in being of
the shiftless house of Durbeyfield. Some people would like to know
whence the poet whose philosophy is in these days deemed as profound
and trustworthy as his song is breezy and pure, gets his authority
for speaking of "Nature's holy plan."
It grew later, and neither father nor mother reappeared. Tess looked
out of the door, and took a mental journey through Marlott. The
village was shutting its eyes. Candles and lamps were being put
out everywhere: she could inwardly behold the extinguisher and the
extended hand.
Her mother's fetching simply meant one more to fetch. Tess began to
perceive that a man in indifferent health, who proposed to start on a
journey before one in the morning, ought not to be at an inn at this
late hour celebrating his ancient blood.
"Abraham," she said to her little brother, "do you put on your
hat--you bain't afraid?--and go up to Rolliver's, and see what has
gone wi' father and mother."
The boy jumped promptly from his seat, and opened the door, and the
night swallowed him up. Half an hour passed yet again; neither man,
woman, nor child returned. Abraham, like his parents, seemed to have
been limed and caught by the ensnaring inn.
"I must go myself," she said.
'Liza-Lu then went to bed, and Tess, locking them all in, started on
her way up the dark and crooked lane or street not made for hasty
progress; a street laid out before inches of land had value, and when
one-handed clocks sufficiently subdivided the day. | Tess takes some time to dismiss the strange young man from her mind. Other men want to dance with her, but she's not in the mood anymore. After the stranger is out of sight, she's able to shake off her melancholy and dance again. She dances for a while, but she remembers her father's strange behavior, and gets worried, so she hurries home. She finds her mother at home with her younger siblings. Joan Durbeyfield, Tess's mother, is singing and rocking the baby's cradle with one foot, while balancing on the other foot and washing clothes in a tub . Mrs. Durbeyfield, the narrator tells us, has a knack for putting off her household work until the last minute, which makes it seem much harder and more of a pain than it needs to be. Sound like a familiar habit, anyone? Tess feels bad that she was out having fun all afternoon while her mother was at home doing the wash , so she offers to rock the baby or to help with the wash, after changing out of her best gown. Tess's mother is described as aging , but still fresh and pretty. Tess's mother explains to Tess about the discovery of their aristocratic family, and that he had taken the carriage home because of that, and not because he'd been drinking. Tess asks if the news will do them any good, and her mother says that great things might come of it. Tess then asks where her father is. Her mother avoids the question, telling Tess what the doctor had said about Jack Durbeyfield's heart. Apparently his heart is weakened and could go at any time. Tess is alarmed by the news, but asks again where her father is. Her mother admits that Jack Durbeyfield is at Rolliver's--a nearby pub--to "get up his strength for his journey to-morrow with that load of beehives," even though he'll have to be leaving before 1 a.m. to get the hives delivered on time . Tess is dismayed that her father would be so irresponsible, and that her mother must have agreed to his going. Her mother says that she didn't agree, but had to wait for Tess to come back to take care of the younger children while she went to fetch him back. Tess offers to go, but Mrs. Durbeyfield insists on going herself. The narrator informs us that Mrs. Durbeyfield enjoys "fetching her husband from Rolliver's," and that it's one of the few bits of fun she has still in her married life. At Rolliver's, she can pretend that she isn't responsible for seven children back home, and she can be as irresponsible as her husband. On her way out the door, she asks Tess to take the Complete Fortune-Teller to the outhouse. Tess wonders what her mother was consulting in the Complete Fortune-Teller, and guesses that it has something to do with the news about their family. She doesn't guess that it was how the news about their family would affect her in particular. Tess finishes doing the laundry, with help from her nine-year-old brother, Abraham, and her twelve-year-old sister, Eliza-Louisa , and put the youngest ones to bed. 'Liza-Lu is the next oldest sibling, but there's a four year difference between her and Tess . So the age difference makes Tess a kind of foster mother to her younger siblings when their mother is away. After 'Liza-Lu and Abraham there are two more girls, then a three-year-old boy, and then the one-year-old baby, making for a total of seven living children, besides the two that had died. That's a lot of children. Time goes by, and neither of her parents returns. Tess knows that her mother just wanted to join Jack Durbeyfield at the pub for a bit of fun, and that she never intended to fetch him right back. So Tess sends Abraham out to bring both parents home. But half an hour passed, and Abraham doesn't return, either. Tess realizes she must go herself. She locks up the house, and hurries down the "dark and crooked lane" towards Rolliver's. |
Summer was already past its prime, when Edgar reluctantly yielded his
assent to their entreaties, and Catherine and I set out on our first ride
to join her cousin. It was a close, sultry day: devoid of sunshine, but
with a sky too dappled and hazy to threaten rain: and our place of
meeting had been fixed at the guide-stone, by the cross-roads. On
arriving there, however, a little herd-boy, despatched as a messenger,
told us that,--'Maister Linton wer just o' this side th' Heights: and
he'd be mitch obleeged to us to gang on a bit further.'
'Then Master Linton has forgot the first injunction of his uncle,' I
observed: 'he bid us keep on the Grange land, and here we are off at
once.'
'Well, we'll turn our horses' heads round when we reach him,' answered my
companion; 'our excursion shall lie towards home.'
But when we reached him, and that was scarcely a quarter of a mile from
his own door, we found he had no horse; and we were forced to dismount,
and leave ours to graze. He lay on the heath, awaiting our approach, and
did not rise till we came within a few yards. Then he walked so feebly,
and looked so pale, that I immediately exclaimed,--'Why, Master
Heathcliff, you are not fit for enjoying a ramble this morning. How ill
you do look!'
Catherine surveyed him with grief and astonishment: she changed the
ejaculation of joy on her lips to one of alarm; and the congratulation on
their long-postponed meeting to an anxious inquiry, whether he were worse
than usual?
'No--better--better!' he panted, trembling, and retaining her hand as if
he needed its support, while his large blue eyes wandered timidly over
her; the hollowness round them transforming to haggard wildness the
languid expression they once possessed.
'But you have been worse,' persisted his cousin; 'worse than when I saw
you last; you are thinner, and--'
'I'm tired,' he interrupted, hurriedly. 'It is too hot for walking, let
us rest here. And, in the morning, I often feel sick--papa says I grow
so fast.'
Badly satisfied, Cathy sat down, and he reclined beside her.
'This is something like your paradise,' said she, making an effort at
cheerfulness. 'You recollect the two days we agreed to spend in the
place and way each thought pleasantest? This is nearly yours, only there
are clouds; but then they are so soft and mellow: it is nicer than
sunshine. Next week, if you can, we'll ride down to the Grange Park, and
try mine.'
Linton did not appear to remember what she talked of and he had evidently
great difficulty in sustaining any kind of conversation. His lack of
interest in the subjects she started, and his equal incapacity to
contribute to her entertainment, were so obvious that she could not
conceal her disappointment. An indefinite alteration had come over his
whole person and manner. The pettishness that might be caressed into
fondness, had yielded to a listless apathy; there was less of the peevish
temper of a child which frets and teases on purpose to be soothed, and
more of the self-absorbed moroseness of a confirmed invalid, repelling
consolation, and ready to regard the good-humoured mirth of others as an
insult. Catherine perceived, as well as I did, that he held it rather a
punishment, than a gratification, to endure our company; and she made no
scruple of proposing, presently, to depart. That proposal, unexpectedly,
roused Linton from his lethargy, and threw him into a strange state of
agitation. He glanced fearfully towards the Heights, begging she would
remain another half-hour, at least.
'But I think,' said Cathy, 'you'd be more comfortable at home than
sitting here; and I cannot amuse you to-day, I see, by my tales, and
songs, and chatter: you have grown wiser than I, in these six months; you
have little taste for my diversions now: or else, if I could amuse you,
I'd willingly stay.'
'Stay to rest yourself,' he replied. 'And, Catherine, don't think or say
that I'm _very_ unwell: it is the heavy weather and heat that make me
dull; and I walked about, before you came, a great deal for me. Tell
uncle I'm in tolerable health, will you?'
'I'll tell him that _you_ say so, Linton. I couldn't affirm that you
are,' observed my young lady, wondering at his pertinacious assertion of
what was evidently an untruth.
'And be here again next Thursday,' continued he, shunning her puzzled
gaze. 'And give him my thanks for permitting you to come--my best
thanks, Catherine. And--and, if you _did_ meet my father, and he asked
you about me, don't lead him to suppose that I've been extremely silent
and stupid: don't look sad and downcast, as you are doing--he'll be
angry.'
'I care nothing for his anger,' exclaimed Cathy, imagining she would be
its object.
'But I do,' said her cousin, shuddering. '_Don't_ provoke him against
me, Catherine, for he is very hard.'
'Is he severe to you, Master Heathcliff?' I inquired. 'Has he grown
weary of indulgence, and passed from passive to active hatred?'
Linton looked at me, but did not answer; and, after keeping her seat by
his side another ten minutes, during which his head fell drowsily on his
breast, and he uttered nothing except suppressed moans of exhaustion or
pain, Cathy began to seek solace in looking for bilberries, and sharing
the produce of her researches with me: she did not offer them to him, for
she saw further notice would only weary and annoy.
'Is it half-an-hour now, Ellen?' she whispered in my ear, at last. 'I
can't tell why we should stay. He's asleep, and papa will be wanting us
back.'
'Well, we must not leave him asleep,' I answered; 'wait till he wakes,
and be patient. You were mighty eager to set off, but your longing to
see poor Linton has soon evaporated!'
'Why did _he_ wish to see me?' returned Catherine. 'In his crossest
humours, formerly, I liked him better than I do in his present curious
mood. It's just as if it were a task he was compelled to perform--this
interview--for fear his father should scold him. But I'm hardly going to
come to give Mr. Heathcliff pleasure; whatever reason he may have for
ordering Linton to undergo this penance. And, though I'm glad he's
better in health, I'm sorry he's so much less pleasant, and so much less
affectionate to me.'
'You think _he is_ better in health, then?' I said.
'Yes,' she answered; 'because he always made such a great deal of his
sufferings, you know. He is not tolerably well, as he told me to tell
papa; but he's better, very likely.'
'There you differ with me, Miss Cathy,' I remarked; 'I should conjecture
him to be far worse.'
Linton here started from his slumber in bewildered terror, and asked if
any one had called his name.
'No,' said Catherine; 'unless in dreams. I cannot conceive how you
manage to doze out of doors, in the morning.'
'I thought I heard my father,' he gasped, glancing up to the frowning nab
above us. 'You are sure nobody spoke?'
'Quite sure,' replied his cousin. 'Only Ellen and I were disputing
concerning your health. Are you truly stronger, Linton, than when we
separated in winter? If you be, I'm certain one thing is not
stronger--your regard for me: speak,--are you?'
The tears gushed from Linton's eyes as he answered, 'Yes, yes, I am!'
And, still under the spell of the imaginary voice, his gaze wandered up
and down to detect its owner.
Cathy rose. 'For to-day we must part,' she said. 'And I won't conceal
that I have been sadly disappointed with our meeting; though I'll mention
it to nobody but you: not that I stand in awe of Mr. Heathcliff.'
'Hush,' murmured Linton; 'for God's sake, hush! He's coming.' And he
clung to Catherine's arm, striving to detain her; but at that
announcement she hastily disengaged herself, and whistled to Minny, who
obeyed her like a dog.
'I'll be here next Thursday,' she cried, springing to the saddle.
'Good-bye. Quick, Ellen!'
And so we left him, scarcely conscious of our departure, so absorbed was
he in anticipating his father's approach.
Before we reached home, Catherine's displeasure softened into a perplexed
sensation of pity and regret, largely blended with vague, uneasy doubts
about Linton's actual circumstances, physical and social: in which I
partook, though I counselled her not to say much; for a second journey
would make us better judges. My master requested an account of our
ongoings. His nephew's offering of thanks was duly delivered, Miss Cathy
gently touching on the rest: I also threw little light on his inquiries,
for I hardly knew what to hide and what to reveal. | At the time of the first scheduled meeting on the moors, Linton is not at the agreed-upon spot; rather, he is quite close to Wuthering Heights. Both Nelly and Cathy are concerned about Linton's health, but he insists that he is getting stronger. During their entire visit he is squeamish and scared and is constantly looking back towards his house. When it is time to leave, Cathy assures Linton that she promises to meet him again next Thursday. On the way home Cathy and Nelly discuss Linton's health and decide to wait until the next visit to determine the extent of his deterioration. |
ARTHUR did not pass a sleepless night; he slept long and well. For sleep
comes to the perplexed--if the perplexed are only weary enough. But at
seven he rang his bell and astonished Pym by declaring he was going to
get up, and must have breakfast brought to him at eight.
"And see that my mare is saddled at half-past eight, and tell my
grandfather when he's down that I'm better this morning and am gone for
a ride."
He had been awake an hour, and could rest in bed no longer. In bed our
yesterdays are too oppressive: if a man can only get up, though it
be but to whistle or to smoke, he has a present which offers some
resistance to the past--sensations which assert themselves against
tyrannous memories. And if there were such a thing as taking averages
of feeling, it would certainly be found that in the hunting and shooting
seasons regret, self-reproach, and mortified pride weigh lighter on
country gentlemen than in late spring and summer. Arthur felt that he
should be more of a man on horseback. Even the presence of Pym, waiting
on him with the usual deference, was a reassurance to him after the
scenes of yesterday. For, with Arthur's sensitiveness to opinion,
the loss of Adam's respect was a shock to his self-contentment which
suffused his imagination with the sense that he had sunk in all eyes--as
a sudden shock of fear from some real peril makes a nervous woman afraid
even to step, because all her perceptions are suffused with a sense of
danger.
Arthur's, as you know, was a loving nature. Deeds of kindness were as
easy to him as a bad habit: they were the common issue of his weaknesses
and good qualities, of his egoism and his sympathy. He didn't like to
witness pain, and he liked to have grateful eyes beaming on him as the
giver of pleasure. When he was a lad of seven, he one day kicked down an
old gardener's pitcher of broth, from no motive but a kicking impulse,
not reflecting that it was the old man's dinner; but on learning that
sad fact, he took his favourite pencil-case and a silver-hafted knife
out of his pocket and offered them as compensation. He had been the same
Arthur ever since, trying to make all offences forgotten in benefits.
If there were any bitterness in his nature, it could only show itself
against the man who refused to be conciliated by him. And perhaps the
time was come for some of that bitterness to rise. At the first moment,
Arthur had felt pure distress and self-reproach at discovering that
Adam's happiness was involved in his relation to Hetty. If there had
been a possibility of making Adam tenfold amends--if deeds of gift, or
any other deeds, could have restored Adam's contentment and regard for
him as a benefactor, Arthur would not only have executed them without
hesitation, but would have felt bound all the more closely to Adam,
and would never have been weary of making retribution. But Adam could
receive no amends; his suffering could not be cancelled; his respect and
affection could not be recovered by any prompt deeds of atonement. He
stood like an immovable obstacle against which no pressure could
avail; an embodiment of what Arthur most shrank from believing in--the
irrevocableness of his own wrongdoing. The words of scorn, the refusal
to shake hands, the mastery asserted over him in their last conversation
in the Hermitage--above all, the sense of having been knocked down, to
which a man does not very well reconcile himself, even under the most
heroic circumstances--pressed on him with a galling pain which was
stronger than compunction. Arthur would so gladly have persuaded himself
that he had done no harm! And if no one had told him the contrary, he
could have persuaded himself so much better. Nemesis can seldom forge a
sword for herself out of our consciences--out of the suffering we feel
in the suffering we may have caused: there is rarely metal enough there
to make an effective weapon. Our moral sense learns the manners of good
society and smiles when others smile, but when some rude person gives
rough names to our actions, she is apt to take part against us. And
so it was with Arthur: Adam's judgment of him, Adam's grating words,
disturbed his self-soothing arguments.
Not that Arthur had been at ease before Adam's discovery. Struggles and
resolves had transformed themselves into compunction and anxiety. He was
distressed for Hetty's sake, and distressed for his own, that he
must leave her behind. He had always, both in making and breaking
resolutions, looked beyond his passion and seen that it must speedily
end in separation; but his nature was too ardent and tender for him not
to suffer at this parting; and on Hetty's account he was filled with
uneasiness. He had found out the dream in which she was living--that she
was to be a lady in silks and satins--and when he had first talked to
her about his going away, she had asked him tremblingly to let her go
with him and be married. It was his painful knowledge of this which had
given the most exasperating sting to Adam's reproaches. He had said no
word with the purpose of deceiving her--her vision was all spun by her
own childish fancy--but he was obliged to confess to himself that it was
spun half out of his own actions. And to increase the mischief, on this
last evening he had not dared to hint the truth to Hetty; he had been
obliged to soothe her with tender, hopeful words, lest he should throw
her into violent distress. He felt the situation acutely, felt the
sorrow of the dear thing in the present, and thought with a darker
anxiety of the tenacity which her feelings might have in the future.
That was the one sharp point which pressed against him; every other he
could evade by hopeful self-persuasion. The whole thing had been secret;
the Poysers had not the shadow of a suspicion. No one, except Adam, knew
anything of what had passed--no one else was likely to know; for Arthur
had impressed on Hetty that it would be fatal to betray, by word or
look, that there had been the least intimacy between them; and Adam, who
knew half their secret, would rather help them to keep it than betray
it. It was an unfortunate business altogether, but there was no use in
making it worse than it was by imaginary exaggerations and forebodings
of evil that might never come. The temporary sadness for Hetty was
the worst consequence; he resolutely turned away his eyes from any bad
consequence that was not demonstrably inevitable. But--but Hetty might
have had the trouble in some other way if not in this. And perhaps
hereafter he might be able to do a great deal for her and make up to her
for all the tears she would shed about him. She would owe the advantage
of his care for her in future years to the sorrow she had incurred now.
So good comes out of evil. Such is the beautiful arrangement of things!
Are you inclined to ask whether this can be the same Arthur who, two
months ago, had that freshness of feeling, that delicate honour which
shrinks from wounding even a sentiment, and does not contemplate any
more positive offence as possible for it?--who thought that his own
self-respect was a higher tribunal than any external opinion? The same,
I assure you, only under different conditions. Our deeds determine us,
as much as we determine our deeds, and until we know what has been or
will be the peculiar combination of outward with inward facts, which
constitutes a man's critical actions, it will be better not to think
ourselves wise about his character. There is a terrible coercion in
our deeds, which may first turn the honest man into a deceiver and then
reconcile him to the change, for this reason--that the second wrong
presents itself to him in the guise of the only practicable right. The
action which before commission has been seen with that blended common
sense and fresh untarnished feeling which is the healthy eye of the
soul, is looked at afterwards with the lens of apologetic ingenuity,
through which all things that men call beautiful and ugly are seen to
be made up of textures very much alike. Europe adjusts itself to a
_fait accompli_, and so does an individual character--until the placid
adjustment is disturbed by a convulsive retribution.
No man can escape this vitiating effect of an offence against his own
sentiment of right, and the effect was the stronger in Arthur because of
that very need of self-respect which, while his conscience was still at
ease, was one of his best safeguards. Self-accusation was too painful to
him--he could not face it. He must persuade himself that he had not been
very much to blame; he began even to pity himself for the necessity he
was under of deceiving Adam--it was a course so opposed to the honesty
of his own nature. But then, it was the only right thing to do.
Well, whatever had been amiss in him, he was miserable enough in
consequence: miserable about Hetty; miserable about this letter that
he had promised to write, and that seemed at one moment to be a gross
barbarity, at another perhaps the greatest kindness he could do to her.
And across all this reflection would dart every now and then a sudden
impulse of passionate defiance towards all consequences. He would carry
Hetty away, and all other considerations might go to....
In this state of mind the four walls of his room made an intolerable
prison to him; they seemed to hem in and press down upon him all the
crowd of contradictory thoughts and conflicting feelings, some of which
would fly away in the open air. He had only an hour or two to make up
his mind in, and he must get clear and calm. Once on Meg's back, in
the fresh air of that fine morning, he should be more master of the
situation.
The pretty creature arched her bay neck in the sunshine, and pawed the
gravel, and trembled with pleasure when her master stroked her nose, and
patted her, and talked to her even in a more caressing tone than usual.
He loved her the better because she knew nothing of his secrets. But
Meg was quite as well acquainted with her master's mental state as many
others of her sex with the mental condition of the nice young gentlemen
towards whom their hearts are in a state of fluttering expectation.
Arthur cantered for five miles beyond the Chase, till he was at the foot
of a hill where there were no hedges or trees to hem in the road. Then
he threw the bridle on Meg's neck and prepared to make up his mind.
Hetty knew that their meeting yesterday must be the last before Arthur
went away--there was no possibility of their contriving another without
exciting suspicion--and she was like a frightened child, unable to think
of anything, only able to cry at the mention of parting, and then put
her face up to have the tears kissed away. He could do nothing but
comfort her, and lull her into dreaming on. A letter would be a
dreadfully abrupt way of awakening her! Yet there was truth in what Adam
said--that it would save her from a lengthened delusion, which might be
worse than a sharp immediate pain. And it was the only way of satisfying
Adam, who must be satisfied, for more reasons than one. If he could have
seen her again! But that was impossible; there was such a thorny hedge
of hindrances between them, and an imprudence would be fatal. And yet,
if he COULD see her again, what good would it do? Only cause him to
suffer more from the sight of her distress and the remembrance of it.
Away from him she was surrounded by all the motives to self-control.
A sudden dread here fell like a shadow across his imagination--the dread
lest she should do something violent in her grief; and close upon that
dread came another, which deepened the shadow. But he shook them off
with the force of youth and hope. What was the ground for painting the
future in that dark way? It was just as likely to be the reverse. Arthur
told himself he did not deserve that things should turn out badly. He
had never meant beforehand to do anything his conscience disapproved;
he had been led on by circumstances. There was a sort of implicit
confidence in him that he was really such a good fellow at bottom,
Providence would not treat him harshly.
At all events, he couldn't help what would come now: all he could do
was to take what seemed the best course at the present moment. And he
persuaded himself that that course was to make the way open between
Adam and Hetty. Her heart might really turn to Adam, as he said, after a
while; and in that case there would have been no great harm done, since
it was still Adam's ardent wish to make her his wife. To be sure, Adam
was deceived--deceived in a way that Arthur would have resented as a
deep wrong if it had been practised on himself. That was a reflection
that marred the consoling prospect. Arthur's cheeks even burned in
mingled shame and irritation at the thought. But what could a man do in
such a dilemma? He was bound in honour to say no word that could injure
Hetty: his first duty was to guard her. He would never have told or
acted a lie on his own account. Good God! What a miserable fool he was
to have brought himself into such a dilemma; and yet, if ever a man had
excuses, he had. (Pity that consequences are determined not by excuses
but by actions!)
Well, the letter must be written; it was the only means that promised
a solution of the difficulty. The tears came into Arthur's eyes as he
thought of Hetty reading it; but it would be almost as hard for him
to write it; he was not doing anything easy to himself; and this
last thought helped him to arrive at a conclusion. He could never
deliberately have taken a step which inflicted pain on another and left
himself at ease. Even a movement of jealousy at the thought of giving up
Hetty to Adam went to convince him that he was making a sacrifice.
When once he had come to this conclusion, he turned Meg round and set
off home again in a canter. The letter should be written the first
thing, and the rest of the day would be filled up with other business:
he should have no time to look behind him. Happily, Irwine and Gawaine
were coming to dinner, and by twelve o'clock the next day he should
have left the Chase miles behind him. There was some security in this
constant occupation against an uncontrollable impulse seizing him to
rush to Hetty and thrust into her hand some mad proposition that would
undo everything. Faster and faster went the sensitive Meg, at every
slight sign from her rider, till the canter had passed into a swift
gallop.
"I thought they said th' young mester war took ill last night," said
sour old John, the groom, at dinner-time in the servants' hall. "He's
been ridin' fit to split the mare i' two this forenoon."
"That's happen one o' the symptims, John," said the facetious coachman.
"Then I wish he war let blood for 't, that's all," said John, grimly.
Adam had been early at the Chase to know how Arthur was, and had been
relieved from all anxiety about the effects of his blow by learning
that he was gone out for a ride. At five o'clock he was punctually there
again, and sent up word of his arrival. In a few minutes Pym came down
with a letter in his hand and gave it to Adam, saying that the captain
was too busy to see him, and had written everything he had to say.
The letter was directed to Adam, but he went out of doors again before
opening it. It contained a sealed enclosure directed to Hetty. On the
inside of the cover Adam read:
"In the enclosed letter I have written everything you wish. I leave it
to you to decide whether you will be doing best to deliver it to Hetty
or to return it to me. Ask yourself once more whether you are not taking
a measure which may pain her more than mere silence.
"There is no need for our seeing each other again now. We shall meet
with better feelings some months hence.
"A.D."
"Perhaps he's i' th' right on 't not to see me," thought Adam. "It's
no use meeting to say more hard words, and it's no use meeting to shake
hands and say we're friends again. We're not friends, an' it's better
not to pretend it. I know forgiveness is a man's duty, but, to my
thinking, that can only mean as you're to give up all thoughts o' taking
revenge: it can never mean as you're t' have your old feelings back
again, for that's not possible. He's not the same man to me, and I can't
feel the same towards him. God help me! I don't know whether I feel the
same towards anybody: I seem as if I'd been measuring my work from a
false line, and had got it all to measure over again."
But the question about delivering the letter to Hetty soon absorbed
Adam's thoughts. Arthur had procured some relief to himself by throwing
the decision on Adam with a warning; and Adam, who was not given to
hesitation, hesitated here. He determined to feel his way--to ascertain
as well as he could what was Hetty's state of mind before he decided on
delivering the letter. | When Arthur rises the next morning, he is deeply troubled. He sits at home for a while and then goes riding, and all the time his mind is turning over the situation with Hetty. He feels guilty about deceiving Adam and about leading Hetty to hope for marriage, but he dodges his own guilt, unwilling to accuse himself of wrongdoing. He doesn't want to cause Hetty pain by writing the letter, but he decides that he must clear the way for Adam to win Hetty's love. He writes the letter and gives it to Adam with the injunction that Adam must follow his conscience in deciding whether or not to deliver it to Hetty. Arthur then leaves to join his regiment, which is stationed at Windsor. |
The Powers Conferred by the Constitution Further Considered
From the New York Packet. Tuesday, January 22, 1788.
MADISON
To the People of the State of New York:
THE SECOND class of powers, lodged in the general government, consists
of those which regulate the intercourse with foreign nations, to wit: to
make treaties; to send and receive ambassadors, other public ministers,
and consuls; to define and punish piracies and felonies committed on the
high seas, and offenses against the law of nations; to regulate foreign
commerce, including a power to prohibit, after the year 1808, the
importation of slaves, and to lay an intermediate duty of ten dollars
per head, as a discouragement to such importations.
This class of powers forms an obvious and essential branch of the
federal administration. If we are to be one nation in any respect, it
clearly ought to be in respect to other nations.
The powers to make treaties and to send and receive ambassadors, speak
their own propriety. Both of them are comprised in the articles
of Confederation, with this difference only, that the former is
disembarrassed, by the plan of the convention, of an exception, under
which treaties might be substantially frustrated by regulations of
the States; and that a power of appointing and receiving "other public
ministers and consuls," is expressly and very properly added to the
former provision concerning ambassadors. The term ambassador, if taken
strictly, as seems to be required by the second of the articles of
Confederation, comprehends the highest grade only of public ministers,
and excludes the grades which the United States will be most likely to
prefer, where foreign embassies may be necessary. And under no latitude
of construction will the term comprehend consuls. Yet it has been found
expedient, and has been the practice of Congress, to employ the inferior
grades of public ministers, and to send and receive consuls.
It is true, that where treaties of commerce stipulate for the mutual
appointment of consuls, whose functions are connected with commerce,
the admission of foreign consuls may fall within the power of making
commercial treaties; and that where no such treaties exist, the mission
of American consuls into foreign countries may PERHAPS be covered under
the authority, given by the ninth article of the Confederation, to
appoint all such civil officers as may be necessary for managing the
general affairs of the United States. But the admission of consuls into
the United States, where no previous treaty has stipulated it, seems to
have been nowhere provided for. A supply of the omission is one of the
lesser instances in which the convention have improved on the model
before them. But the most minute provisions become important when they
tend to obviate the necessity or the pretext for gradual and unobserved
usurpations of power. A list of the cases in which Congress have been
betrayed, or forced by the defects of the Confederation, into violations
of their chartered authorities, would not a little surprise those who
have paid no attention to the subject; and would be no inconsiderable
argument in favor of the new Constitution, which seems to have provided
no less studiously for the lesser, than the more obvious and striking
defects of the old.
The power to define and punish piracies and felonies committed on the
high seas, and offenses against the law of nations, belongs with equal
propriety to the general government, and is a still greater improvement
on the articles of Confederation. These articles contain no provision
for the case of offenses against the law of nations; and consequently
leave it in the power of any indiscreet member to embroil the
Confederacy with foreign nations. The provision of the federal articles
on the subject of piracies and felonies extends no further than to the
establishment of courts for the trial of these offenses. The definition
of piracies might, perhaps, without inconveniency, be left to the law
of nations; though a legislative definition of them is found in most
municipal codes. A definition of felonies on the high seas is evidently
requisite. Felony is a term of loose signification, even in the common
law of England; and of various import in the statute law of that
kingdom. But neither the common nor the statute law of that, or of any
other nation, ought to be a standard for the proceedings of this, unless
previously made its own by legislative adoption. The meaning of the
term, as defined in the codes of the several States, would be as
impracticable as the former would be a dishonorable and illegitimate
guide. It is not precisely the same in any two of the States; and
varies in each with every revision of its criminal laws. For the sake of
certainty and uniformity, therefore, the power of defining felonies in
this case was in every respect necessary and proper.
The regulation of foreign commerce, having fallen within several views
which have been taken of this subject, has been too fully discussed
to need additional proofs here of its being properly submitted to the
federal administration.
It were doubtless to be wished, that the power of prohibiting the
importation of slaves had not been postponed until the year 1808, or
rather that it had been suffered to have immediate operation. But it
is not difficult to account, either for this restriction on the general
government, or for the manner in which the whole clause is expressed.
It ought to be considered as a great point gained in favor of humanity,
that a period of twenty years may terminate forever, within these
States, a traffic which has so long and so loudly upbraided the
barbarism of modern policy; that within that period, it will receive
a considerable discouragement from the federal government, and may be
totally abolished, by a concurrence of the few States which continue the
unnatural traffic, in the prohibitory example which has been given by
so great a majority of the Union. Happy would it be for the unfortunate
Africans, if an equal prospect lay before them of being redeemed from
the oppressions of their European brethren!
Attempts have been made to pervert this clause into an objection
against the Constitution, by representing it on one side as a criminal
toleration of an illicit practice, and on another as calculated to
prevent voluntary and beneficial emigrations from Europe to America. I
mention these misconstructions, not with a view to give them an answer,
for they deserve none, but as specimens of the manner and spirit in
which some have thought fit to conduct their opposition to the proposed
government.
The powers included in the THIRD class are those which provide for the
harmony and proper intercourse among the States.
Under this head might be included the particular restraints imposed
on the authority of the States, and certain powers of the judicial
department; but the former are reserved for a distinct class, and the
latter will be particularly examined when we arrive at the structure
and organization of the government. I shall confine myself to a
cursory review of the remaining powers comprehended under this third
description, to wit: to regulate commerce among the several States and
the Indian tribes; to coin money, regulate the value thereof, and
of foreign coin; to provide for the punishment of counterfeiting the
current coin and securities of the United States; to fix the standard of
weights and measures; to establish a uniform rule of naturalization, and
uniform laws of bankruptcy, to prescribe the manner in which the public
acts, records, and judicial proceedings of each State shall be proved,
and the effect they shall have in other States; and to establish post
offices and post roads.
The defect of power in the existing Confederacy to regulate the commerce
between its several members, is in the number of those which have been
clearly pointed out by experience. To the proofs and remarks which
former papers have brought into view on this subject, it may be added
that without this supplemental provision, the great and essential
power of regulating foreign commerce would have been incomplete and
ineffectual. A very material object of this power was the relief of the
States which import and export through other States, from the improper
contributions levied on them by the latter. Were these at liberty to
regulate the trade between State and State, it must be foreseen that
ways would be found out to load the articles of import and export,
during the passage through their jurisdiction, with duties which would
fall on the makers of the latter and the consumers of the former. We may
be assured by past experience, that such a practice would be introduced
by future contrivances; and both by that and a common knowledge of human
affairs, that it would nourish unceasing animosities, and not improbably
terminate in serious interruptions of the public tranquillity. To
those who do not view the question through the medium of passion or of
interest, the desire of the commercial States to collect, in any form,
an indirect revenue from their uncommercial neighbors, must appear not
less impolitic than it is unfair; since it would stimulate the injured
party, by resentment as well as interest, to resort to less convenient
channels for their foreign trade. But the mild voice of reason, pleading
the cause of an enlarged and permanent interest, is but too often
drowned, before public bodies as well as individuals, by the clamors of
an impatient avidity for immediate and immoderate gain.
The necessity of a superintending authority over the reciprocal trade of
confederated States, has been illustrated by other examples as well as
our own. In Switzerland, where the Union is so very slight, each canton
is obliged to allow to merchandises a passage through its jurisdiction
into other cantons, without an augmentation of the tolls. In Germany it
is a law of the empire, that the princes and states shall not lay tolls
or customs on bridges, rivers, or passages, without the consent of
the emperor and the diet; though it appears from a quotation in an
antecedent paper, that the practice in this, as in many other instances
in that confederacy, has not followed the law, and has produced there
the mischiefs which have been foreseen here. Among the restraints
imposed by the Union of the Netherlands on its members, one is, that
they shall not establish imposts disadvantageous to their neighbors,
without the general permission.
The regulation of commerce with the Indian tribes is very properly
unfettered from two limitations in the articles of Confederation, which
render the provision obscure and contradictory. The power is there
restrained to Indians, not members of any of the States, and is not to
violate or infringe the legislative right of any State within its own
limits. What description of Indians are to be deemed members of a State,
is not yet settled, and has been a question of frequent perplexity and
contention in the federal councils. And how the trade with Indians,
though not members of a State, yet residing within its legislative
jurisdiction, can be regulated by an external authority, without so
far intruding on the internal rights of legislation, is absolutely
incomprehensible. This is not the only case in which the articles
of Confederation have inconsiderately endeavored to accomplish
impossibilities; to reconcile a partial sovereignty in the Union, with
complete sovereignty in the States; to subvert a mathematical axiom, by
taking away a part, and letting the whole remain.
All that need be remarked on the power to coin money, regulate the value
thereof, and of foreign coin, is, that by providing for this last case,
the Constitution has supplied a material omission in the articles of
Confederation. The authority of the existing Congress is restrained to
the regulation of coin STRUCK by their own authority, or that of the
respective States. It must be seen at once that the proposed uniformity
in the VALUE of the current coin might be destroyed by subjecting that
of foreign coin to the different regulations of the different States.
The punishment of counterfeiting the public securities, as well as
the current coin, is submitted of course to that authority which is to
secure the value of both.
The regulation of weights and measures is transferred from the articles
of Confederation, and is founded on like considerations with the
preceding power of regulating coin.
The dissimilarity in the rules of naturalization has long been remarked
as a fault in our system, and as laying a foundation for intricate and
delicate questions. In the fourth article of the Confederation, it is
declared "that the FREE INHABITANTS of each of these States, paupers,
vagabonds, and fugitives from justice, excepted, shall be entitled to
all privileges and immunities of FREE CITIZENS in the several States;
and THE PEOPLE of each State shall, in every other, enjoy all the
privileges of trade and commerce," etc. There is a confusion of language
here, which is remarkable. Why the terms FREE INHABITANTS are used
in one part of the article, FREE CITIZENS in another, and PEOPLE
in another; or what was meant by superadding to "all privileges
and immunities of free citizens," "all the privileges of trade and
commerce," cannot easily be determined. It seems to be a construction
scarcely avoidable, however, that those who come under the denomination
of FREE INHABITANTS of a State, although not citizens of such State, are
entitled, in every other State, to all the privileges of FREE CITIZENS
of the latter; that is, to greater privileges than they may be entitled
to in their own State: so that it may be in the power of a particular
State, or rather every State is laid under a necessity, not only to
confer the rights of citizenship in other States upon any whom it may
admit to such rights within itself, but upon any whom it may allow to
become inhabitants within its jurisdiction. But were an exposition of
the term "inhabitants" to be admitted which would confine the stipulated
privileges to citizens alone, the difficulty is diminished only, not
removed. The very improper power would still be retained by each State,
of naturalizing aliens in every other State. In one State, residence
for a short term confirms all the rights of citizenship: in another,
qualifications of greater importance are required. An alien, therefore,
legally incapacitated for certain rights in the latter, may, by previous
residence only in the former, elude his incapacity; and thus the law of
one State be preposterously rendered paramount to the law of another,
within the jurisdiction of the other. We owe it to mere casualty, that
very serious embarrassments on this subject have been hitherto escaped.
By the laws of several States, certain descriptions of aliens, who had
rendered themselves obnoxious, were laid under interdicts inconsistent
not only with the rights of citizenship but with the privilege of
residence. What would have been the consequence, if such persons, by
residence or otherwise, had acquired the character of citizens under the
laws of another State, and then asserted their rights as such, both to
residence and citizenship, within the State proscribing them? Whatever
the legal consequences might have been, other consequences would
probably have resulted, of too serious a nature not to be provided
against. The new Constitution has accordingly, with great propriety,
made provision against them, and all others proceeding from the defect
of the Confederation on this head, by authorizing the general government
to establish a uniform rule of naturalization throughout the United
States.
The power of establishing uniform laws of bankruptcy is so intimately
connected with the regulation of commerce, and will prevent so many
frauds where the parties or their property may lie or be removed into
different States, that the expediency of it seems not likely to be drawn
into question.
The power of prescribing by general laws, the manner in which the public
acts, records and judicial proceedings of each State shall be proved,
and the effect they shall have in other States, is an evident and
valuable improvement on the clause relating to this subject in the
articles of Confederation. The meaning of the latter is extremely
indeterminate, and can be of little importance under any interpretation
which it will bear. The power here established may be rendered a very
convenient instrument of justice, and be particularly beneficial on the
borders of contiguous States, where the effects liable to justice may be
suddenly and secretly translated, in any stage of the process, within a
foreign jurisdiction.
The power of establishing post roads must, in every view, be a harmless
power, and may, perhaps, by judicious management, become productive
of great public conveniency. Nothing which tends to facilitate the
intercourse between the States can be deemed unworthy of the public
care.
PUBLIUS | Madison defends two more classes of powers afforded to the general government: the regulation of intercourse with foreign nations and the regulation of intercourse among the states. Madison argues that the national government must be able to conduct diplomacy and act independently on the international stage just as all other nations do. It must be able to send and receive ambassadors, make binding treaties, and punish piracy. Madison also discusses the provision in the Constitution allowing for the importation of slaves until 1808, after which Congress may decide to ban importation. It is very clear that Madison strongly opposes slavery as an inhumane and barbaric practice. However, he argues that while it would have been better to abolish the trade immediately, it is nevertheless better to place some sort of time limit on the trade than to leave it completely unfettered forever. Madison goes into considerable detail in describing and defending the many specific powers granted to the general government to manage relations between the states. Perhaps the most important is the authority of the national government to regulate interstate commerce. Madison argues that if the national government is not authorized to perform this role, tensions and "serious interruptions of the public tranquility" will result from states imposing various kinds of taxes and restrictions on goods coming from other states. |
Mr Shepherd, a civil, cautious lawyer, who, whatever might be his hold
or his views on Sir Walter, would rather have the disagreeable prompted
by anybody else, excused himself from offering the slightest hint, and
only begged leave to recommend an implicit reference to the excellent
judgement of Lady Russell, from whose known good sense he fully
expected to have just such resolute measures advised as he meant to see
finally adopted.
Lady Russell was most anxiously zealous on the subject, and gave it
much serious consideration. She was a woman rather of sound than of
quick abilities, whose difficulties in coming to any decision in this
instance were great, from the opposition of two leading principles.
She was of strict integrity herself, with a delicate sense of honour;
but she was as desirous of saving Sir Walter's feelings, as solicitous
for the credit of the family, as aristocratic in her ideas of what was
due to them, as anybody of sense and honesty could well be. She was a
benevolent, charitable, good woman, and capable of strong attachments,
most correct in her conduct, strict in her notions of decorum, and with
manners that were held a standard of good-breeding. She had a
cultivated mind, and was, generally speaking, rational and consistent;
but she had prejudices on the side of ancestry; she had a value for
rank and consequence, which blinded her a little to the faults of those
who possessed them. Herself the widow of only a knight, she gave the
dignity of a baronet all its due; and Sir Walter, independent of his
claims as an old acquaintance, an attentive neighbour, an obliging
landlord, the husband of her very dear friend, the father of Anne and
her sisters, was, as being Sir Walter, in her apprehension, entitled to
a great deal of compassion and consideration under his present
difficulties.
They must retrench; that did not admit of a doubt. But she was very
anxious to have it done with the least possible pain to him and
Elizabeth. She drew up plans of economy, she made exact calculations,
and she did what nobody else thought of doing: she consulted Anne, who
never seemed considered by the others as having any interest in the
question. She consulted, and in a degree was influenced by her in
marking out the scheme of retrenchment which was at last submitted to
Sir Walter. Every emendation of Anne's had been on the side of honesty
against importance. She wanted more vigorous measures, a more complete
reformation, a quicker release from debt, a much higher tone of
indifference for everything but justice and equity.
"If we can persuade your father to all this," said Lady Russell,
looking over her paper, "much may be done. If he will adopt these
regulations, in seven years he will be clear; and I hope we may be able
to convince him and Elizabeth, that Kellynch Hall has a respectability
in itself which cannot be affected by these reductions; and that the
true dignity of Sir Walter Elliot will be very far from lessened in the
eyes of sensible people, by acting like a man of principle. What will
he be doing, in fact, but what very many of our first families have
done, or ought to do? There will be nothing singular in his case; and
it is singularity which often makes the worst part of our suffering, as
it always does of our conduct. I have great hope of prevailing. We
must be serious and decided; for after all, the person who has
contracted debts must pay them; and though a great deal is due to the
feelings of the gentleman, and the head of a house, like your father,
there is still more due to the character of an honest man."
This was the principle on which Anne wanted her father to be
proceeding, his friends to be urging him. She considered it as an act
of indispensable duty to clear away the claims of creditors with all
the expedition which the most comprehensive retrenchments could secure,
and saw no dignity in anything short of it. She wanted it to be
prescribed, and felt as a duty. She rated Lady Russell's influence
highly; and as to the severe degree of self-denial which her own
conscience prompted, she believed there might be little more difficulty
in persuading them to a complete, than to half a reformation. Her
knowledge of her father and Elizabeth inclined her to think that the
sacrifice of one pair of horses would be hardly less painful than of
both, and so on, through the whole list of Lady Russell's too gentle
reductions.
How Anne's more rigid requisitions might have been taken is of little
consequence. Lady Russell's had no success at all: could not be put up
with, were not to be borne. "What! every comfort of life knocked off!
Journeys, London, servants, horses, table--contractions and
restrictions every where! To live no longer with the decencies even of
a private gentleman! No, he would sooner quit Kellynch Hall at once,
than remain in it on such disgraceful terms."
"Quit Kellynch Hall." The hint was immediately taken up by Mr
Shepherd, whose interest was involved in the reality of Sir Walter's
retrenching, and who was perfectly persuaded that nothing would be done
without a change of abode. "Since the idea had been started in the
very quarter which ought to dictate, he had no scruple," he said, "in
confessing his judgement to be entirely on that side. It did not
appear to him that Sir Walter could materially alter his style of
living in a house which had such a character of hospitality and ancient
dignity to support. In any other place Sir Walter might judge for
himself; and would be looked up to, as regulating the modes of life in
whatever way he might choose to model his household."
Sir Walter would quit Kellynch Hall; and after a very few days more of
doubt and indecision, the great question of whither he should go was
settled, and the first outline of this important change made out.
There had been three alternatives, London, Bath, or another house in
the country. All Anne's wishes had been for the latter. A small house
in their own neighbourhood, where they might still have Lady Russell's
society, still be near Mary, and still have the pleasure of sometimes
seeing the lawns and groves of Kellynch, was the object of her
ambition. But the usual fate of Anne attended her, in having something
very opposite from her inclination fixed on. She disliked Bath, and
did not think it agreed with her; and Bath was to be her home.
Sir Walter had at first thought more of London; but Mr Shepherd felt
that he could not be trusted in London, and had been skilful enough to
dissuade him from it, and make Bath preferred. It was a much safer
place for a gentleman in his predicament: he might there be important
at comparatively little expense. Two material advantages of Bath over
London had of course been given all their weight: its more convenient
distance from Kellynch, only fifty miles, and Lady Russell's spending
some part of every winter there; and to the very great satisfaction of
Lady Russell, whose first views on the projected change had been for
Bath, Sir Walter and Elizabeth were induced to believe that they should
lose neither consequence nor enjoyment by settling there.
Lady Russell felt obliged to oppose her dear Anne's known wishes. It
would be too much to expect Sir Walter to descend into a small house in
his own neighbourhood. Anne herself would have found the
mortifications of it more than she foresaw, and to Sir Walter's
feelings they must have been dreadful. And with regard to Anne's
dislike of Bath, she considered it as a prejudice and mistake arising,
first, from the circumstance of her having been three years at school
there, after her mother's death; and secondly, from her happening to be
not in perfectly good spirits the only winter which she had afterwards
spent there with herself.
Lady Russell was fond of Bath, in short, and disposed to think it must
suit them all; and as to her young friend's health, by passing all the
warm months with her at Kellynch Lodge, every danger would be avoided;
and it was in fact, a change which must do both health and spirits
good. Anne had been too little from home, too little seen. Her spirits
were not high. A larger society would improve them. She wanted her to
be more known.
The undesirableness of any other house in the same neighbourhood for
Sir Walter was certainly much strengthened by one part, and a very
material part of the scheme, which had been happily engrafted on the
beginning. He was not only to quit his home, but to see it in the
hands of others; a trial of fortitude, which stronger heads than Sir
Walter's have found too much. Kellynch Hall was to be let. This,
however, was a profound secret, not to be breathed beyond their own
circle.
Sir Walter could not have borne the degradation of being known to
design letting his house. Mr Shepherd had once mentioned the word
"advertise," but never dared approach it again. Sir Walter spurned the
idea of its being offered in any manner; forbad the slightest hint
being dropped of his having such an intention; and it was only on the
supposition of his being spontaneously solicited by some most
unexceptionable applicant, on his own terms, and as a great favour,
that he would let it at all.
How quick come the reasons for approving what we like! Lady Russell
had another excellent one at hand, for being extremely glad that Sir
Walter and his family were to remove from the country. Elizabeth had
been lately forming an intimacy, which she wished to see interrupted.
It was with the daughter of Mr Shepherd, who had returned, after an
unprosperous marriage, to her father's house, with the additional
burden of two children. She was a clever young woman, who understood
the art of pleasing--the art of pleasing, at least, at Kellynch Hall;
and who had made herself so acceptable to Miss Elliot, as to have been
already staying there more than once, in spite of all that Lady
Russell, who thought it a friendship quite out of place, could hint of
caution and reserve.
Lady Russell, indeed, had scarcely any influence with Elizabeth, and
seemed to love her, rather because she would love her, than because
Elizabeth deserved it. She had never received from her more than
outward attention, nothing beyond the observances of complaisance; had
never succeeded in any point which she wanted to carry, against
previous inclination. She had been repeatedly very earnest in trying
to get Anne included in the visit to London, sensibly open to all the
injustice and all the discredit of the selfish arrangements which shut
her out, and on many lesser occasions had endeavoured to give Elizabeth
the advantage of her own better judgement and experience; but always in
vain: Elizabeth would go her own way; and never had she pursued it in
more decided opposition to Lady Russell than in this selection of Mrs
Clay; turning from the society of so deserving a sister, to bestow her
affection and confidence on one who ought to have been nothing to her
but the object of distant civility.
From situation, Mrs Clay was, in Lady Russell's estimate, a very
unequal, and in her character she believed a very dangerous companion;
and a removal that would leave Mrs Clay behind, and bring a choice of
more suitable intimates within Miss Elliot's reach, was therefore an
object of first-rate importance. | Lady Russell and Anne come up with a new budget for the Elliot family, but Sir Walter and Elizabeth can't conceive of living the simple life . Sir Walter himself unwittingly suggests the solution: leaving Kellynch Hall for cheaper digs. Anne wants to stay in the neighborhood and hates the town of Bath, so of course Sir Walter decides to leave the neighborhood and settle in...wait for it...Bath! At least Lady Russell is pleased. Lady Russell does have an ulterior motive: Elizabeth has been getting chummy with one Mrs. Clay, and Lady Russell wants to split the pair up before they become BFFs. |
My brother, being disappointed in his project, concluded to go to
California; and it was agreed that Benjamin should go with him. Ellen liked
her school, and was a great favorite there. They did not know her history,
and she did not tell it, because she had no desire to make capital out of
their sympathy. But when it was accidentally discovered that her mother was
a fugitive slave, every method was used to increase her advantages and
diminish her expenses.
I was alone again. It was necessary for me to be earning money, and I
preferred that it should be among those who knew me. On my return from
Rochester, I called at the house of Mr. Bruce, to see Mary, the darling
little babe that had thawed my heart, when it was freezing into a cheerless
distrust of all my fellow-beings. She was growing a tall girl now, but I
loved her always. Mr. Bruce had married again, and it was proposed that I
should become nurse to a new infant. I had but one hesitation, and that was
feeling of insecurity in New York, now greatly increased by the passage of
the Fugitive Slave Law. However, I resolved to try the experiment. I was
again fortunate in my employer. The new Mrs. Bruce was an American, brought
up under aristocratic influences, and still living in the midst of them;
but if she had any prejudice against color, I was never made aware of it;
and as for the system of slavery, she had a most hearty dislike of it. No
sophistry of Southerners could blind her to its enormity. She was a person
of excellent principles and a noble heart. To me, from that hour to the
present, she has been a true and sympathizing friend. Blessings be with her
and hers!
About the time that I reentered the Bruce family, an event occurred of
disastrous import to the colored people. The slave Hamlin, the first
fugitive that came under the new law, was given up by the bloodhounds of
the north to the bloodhounds of the south. It was the beginning of a reign
of terror to the colored population. The great city rushed on in its whirl
of excitement, taking no note of the "short and simple annals of the poor."
But while fashionables were listening to the thrilling voice of Jenny Lind
in Metropolitan Hall, the thrilling voices of poor hunted colored people
went up, in an agony of supplication, to the Lord, from Zion's church. Many
families, who had lived in the city for twenty years, fled from it now.
Many a poor washerwoman, who, by hard labor, had made herself a comfortable
home, was obliged to sacrifice her furniture, bid a hurried farewell to
friends, and seek her fortune among strangers in Canada. Many a wife
discovered a secret she had never known before--that her husband was a
fugitive, and must leave her to insure his own safety. Worse still, many a
husband discovered that his wife had fled from slavery years ago, and as
"the child follows the condition of its mother," the children of his love
were liable to be seized and carried into slavery. Every where, in those
humble homes, there was consternation and anguish. But what cared the
legislators of the "dominant race" for the blood they were crushing out of
trampled hearts?
When my brother William spent his last evening with me, before he went to
California, we talked nearly all the time of the distress brought on our
oppressed people by the passage of this iniquitous law; and never had I
seen him manifest such bitterness of spirit, such stern hostility to our
oppressors. He was himself free from the operation of the law; for he did
not run from any Slaveholding State, being brought into the Free States by
his master. But I was subject to it; and so were hundreds of intelligent
and industrious people all around us. I seldom ventured into the streets;
and when it was necessary to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, or any of the
family, I went as much as possible through back streets and by-ways. What a
disgrace to a city calling itself free, that inhabitants, guiltless of
offence, and seeking to perform their duties conscientiously, should be
condemned to live in such incessant fear, and have nowhere to turn for
protection! This state of things, of course, gave rise to many impromptu
vigilance committees. Every colored person, and every friend of their
persecuted race, kept their eyes wide open. Every evening I examined the
newspapers carefully, to see what Southerners had put up at the hotels. I
did this for my own sake, thinking my young mistress and her husband might
be among the list; I wished also to give information to others, if
necessary; for if many were "running to and fro," I resolved that
"knowledge should be increased."
This brings up one of my Southern reminiscences, which I will here briefly
relate. I was somewhat acquainted with a slave named Luke, who belonged to
a wealthy man in our vicinity. His master died, leaving a son and daughter
heirs to his large fortune. In the division of the slaves, Luke was
included in the son's portion. This young man became a prey to the vices he
went to the north, to complete his education, he carried his vices with
him. He was brought home, deprived of the use of his limbs, by excessive
dissipation. Luke was appointed to wait upon his bed-ridden master, whose
despotic habits were greatly increased by exasperation at his own
helplessness. He kept a cowhide beside him, and, for the most trivial
occurrence, he would order his attendant to bare his back, and kneel beside
the couch, while he whipped him till his strength was exhausted. Some days
he was not allowed to wear any thing but his shirt, in order to be in
readiness to be flogged. A day seldom passed without his receiving more or
less blows. If the slightest resistance was offered, the town constable was
sent for to execute the punishment, and Luke learned from experience how
much more the constable's strong arm was to be dreaded than the
comparatively feeble one of his master. The arm of his tyrant grew weaker,
and was finally palsied; and then the constable's services were in constant
requisition. The fact that he was entirely dependent on Luke's care, and
was obliged to be tended like an infant, instead of inspiring any gratitude
or compassion towards his poor slave, seemed only to increase his
irritability and cruelty. As he lay there on his bed, a mere degraded wreck
of manhood, he took into his head the strangest freaks of despotism; and if
Luke hesitated to submit to his orders, the constable was immediately sent
for. Some of these freaks were of a nature too filthy to be repeated. When
I fled from the house of bondage, I left poor Luke still chained to the
bedside of this cruel and disgusting wretch.
One day, when I had been requested to do an errand for Mrs. Bruce, I was
hurrying through back streets, as usual, when I saw a young man
approaching, whose face was familiar to me. As he came nearer, I recognized
Luke. I always rejoiced to see or hear of any one who had escaped from the
black pit; I was peculiarly glad to see him on Northern soil, though I no
longer called it _free_ soil. I well remembered what a desolate feeling it
was to be alone among strangers, and I went up to him and greeted him
cordially. At first, he did not know me; but when I mentioned my name, he
remembered all about me. I told him of the Fugitive Slave Law, and asked
him if he did not know that New York was a city of kidnappers.
He replied, "De risk ain't so bad for me, as 'tis fur you. 'Cause I runned
away from de speculator, and you runned away from de massa. Dem speculators
vont spen dar money to come here fur a runaway, if dey ain't sartin sure to
put dar hans right on him. An I tell you I's tuk good car 'bout dat. I had
too hard times down dar, to let 'em ketch dis nigger."
He then told me of the advice he had received, and the plans he had laid. I
asked if he had money enough to take him to Canada. "'Pend upon it, I hab,"
he replied. "I tuk car fur dat. I'd bin workin all my days fur dem cussed
whites, an got no pay but kicks and cuffs. So I tought dis nigger had a
right to money nuff to bring him to de Free States. Massa Henry he lib till
ebery body vish him dead; an ven he did die, I knowed de debbil would hab
him, an vouldn't vant him to bring his money 'long too. So I tuk some of
his bills, and put 'em in de pocket of his ole trousers. An ven he was
buried, dis nigger ask fur dem ole trousers, an dey gub 'em to me." With a
low, chuckling laugh, he added, "You see I didn't _steal_ it; dey _gub_ it
to me. I tell you, I had mighty hard time to keep de speculator from findin
it; but he didn't git it."
This is a fair specimen of how the moral sense is educated by slavery. When
a man has his wages stolen from him, year after year, and the laws sanction
and enforce the theft, how can he be expected to have more regard to
honesty than has the man who robs him? I have become somewhat enlightened,
but I confess that I agree with poor, ignorant, much-abused Luke, in
thinking he had a _right_ to that money, as a portion of his unpaid wages.
He went to Canada forthwith, and I have not since heard from him.
All that winter I lived in a state of anxiety. When I took the children out
to breathe the air, I closely observed the countenances of all I met. I
dreaded the approach of summer, when snakes and slaveholders make their
appearance. I was, in fact, a slave in New York, as subject to slave laws
as I had been in a Slave State. Strange incongruity in a State called free!
Spring returned, and I received warning from the south that Dr. Flint knew
of my return to my old place, and was making preparations to have me
caught. I learned afterwards that my dress, and that of Mrs. Bruce's
children, had been described to him by some of the Northern tools, which
slaveholders employ for their base purposes, and then indulge in sneers at
their cupidity and mean servility.
I immediately informed Mrs. Bruce of my danger, and she took prompt
measures for my safety. My place as nurse could not be supplied
immediately, and this generous, sympathizing lady proposed that I should
carry her baby away. It was a comfort to me to have the child with me; for
the heart is reluctant to be torn away from every object it loves. But how
few mothers would have consented to have one of their own babes become a
fugitive, for the sake of a poor, hunted nurse, on whom the legislators of
the country had let loose the bloodhounds! When I spoke of the sacrifice
she was making, in depriving herself of her dear baby, she replied, "It is
better for you to have baby with you, Linda; for if they get on your track,
they will be obliged to bring the child to me; and then, if there is a
possibility of saving you, you shall be saved."
This lady had a very wealthy relative, a benevolent gentleman in many
respects, but aristocratic and pro-slavery. He remonstrated with her for
harboring a fugitive slave; told her she was violating the laws of her
country; and asked her if she was aware of the penalty. She replied, "I am
very well aware of it. It is imprisonment and one thousand dollars fine.
Shame on my country that it _is_ so! I am ready to incur the penalty. I
will go to the state's prison, rather than have any poor victim torn from
_my_ house, to be carried back to slavery."
The noble heart! The brave heart! The tears are in my eyes while I write of
her. May the God of the helpless reward her for her sympathy with my
persecuted people!
I was sent into New England, where I was sheltered by the wife of a
senator, whom I shall always hold in grateful remembrance. This honorable
gentleman would not have voted for the Fugitive Slave Law, as did the
senator in "Uncle Tom's Cabin;" on the contrary, he was strongly opposed to
it; but he was enough under its influence to be afraid of having me remain
in his house many hours. So I was sent into the country, where I remained a
month with the baby. When it was supposed that Dr. Flint's emissaries had
lost track of me, and given up the pursuit for the present, I returned to
New York. | Disappointed by the failure of his business venture, William moves to California, taking Ben with him. Ellen continues to do well in school and when her teachers discover that she is the daughter of a fugitive slave, they do their best to protect her. Alone and unemployed once more, Linda returns to New York and decides to visit Mary and Mr. Bruce. She learns that Mr. Bruce has remarried and he invites her to be the nurse for his new child. Aware of the recent passage of the Fugitive Slave Law, Linda hesitates, but then decides to accept his offer. The new Mrs. Bruce is an American woman but, like the former Mrs. Bruce, she treats Linda with kindness and respect. As Linda considers the devastating consequences of the Fugitive Slave Law, she recalls that the law forced people who had lived in New York for as long as twenty years to uproot their families and escape to Canada. She specifically recalls the case of James Hamlin , said to be the first person arrested under the new law. She also tells a story about a slave named Luke and his cruel master, and Luke's eventual escape to Canada with his master's money. Linda also learns that Dr. Flint is once more on her trail. Mrs. Bruce helps her escape to New England and entrusts her with her own baby. Linda seeks refuge in the country, where she remains for a month. When she learns that Dr. Flint has given up his pursuit, she returns to New York. |
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He
bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous
organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a
representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her
in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of
tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle
to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general
application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation
herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered
Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.
Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her
situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she
not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she
had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the
house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of
the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress
and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had
expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,
yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own
affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict
the girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very
small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I
like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When
it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much
too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I
detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I
prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell
you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a
great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost
too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's
no use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,
but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after
Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on
American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part
of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her
profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form
of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels
were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed
struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.
Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing
the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the
establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This
contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were
the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett.
"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a
'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated
as an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the
slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the
negro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss
Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no
wonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely
said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in
Florence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding
me in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed
Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph.
"It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered
some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear
friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what
it is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had
forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.
"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're
changed--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that
you're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing
at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the
steamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly.
"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a
little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have
talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he
drank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't
to be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his
earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so
handsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood
himself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great
confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been
affected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask
you to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he
bade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones
have been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard
to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable
glitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,
however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."
And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood
what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she
disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He
is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do
something, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it
touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's
of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said
Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the
alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would
present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,
that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her
disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,
she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling
pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a
change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so
agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be
for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She
had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and
after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and
restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the
house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented
with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful
and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with
talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership
divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as
impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies
would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,
of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been
mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would
do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been
able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat
of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to
be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had
reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete
set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,
she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green
turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the
arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the
London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her
vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice
or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my
coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at
Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the
right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would
let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this
hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,
and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that
you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;
but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you
are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is
that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not
disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should
be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.
I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home
after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If
I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have
been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her. | Mrs. Touchett does not like Henrietta, whom she finds loud and presumptuous. Interestingly, one might say the same about a certain older American lady.... Henrietta and Mrs. Touchett get in a quarrel about American hotels - Henrietta says they are the very best and Mrs. Touchett claims they are the absolute worst. Ralph tries to stand up for Henrietta, but she won't have it, since Henrietta Stackpole always fights her own battles. Mrs. Touchett says that having good servants is crucial, and American servants do not compare in quality to the five stellar Italian ones in Florence. Henrietta detests the idea of having five servants, and she has idealistic ideas about American liberty. In private, Henrietta tells Isabel about an encounter she had with Caspar Goodwood. She tells Isabel that Caspar arrived in London with her, with the aim to see Isabel. Isabel is not very excited to see Caspar, although it is unclear what her actual feelings about him are. Henrietta thinks that she's leading the poor guy on. Henrietta sees that Isabel's stay at Gardencourt has changed her. Isabel hopes so, since she wants everything to influence her. Isabel receives a letter from Caspar. The letter expresses his wish to see her, announces his impending arrival in England, and expresses the thought that he only wants to be where she is. When Isabel is finished with the letter, she sees that Lord Warburton is standing right in front of her. Hmm... love triangle, anyone? |
Some change of countenance was necessary for each gentleman as they
walked into Mrs. Weston's drawing-room;--Mr. Elton must compose his
joyous looks, and Mr. John Knightley disperse his ill-humour. Mr.
Elton must smile less, and Mr. John Knightley more, to fit them for the
place.--Emma only might be as nature prompted, and shew herself just as
happy as she was. To her it was real enjoyment to be with the Westons.
Mr. Weston was a great favourite, and there was not a creature in the
world to whom she spoke with such unreserve, as to his wife; not any
one, to whom she related with such conviction of being listened to and
understood, of being always interesting and always intelligible, the
little affairs, arrangements, perplexities, and pleasures of her father
and herself. She could tell nothing of Hartfield, in which Mrs. Weston
had not a lively concern; and half an hour's uninterrupted communication
of all those little matters on which the daily happiness of private life
depends, was one of the first gratifications of each.
This was a pleasure which perhaps the whole day's visit might not
afford, which certainly did not belong to the present half-hour; but the
very sight of Mrs. Weston, her smile, her touch, her voice was grateful
to Emma, and she determined to think as little as possible of Mr.
Elton's oddities, or of any thing else unpleasant, and enjoy all that
was enjoyable to the utmost.
The misfortune of Harriet's cold had been pretty well gone through
before her arrival. Mr. Woodhouse had been safely seated long enough
to give the history of it, besides all the history of his own and
Isabella's coming, and of Emma's being to follow, and had indeed just
got to the end of his satisfaction that James should come and see his
daughter, when the others appeared, and Mrs. Weston, who had been almost
wholly engrossed by her attentions to him, was able to turn away and
welcome her dear Emma.
Emma's project of forgetting Mr. Elton for a while made her rather sorry
to find, when they had all taken their places, that he was close to her.
The difficulty was great of driving his strange insensibility towards
Harriet, from her mind, while he not only sat at her elbow, but
was continually obtruding his happy countenance on her notice, and
solicitously addressing her upon every occasion. Instead of forgetting
him, his behaviour was such that she could not avoid the internal
suggestion of "Can it really be as my brother imagined? can it be
possible for this man to be beginning to transfer his affections from
Harriet to me?--Absurd and insufferable!"--Yet he would be so anxious
for her being perfectly warm, would be so interested about her father,
and so delighted with Mrs. Weston; and at last would begin admiring her
drawings with so much zeal and so little knowledge as seemed terribly
like a would-be lover, and made it some effort with her to preserve her
good manners. For her own sake she could not be rude; and for Harriet's,
in the hope that all would yet turn out right, she was even positively
civil; but it was an effort; especially as something was going on
amongst the others, in the most overpowering period of Mr. Elton's
nonsense, which she particularly wished to listen to. She heard enough
to know that Mr. Weston was giving some information about his son; she
heard the words "my son," and "Frank," and "my son," repeated several
times over; and, from a few other half-syllables very much suspected
that he was announcing an early visit from his son; but before she could
quiet Mr. Elton, the subject was so completely past that any reviving
question from her would have been awkward.
Now, it so happened that in spite of Emma's resolution of never
marrying, there was something in the name, in the idea of Mr.
Frank Churchill, which always interested her. She had frequently
thought--especially since his father's marriage with Miss Taylor--that
if she _were_ to marry, he was the very person to suit her in age,
character and condition. He seemed by this connexion between the
families, quite to belong to her. She could not but suppose it to be
a match that every body who knew them must think of. That Mr. and Mrs.
Weston did think of it, she was very strongly persuaded; and though
not meaning to be induced by him, or by any body else, to give up a
situation which she believed more replete with good than any she could
change it for, she had a great curiosity to see him, a decided intention
of finding him pleasant, of being liked by him to a certain degree, and
a sort of pleasure in the idea of their being coupled in their friends'
imaginations.
With such sensations, Mr. Elton's civilities were dreadfully ill-timed;
but she had the comfort of appearing very polite, while feeling very
cross--and of thinking that the rest of the visit could not possibly
pass without bringing forward the same information again, or the
substance of it, from the open-hearted Mr. Weston.--So it proved;--for
when happily released from Mr. Elton, and seated by Mr. Weston,
at dinner, he made use of the very first interval in the cares of
hospitality, the very first leisure from the saddle of mutton, to say to
her,
"We want only two more to be just the right number. I should like to see
two more here,--your pretty little friend, Miss Smith, and my son--and
then I should say we were quite complete. I believe you did not hear me
telling the others in the drawing-room that we are expecting Frank.
I had a letter from him this morning, and he will be with us within a
fortnight."
Emma spoke with a very proper degree of pleasure; and fully assented to
his proposition of Mr. Frank Churchill and Miss Smith making their party
quite complete.
"He has been wanting to come to us," continued Mr. Weston, "ever since
September: every letter has been full of it; but he cannot command his
own time. He has those to please who must be pleased, and who (between
ourselves) are sometimes to be pleased only by a good many sacrifices.
But now I have no doubt of seeing him here about the second week in
January."
"What a very great pleasure it will be to you! and Mrs. Weston is so
anxious to be acquainted with him, that she must be almost as happy as
yourself."
"Yes, she would be, but that she thinks there will be another put-off.
She does not depend upon his coming so much as I do: but she does not
know the parties so well as I do. The case, you see, is--(but this is
quite between ourselves: I did not mention a syllable of it in the other
room. There are secrets in all families, you know)--The case is, that a
party of friends are invited to pay a visit at Enscombe in January; and
that Frank's coming depends upon their being put off. If they are not
put off, he cannot stir. But I know they will, because it is a family
that a certain lady, of some consequence, at Enscombe, has a particular
dislike to: and though it is thought necessary to invite them once in
two or three years, they always are put off when it comes to the point.
I have not the smallest doubt of the issue. I am as confident of seeing
Frank here before the middle of January, as I am of being here myself:
but your good friend there (nodding towards the upper end of the table)
has so few vagaries herself, and has been so little used to them at
Hartfield, that she cannot calculate on their effects, as I have been
long in the practice of doing."
"I am sorry there should be any thing like doubt in the case," replied
Emma; "but am disposed to side with you, Mr. Weston. If you think he
will come, I shall think so too; for you know Enscombe."
"Yes--I have some right to that knowledge; though I have never been at
the place in my life.--She is an odd woman!--But I never allow myself
to speak ill of her, on Frank's account; for I do believe her to be very
fond of him. I used to think she was not capable of being fond of
any body, except herself: but she has always been kind to him (in her
way--allowing for little whims and caprices, and expecting every thing
to be as she likes). And it is no small credit, in my opinion, to him,
that he should excite such an affection; for, though I would not say
it to any body else, she has no more heart than a stone to people in
general; and the devil of a temper."
Emma liked the subject so well, that she began upon it, to Mrs. Weston,
very soon after their moving into the drawing-room: wishing her joy--yet
observing, that she knew the first meeting must be rather alarming.--
Mrs. Weston agreed to it; but added, that she should be very glad to be
secure of undergoing the anxiety of a first meeting at the time talked
of: "for I cannot depend upon his coming. I cannot be so sanguine as
Mr. Weston. I am very much afraid that it will all end in nothing. Mr.
Weston, I dare say, has been telling you exactly how the matter stands?"
"Yes--it seems to depend upon nothing but the ill-humour of Mrs.
Churchill, which I imagine to be the most certain thing in the world."
"My Emma!" replied Mrs. Weston, smiling, "what is the certainty
of caprice?" Then turning to Isabella, who had not been attending
before--"You must know, my dear Mrs. Knightley, that we are by no means
so sure of seeing Mr. Frank Churchill, in my opinion, as his father
thinks. It depends entirely upon his aunt's spirits and pleasure; in
short, upon her temper. To you--to my two daughters--I may venture on
the truth. Mrs. Churchill rules at Enscombe, and is a very odd-tempered
woman; and his coming now, depends upon her being willing to spare him."
"Oh, Mrs. Churchill; every body knows Mrs. Churchill," replied Isabella:
"and I am sure I never think of that poor young man without the greatest
compassion. To be constantly living with an ill-tempered person, must
be dreadful. It is what we happily have never known any thing of; but
it must be a life of misery. What a blessing, that she never had any
children! Poor little creatures, how unhappy she would have made them!"
Emma wished she had been alone with Mrs. Weston. She should then have
heard more: Mrs. Weston would speak to her, with a degree of unreserve
which she would not hazard with Isabella; and, she really believed,
would scarcely try to conceal any thing relative to the Churchills
from her, excepting those views on the young man, of which her own
imagination had already given her such instinctive knowledge. But at
present there was nothing more to be said. Mr. Woodhouse very soon
followed them into the drawing-room. To be sitting long after
dinner, was a confinement that he could not endure. Neither wine nor
conversation was any thing to him; and gladly did he move to those with
whom he was always comfortable.
While he talked to Isabella, however, Emma found an opportunity of
saying,
"And so you do not consider this visit from your son as by any means
certain. I am sorry for it. The introduction must be unpleasant,
whenever it takes place; and the sooner it could be over, the better."
"Yes; and every delay makes one more apprehensive of other delays. Even
if this family, the Braithwaites, are put off, I am still afraid that
some excuse may be found for disappointing us. I cannot bear to imagine
any reluctance on his side; but I am sure there is a great wish on
the Churchills' to keep him to themselves. There is jealousy. They
are jealous even of his regard for his father. In short, I can feel no
dependence on his coming, and I wish Mr. Weston were less sanguine."
"He ought to come," said Emma. "If he could stay only a couple of days,
he ought to come; and one can hardly conceive a young man's not having
it in his power to do as much as that. A young _woman_, if she fall into
bad hands, may be teased, and kept at a distance from those she wants
to be with; but one cannot comprehend a young _man_'s being under such
restraint, as not to be able to spend a week with his father, if he
likes it."
"One ought to be at Enscombe, and know the ways of the family, before
one decides upon what he can do," replied Mrs. Weston. "One ought to
use the same caution, perhaps, in judging of the conduct of any one
individual of any one family; but Enscombe, I believe, certainly must
not be judged by general rules: _she_ is so very unreasonable; and every
thing gives way to her."
"But she is so fond of the nephew: he is so very great a favourite. Now,
according to my idea of Mrs. Churchill, it would be most natural, that
while she makes no sacrifice for the comfort of the husband, to whom she
owes every thing, while she exercises incessant caprice towards _him_,
she should frequently be governed by the nephew, to whom she owes
nothing at all."
"My dearest Emma, do not pretend, with your sweet temper, to understand
a bad one, or to lay down rules for it: you must let it go its own way.
I have no doubt of his having, at times, considerable influence; but it
may be perfectly impossible for him to know beforehand _when_ it will
be."
Emma listened, and then coolly said, "I shall not be satisfied, unless
he comes."
"He may have a great deal of influence on some points," continued Mrs.
Weston, "and on others, very little: and among those, on which she is
beyond his reach, it is but too likely, may be this very circumstance of
his coming away from them to visit us." | The Westons invite the Woodhouses, the Knightleys, Elton, and Harriet to a dinner party on Christmas Eve. A day before the dinner, Harriet develops fever and a sore throat. Emma visits Harriet to cheer her up and tells her that she will surely be well the next day to attend the party. On her return, Emma meets Elton, who talks to her about Harriet's sickness. Elton tells Emma to have Harriet treated by Dr. Perry, but warns her to take care of herself to prevent getting an infection from Harriet. When Emma suggests that Elton stay behind and look after the sick Harriet, Elton shows his willingness. John Knightley passes by and, since the weather is bad, offers Elton a ride in his carriage, which Elton accepts. When Elton parts from Emma, John Knightley suggests to her that it is she who is the object of Elton's gallantry and good will. Emma asserts that they are only good friends. The weather gets worse, and it begins to snow. Mr. Woodhouse is still determined to go to Randalls for the dinner party. As previously planned, John Knightley and Emma pick up Elton on their way to Randalls. In the carriage, Elton's high spirits and excessive gallantry take Emma by surprise. He also reports on Dr. Perry's visit to Harriet, who is feeling worse. |
THE FERRYMAN
By this river I want to stay, thought Siddhartha, it is the same which
I have crossed a long time ago on my way to the childlike people, a
friendly ferryman had guided me then, he is the one I want to go to,
starting out from his hut, my path had led me at that time into a new
life, which had now grown old and is dead--my present path, my present
new life, shall also take its start there!
Tenderly, he looked into the rushing water, into the transparent green,
into the crystal lines of its drawing, so rich in secrets. Bright
pearls he saw rising from the deep, quiet bubbles of air floating on
the reflecting surface, the blue of the sky being depicted in it. With
a thousand eyes, the river looked at him, with green ones, with white
ones, with crystal ones, with sky-blue ones. How did he love this
water, how did it delight him, how grateful was he to it! In his heart
he heard the voice talking, which was newly awaking, and it told him:
Love this water! Stay near it! Learn from it! Oh yes, he wanted to
learn from it, he wanted to listen to it. He who would understand this
water and its secrets, so it seemed to him, would also understand many
other things, many secrets, all secrets.
But out of all secrets of the river, he today only saw one, this one
touched his soul. He saw: this water ran and ran, incessantly it ran,
and was nevertheless always there, was always at all times the same
and yet new in every moment! Great be he who would grasp this,
understand this! He understood and grasped it not, only felt some idea
of it stirring, a distant memory, divine voices.
Siddhartha rose, the workings of hunger in his body became unbearable.
In a daze he walked on, up the path by the bank, upriver,
listened to the current, listened to the rumbling hunger in his body.
When he reached the ferry, the boat was just ready, and the same
ferryman who had once transported the young Samana across the river,
stood in the boat, Siddhartha recognised him, he had also aged very
much.
"Would you like to ferry me over?" he asked.
The ferryman, being astonished to see such an elegant man walking along
and on foot, took him into his boat and pushed it off the bank.
"It's a beautiful life you have chosen for yourself," the passenger
spoke. "It must be beautiful to live by this water every day and to
cruise on it."
With a smile, the man at the oar moved from side to side: "It is
beautiful, sir, it is as you say. But isn't every life, isn't every
work beautiful?"
"This may be true. But I envy you for yours."
"Ah, you would soon stop enjoying it. This is nothing for people
wearing fine clothes."
Siddhartha laughed. "Once before, I have been looked upon today because
of my clothes, I have been looked upon with distrust. Wouldn't you,
ferryman, like to accept these clothes, which are a nuisance to me,
from me? For you must know, I have no money to pay your fare."
"You're joking, sir," the ferryman laughed.
"I'm not joking, friend. Behold, once before you have ferried me across
this water in your boat for the immaterial reward of a good deed. Thus,
do it today as well, and accept my clothes for it."
"And do you, sir, intent to continue travelling without clothes?"
"Ah, most of all I wouldn't want to continue travelling at all. Most of
all I would like you, ferryman, to give me an old loincloth and kept me
with you as your assistant, or rather as your trainee, for I'll have to
learn first how to handle the boat."
For a long time, the ferryman looked at the stranger, searching.
"Now I recognise you," he finally said. "At one time, you've slept in
my hut, this was a long time ago, possibly more than twenty years ago,
and you've been ferried across the river by me, and we parted like good
friends. Haven't you've been a Samana? I can't think of your name any
more."
"My name is Siddhartha, and I was a Samana, when you've last seen me."
"So be welcome, Siddhartha. My name is Vasudeva. You will, so I hope,
be my guest today as well and sleep in my hut, and tell me, where you're
coming from and why these beautiful clothes are such a nuisance to you."
They had reached the middle of the river, and Vasudeva pushed the oar
with more strength, in order to overcome the current. He worked calmly,
his eyes fixed in on the front of the boat, with brawny arms.
Siddhartha sat and watched him, and remembered, how once before, on that
last day of his time as a Samana, love for this man had stirred in his
heart. Gratefully, he accepted Vasudeva's invitation. When they had
reached the bank, he helped him to tie the boat to the stakes; after
this, the ferryman asked him to enter the hut, offered him bread and
water, and Siddhartha ate with eager pleasure, and also ate with eager
pleasure of the mango fruits, Vasudeva offered him.
Afterwards, it was almost the time of the sunset, they sat on a log by
the bank, and Siddhartha told the ferryman about where he originally
came from and about his life, as he had seen it before his eyes today,
in that hour of despair. Until late at night, lasted his tale.
Vasudeva listened with great attention. Listening carefully, he let
everything enter his mind, birthplace and childhood, all that learning,
all that searching, all joy, all distress. This was among the
ferryman's virtues one of the greatest: like only a few, he knew how
to listen. Without him having spoken a word, the speaker sensed how
Vasudeva let his words enter his mind, quiet, open, waiting, how he
did not lose a single one, awaited not a single one with impatience,
did not add his praise or rebuke, was just listening. Siddhartha felt,
what a happy fortune it is, to confess to such a listener, to bury in
his heart his own life, his own search, his own suffering.
But in the end of Siddhartha's tale, when he spoke of the tree by the
river, and of his deep fall, of the holy Om, and how he had felt such
a love for the river after his slumber, the ferryman listened with twice
the attention, entirely and completely absorbed by it, with his eyes
closed.
But when Siddhartha fell silent, and a long silence had occurred, then
Vasudeva said: "It is as I thought. The river has spoken to you. It
is your friend as well, it speaks to you as well. That is good, that is
very good. Stay with me, Siddhartha, my friend. I used to have a wife,
her bed was next to mine, but she has died a long time ago, for a long
time, I have lived alone. Now, you shall live with me, there is space
and food for both."
"I thank you," said Siddhartha, "I thank you and accept. And I also
thank you for this, Vasudeva, for listening to me so well! These people
are rare who know how to listen. And I did not meet a single one who
knew it as well as you did. I will also learn in this respect from
you."
"You will learn it," spoke Vasudeva, "but not from me. The river has
taught me to listen, from it you will learn it as well. It knows
everything, the river, everything can be learned from it. See, you've
already learned this from the water too, that it is good to strive
downwards, to sink, to seek depth. The rich and elegant Siddhartha is
becoming an oarsman's servant, the learned Brahman Siddhartha becomes a
ferryman: this has also been told to you by the river. You'll learn
that other thing from it as well."
Quoth Siddhartha after a long pause: "What other thing, Vasudeva?"
Vasudeva rose. "It is late," he said, "let's go to sleep. I can't
tell you that other thing, oh friend. You'll learn it, or perhaps you
know it already. See, I'm no learned man, I have no special skill in
speaking, I also have no special skill in thinking. All I'm able to do
is to listen and to be godly, I have learned nothing else. If I was
able to say and teach it, I might be a wise man, but like this I am only
a ferryman, and it is my task to ferry people across the river. I have
transported many, thousands; and to all of them, my river has been
nothing but an obstacle on their travels. They travelled to seek money
and business, and for weddings, and on pilgrimages, and the river was
obstructing their path, and the ferryman's job was to get them quickly
across that obstacle. But for some among thousands, a few, four or
five, the river has stopped being an obstacle, they have heard its
voice, they have listened to it, and the river has become sacred to
them, as it has become sacred to me. Let's rest now, Siddhartha."
Siddhartha stayed with the ferryman and learned to operate the boat, and
when there was nothing to do at the ferry, he worked with Vasudeva in
the rice-field, gathered wood, plucked the fruit off the banana-trees.
He learned to build an oar, and learned to mend the boat, and to weave
baskets, and was joyful because of everything he learned, and the days
and months passed quickly. But more than Vasudeva could teach him, he
was taught by the river. Incessantly, he learned from it. Most of all,
he learned from it to listen, to pay close attention with a quiet heart,
with a waiting, opened soul, without passion, without a wish, without
judgement, without an opinion.
In a friendly manner, he lived side by side with Vasudeva, and
occasionally they exchanged some words, few and at length thought about
words. Vasudeva was no friend of words; rarely, Siddhartha succeeded
in persuading him to speak.
"Did you," so he asked him at one time, "did you too learn that secret
from the river: that there is no time?"
Vasudeva's face was filled with a bright smile.
"Yes, Siddhartha," he spoke. "It is this what you mean, isn't it: that
the river is everywhere at once, at the source and at the mouth, at the
waterfall, at the ferry, at the rapids, in the sea, in the mountains,
everywhere at once, and that there is only the present time for it, not
the shadow of the past, not the shadow of the future?"
"This it is," said Siddhartha. "And when I had learned it, I looked at
my life, and it was also a river, and the boy Siddhartha was only
separated from the man Siddhartha and from the old man Siddhartha by a
shadow, not by something real. Also, Siddhartha's previous births were
no past, and his death and his return to Brahma was no future. Nothing
was, nothing will be; everything is, everything has existence and is
present."
Siddhartha spoke with ecstasy; deeply, this enlightenment had delighted
him. Oh, was not all suffering time, were not all forms of tormenting
oneself and being afraid time, was not everything hard, everything
hostile in the world gone and overcome as soon as one had overcome time,
as soon as time would have been put out of existence by one's thoughts?
In ecstatic delight, he had spoken, but Vasudeva smiled at him brightly
and nodded in confirmation; silently he nodded, brushed his hand over
Siddhartha's shoulder, turned back to his work.
And once again, when the river had just increased its flow in the rainy
season and made a powerful noise, then said Siddhartha: "Isn't it so,
oh friend, the river has many voices, very many voices? Hasn't it the
voice of a king, and of a warrior, and of a bull, and of a bird of the
night, and of a woman giving birth, and of a sighing man, and a thousand
other voices more?"
"So it is," Vasudeva nodded, "all voices of the creatures are in its
voice."
"And do you know," Siddhartha continued, "what word it speaks, when you
succeed in hearing all of its ten thousand voices at once?"
Happily, Vasudeva's face was smiling, he bent over to Siddhartha and
spoke the holy Om into his ear. And this had been the very thing which
Siddhartha had also been hearing.
And time after time, his smile became more similar to the ferryman's,
became almost just as bright, almost just as throughly glowing with
bliss, just as shining out of thousand small wrinkles, just as alike to
a child's, just as alike to an old man's. Many travellers, seeing the
two ferrymen, thought they were brothers. Often, they sat in the
evening together by the bank on the log, said nothing and both listened
to the water, which was no water to them, but the voice of life, the
voice of what exists, of what is eternally taking shape. And it
happened from time to time that both, when listening to the river,
thought of the same things, of a conversation from the day before
yesterday, of one of their travellers, the face and fate of whom had
occupied their thoughts, of death, of their childhood, and that they
both in the same moment, when the river had been saying something good
to them, looked at each other, both thinking precisely the same thing,
both delighted about the same answer to the same question.
There was something about this ferry and the two ferrymen which was
transmitted to others, which many of the travellers felt. It happened
occasionally that a traveller, after having looked at the face of one of
the ferrymen, started to tell the story of his life, told about pains,
confessed evil things, asked for comfort and advice. It happened
occasionally that someone asked for permission to stay for a night with
them to listen to the river. It also happened that curious people came,
who had been told that there were two wise men, or sorcerers, or holy
men living by that ferry. The curious people asked many questions, but
they got no answers, and they found neither sorcerers nor wise men, they
only found two friendly little old men, who seemed to be mute and to
have become a bit strange and gaga. And the curious people laughed and
were discussing how foolishly and gullibly the common people were
spreading such empty rumours.
The years passed by, and nobody counted them. Then, at one time, monks
came by on a pilgrimage, followers of Gotama, the Buddha, who were
asking to be ferried across the river, and by them the ferrymen were
told that they were most hurriedly walking back to their great
teacher, for the news had spread the exalted one was deadly sick and
would soon die his last human death, in order to become one with the
salvation. It was not long, until a new flock of monks came along on
their pilgrimage, and another one, and the monks as well as most of the
other travellers and people walking through the land spoke of nothing
else than of Gotama and his impending death. And as people are flocking
from everywhere and from all sides, when they are going to war or to the
coronation of a king, and are gathering like ants in droves, thus they
flocked, like being drawn on by a magic spell, to where the great Buddha
was awaiting his death, where the huge event was to take place and the
great perfected one of an era was to become one with the glory.
Often, Siddhartha thought in those days of the dying wise man, the
great teacher, whose voice had admonished nations and had awoken
hundreds of thousands, whose voice he had also once heard, whose holy
face he had also once seen with respect. Kindly, he thought of him, saw
his path to perfection before his eyes, and remembered with a smile
those words which he had once, as a young man, said to him, the exalted
one. They had been, so it seemed to him, proud and precocious words;
with a smile, he remembered them. For a long time he knew that there
was nothing standing between Gotama and him any more, though he was
still unable to accept his teachings. No, there was no teaching a
truly searching person, someone who truly wanted to find, could accept.
But he who had found, he could approve of any teachings, every path,
every goal, there was nothing standing between him and all the other
thousand any more who lived in that what is eternal, who breathed what
is divine.
On one of these days, when so many went on a pilgrimage to the dying
Buddha, Kamala also went to him, who used to be the most beautiful of
the courtesans. A long time ago, she had retired from her previous
life, had given her garden to the monks of Gotama as a gift, had taken
her refuge in the teachings, was among the friends and benefactors of
the pilgrims. Together with Siddhartha the boy, her son, she had gone
on her way due to the news of the near death of Gotama, in simple
clothes, on foot. With her little son, she was travelling by the river;
but the boy had soon grown tired, desired to go back home, desired to
rest, desired to eat, became disobedient and started whining.
Kamala often had to take a rest with him, he was accustomed to having
his way against her, she had to feed him, had to comfort him, had to
scold him. He did not comprehend why he had to go on this exhausting
and sad pilgrimage with his mother, to an unknown place, to a stranger,
who was holy and about to die. So what if he died, how did this concern
the boy?
The pilgrims were getting close to Vasudeva's ferry, when little
Siddhartha once again forced his mother to rest. She, Kamala herself,
had also become tired, and while the boy was chewing a banana, she
crouched down on the ground, closed her eyes a bit, and rested. But
suddenly, she uttered a wailing scream, the boy looked at her in fear
and saw her face having grown pale from horror; and from under her
dress, a small, black snake fled, by which Kamala had been bitten.
Hurriedly, they now both ran along the path, in order to reach people,
and got near to the ferry, there Kamala collapsed, and was not able to
go any further. But the boy started crying miserably, only interrupting
it to kiss and hug his mother, and she also joined his loud screams for
help, until the sound reached Vasudeva's ears, who stood at the ferry.
Quickly, he came walking, took the woman on his arms, carried her into
the boat, the boy ran along, and soon they all reached the hut, were
Siddhartha stood by the stove and was just lighting the fire. He looked
up and first saw the boy's face, which wondrously reminded him of
something, like a warning to remember something he had forgotten. Then
he saw Kamala, whom he instantly recognised, though she lay unconscious
in the ferryman's arms, and now he knew that it was his own son, whose
face had been such a warning reminder to him, and the heart stirred in
his chest.
Kamala's wound was washed, but had already turned black and her body was
swollen, she was made to drink a healing potion. Her consciousness
returned, she lay on Siddhartha's bed in the hut and bent over her stood
Siddhartha, who used to love her so much. It seemed like a dream to
her; with a smile, she looked at her friend's face; just slowly she,
realized her situation, remembered the bite, called timidly for the boy.
"He's with you, don't worry," said Siddhartha.
Kamala looked into his eyes. She spoke with a heavy tongue, paralysed
by the poison. "You've become old, my dear," she said, "you've become
gray. But you are like the young Samana, who at one time came without
clothes, with dusty feet, to me into the garden. You are much more like
him, than you were like him at that time when you had left me and
Kamaswami. In the eyes, you're like him, Siddhartha. Alas, I have also
grown old, old--could you still recognise me?"
Siddhartha smiled: "Instantly, I recognised you, Kamala, my dear."
Kamala pointed to her boy and said: "Did you recognise him as well?
He is your son."
Her eyes became confused and fell shut. The boy wept, Siddhartha took
him on his knees, let him weep, petted his hair, and at the sight of
the child's face, a Brahman prayer came to his mind, which he had
learned a long time ago, when he had been a little boy himself. Slowly,
with a singing voice, he started to speak; from his past and childhood,
the words came flowing to him. And with that singsong, the boy became
calm, was only now and then uttering a sob and fell asleep. Siddhartha
placed him on Vasudeva's bed. Vasudeva stood by the stove and cooked
rice. Siddhartha gave him a look, which he returned with a smile.
"She'll die," Siddhartha said quietly.
Vasudeva nodded; over his friendly face ran the light of the stove's
fire.
Once again, Kamala returned to consciousness. Pain distorted her face,
Siddhartha's eyes read the suffering on her mouth, on her pale cheeks.
Quietly, he read it, attentively, waiting, his mind becoming one with
her suffering. Kamala felt it, her gaze sought his eyes.
Looking at him, she said: "Now I see that your eyes have changed as
well. They've become completely different. By what do I still
recognise that you're Siddhartha? It's you, and it's not you."
Siddhartha said nothing, quietly his eyes looked at hers.
"You have achieved it?" she asked. "You have found peace?"
He smiled and placed his hand on hers.
"I'm seeing it," she said, "I'm seeing it. I too will find peace."
"You have found it," Siddhartha spoke in a whisper.
Kamala never stopped looking into his eyes. She thought about her
pilgrimage to Gotama, which wanted to take, in order to see the face of
the perfected one, to breathe his peace, and she thought that she had
now found him in his place, and that it was good, just as good, as if
she had seen the other one. She wanted to tell this to him, but the
tongue no longer obeyed her will. Without speaking, she looked at him,
and he saw the life fading from her eyes. When the final pain filled
her eyes and made them grow dim, when the final shiver ran through her
limbs, his finger closed her eyelids.
For a long time, he sat and looked at her peacefully dead face. For a
long time, he observed her mouth, her old, tired mouth, with those lips,
which had become thin, and he remembered, that he used to, in the spring
of his years, compare this mouth with a freshly cracked fig. For a long
time, he sat, read in the pale face, in the tired wrinkles, filled
himself with this sight, saw his own face lying in the same manner,
just as white, just as quenched out, and saw at the same time his face
and hers being young, with red lips, with fiery eyes, and the feeling of
this both being present and at the same time real, the feeling of
eternity, completely filled every aspect of his being. Deeply he felt,
more deeply than ever before, in this hour, the indestructibility of
every life, the eternity of every moment.
When he rose, Vasudeva had prepared rice for him. But Siddhartha did
not eat. In the stable, where their goat stood, the two old men
prepared beds of straw for themselves, and Vasudeva lay himself down
to sleep. But Siddhartha went outside and sat this night before the
hut, listening to the river, surrounded by the past, touched and
encircled by all times of his life at the same time. But occasionally,
he rose, stepped to the door of the hut and listened, whether the boy
was sleeping.
Early in the morning, even before the sun could be seen, Vasudeva came
out of the stable and walked over to his friend.
"You haven't slept," he said.
"No, Vasudeva. I sat here, I was listening to the river. A lot it has
told me, deeply it has filled me with the healing thought, with the
thought of oneness."
"You've experienced suffering, Siddhartha, but I see: no sadness has
entered your heart."
"No, my dear, how should I be sad? I, who have been rich and happy,
have become even richer and happier now. My son has been given to me."
"Your son shall be welcome to me as well. But now, Siddhartha, let's
get to work, there is much to be done. Kamala has died on the same bed,
on which my wife had died a long time ago. Let us also build Kamala's
funeral pile on the same hill on which I had then built my wife's
funeral pile."
While the boy was still asleep, they built the funeral pile. | Part Two . The Ferryman . Siddhartha decides to stay near the river, which he loves. His inner voice tells him he can learn from it. The river is always flowing on and yet it is always present; its is always different and yet always the same. Hungry, Siddhartha walks along the river bank to the ferry. The ferryman is the same man who conveyed him across the river many years ago. As they cross the river, Siddhartha says he has no money to pay the ferryman, but will offer his rich clothes instead. He hopes the ferryman can give him some old clothes to wear in exchange, and employ him as an apprentice. The ferryman, whose name is Vasudeva, agrees to take him in as a guest. That night Siddhartha tells Vasudeva the story of his life, and Vasudeva, whose wife died many years ago, invites Siddhartha to live with him. Siddhartha accepts. . Days and months pass quickly. Siddhartha learns how to look after the boat, and he also learns from the river, as Vasudeva said he would. He learns that just as the river is always present everywhere, and has neither a past nor a future, so it is with life. There is no such thing as time. This discovery makes him very happy. . As time goes by, Siddhartha begins to look as radiant and as happy as Vasudeva does. They both listen to the voice of the river. They begin to get a reputation among travelers for being holy men. One day, a group of monks come to be ferried across the river. They are going to see Gotama the Buddha, who is seriously ill and will shortly die. A stream of pilgrims come as the news spreads. They include Kamala, who has long since given up her life as a courtesan and taken refuge in the teachings of the Buddha. She has her young son with her. When they are not far from the ferry, a snake bites Kamala. She and her son run to the ferry, but Kamala collapses. They cry out for help. Vasudeva hears them and carries Kamala back to his hut. Siddhartha immediately recognizes her. They exchange kind words, and Siddhartha puts his son on his knee and recites a Brahmin prayer for him. Kamala is dying. She asks Siddhartha whether he has found peace, and as he smiles at her she realizes that he has. Kamala finds the same peace for herself as she gazes at Siddhartha in her last moments before death. That night, Siddhartha sits alone in front of the hut, listening to the river. In the morning, he and Vasudeva build Kamala's funeral pyre. . |
XIX. THE CHILD AT THE BROOK-SIDE.
"Thou wilt love her dearly," repeated Hester Prynne, as she and the
minister sat watching little Pearl. "Dost thou not think her
beautiful? And see with what natural skill she has made those simple
flowers adorn her! Had she gathered pearls, and diamonds, and rubies,
in the wood, they could not have become her better. She is a splendid
child! But I know whose brow she has!"
"Dost thou know, Hester," said Arthur Dimmesdale, with an unquiet
smile, "that this dear child, tripping about always at thy side, hath
caused me many an alarm? Methought--O Hester, what a thought is that,
and how terrible to dread it!--that my own features were partly
repeated in her face, and so strikingly that the world might see them!
But she is mostly thine!"
"No, no! Not mostly!" answered the mother, with a tender smile. "A
little longer, and thou needest not to be afraid to trace whose child
she is. But how strangely beautiful she looks, with those
wild-flowers in her hair! It is as if one of the fairies, whom we left
in our dear old England, had decked her out to meet us."
It was with a feeling which neither of them had ever before
experienced, that they sat and watched Pearl's slow advance. In her
was visible the tie that united them. She had been offered to the
world, these seven years past, as the living hieroglyphic, in which
was revealed the secret they so darkly sought to hide,--all written in
this symbol,--all plainly manifest,--had there been a prophet or
magician skilled to read the character of flame! And Pearl was the
oneness of their being. Be the foregone evil what it might, how could
they doubt that their earthly lives and future destinies were
conjoined, when they beheld at once the material union, and the
spiritual idea, in whom they met, and were to dwell immortally
together? Thoughts like these--and perhaps other thoughts, which they
did not acknowledge or define--threw an awe about the child, as she
came onward.
"Let her see nothing strange--no passion nor eagerness--in thy way of
accosting her," whispered Hester. "Our Pearl is a fitful and fantastic
little elf, sometimes. Especially, she is seldom tolerant of emotion,
when she does not fully comprehend the why and wherefore. But the
child hath strong affections! She loves me, and will love thee!"
"Thou canst not think," said the minister, glancing aside at Hester
Prynne, "how my heart dreads this interview, and yearns for it! But,
in truth, as I already told thee, children are not readily won to be
familiar with me. They will not climb my knee, nor prattle in my ear,
nor answer to my smile; but stand apart, and eye me strangely. Even
little babes, when I take them in my arms, weep bitterly. Yet Pearl,
twice in her little lifetime, hath been kind to me! The first
time,--thou knowest it well! The last was when thou ledst her with
thee to the house of yonder stern old Governor."
"And thou didst plead so bravely in her behalf and mine!" answered the
mother. "I remember it; and so shall little Pearl. Fear nothing! She
may be strange and shy at first, but will soon learn to love thee!"
By this time Pearl had reached the margin of the brook, and stood on
the farther side, gazing silently at Hester and the clergyman, who
still sat together on the mossy tree-trunk, waiting to receive her.
Just where she had paused, the brook chanced to form a pool, so smooth
and quiet that it reflected a perfect image of her little figure, with
all the brilliant picturesqueness of her beauty, in its adornment of
flowers and wreathed foliage, but more refined and spiritualized than
the reality. This image, so nearly identical with the living Pearl,
seemed to communicate somewhat of its own shadowy and intangible
quality to the child herself. It was strange, the way in which Pearl
stood, looking so steadfastly at them through the dim medium of the
forest-gloom; herself, meanwhile, all glorified with a ray of
sunshine, that was attracted thitherward as by a certain sympathy. In
the brook beneath stood another child,--another and the same,--with
likewise its ray of golden light. Hester felt herself, in some
indistinct and tantalizing manner, estranged from Pearl; as if the
child, in her lonely ramble through the forest, had strayed out of the
sphere in which she and her mother dwelt together, and was now vainly
seeking to return to it.
There was both truth and error in the impression; the child and
mother were estranged, but through Hester's fault, not Pearl's. Since
the latter rambled from her side, another inmate had been admitted
within the circle of the mother's feelings, and so modified the aspect
of them all, that Pearl, the returning wanderer, could not find her
wonted place, and hardly knew where she was.
"I have a strange fancy," observed the sensitive minister, "that this
brook is the boundary between two worlds, and that thou canst never
meet thy Pearl again. Or is she an elfish spirit, who, as the legends
of our childhood taught us, is forbidden to cross a running stream?
Pray hasten her; for this delay has already imparted a tremor to my
nerves."
"Come, dearest child!" said Hester, encouragingly, and stretching out
both her arms. "How slow thou art! When hast thou been so sluggish
before now? Here is a friend of mine, who must be thy friend also.
Thou wilt have twice as much love, henceforward, as thy mother alone
could give thee! Leap across the brook, and come to us. Thou canst
leap like a young deer!"
[Illustration: The Child at the Brook-Side]
Pearl, without responding in any manner to these honey-sweet
expressions, remained on the other side of the brook. Now she fixed
her bright, wild eyes on her mother, now on the minister, and now
included them both in the same glance; as if to detect and explain to
herself the relation which they bore to one another. For some
unaccountable reason, as Arthur Dimmesdale felt the child's eyes upon
himself, his hand--with that gesture so habitual as to have become
involuntary--stole over his heart. At length, assuming a singular air
of authority, Pearl stretched out her hand, with the small forefinger
extended, and pointing evidently towards her mother's breast. And
beneath, in the mirror of the brook, there was the flower-girdled and
sunny image of little Pearl, pointing her small forefinger too.
"Thou strange child, why dost thou not come to me?" exclaimed Hester.
Pearl still pointed with her forefinger; and a frown gathered on her
brow; the more impressive from the childish, the almost baby-like
aspect of the features that conveyed it. As her mother still kept
beckoning to her, and arraying her face in a holiday suit of
unaccustomed smiles, the child stamped her foot with a yet more
imperious look and gesture. In the brook, again, was the fantastic
beauty of the image, with its reflected frown, its pointed finger, and
imperious gesture, giving emphasis to the aspect of little Pearl.
"Hasten, Pearl; or I shall be angry with thee!" cried Hester Prynne,
who, however inured to such behavior on the elf-child's part at other
seasons, was naturally anxious for a more seemly deportment now. "Leap
across the brook, naughty child, and run hither! Else I must come to
thee!"
But Pearl, not a whit startled at her mother's threats, any more than
mollified by her entreaties, now suddenly burst into a fit of passion,
gesticulating violently, and throwing her small figure into the most
extravagant contortions. She accompanied this wild outbreak with
piercing shrieks, which the woods reverberated on all sides; so that,
alone as she was in her childish and unreasonable wrath, it seemed as
if a hidden multitude were lending her their sympathy and
encouragement. Seen in the brook, once more, was the shadowy wrath of
Pearl's image, crowned and girdled with flowers, but stamping its
foot, wildly gesticulating, and, in the midst of all, still pointing
its small forefinger at Hester's bosom!
"I see what ails the child," whispered Hester to the clergyman, and
turning pale in spite of a strong effort to conceal her trouble and
annoyance. "Children will not abide any, the slightest, change in the
accustomed aspect of things that are daily before their eyes. Pearl
misses something which she has always seen me wear!"
"I pray you," answered the minister, "if thou hast any means of
pacifying the child, do it forthwith! Save it were the cankered wrath
of an old witch, like Mistress Hibbins," added he, attempting to
smile, "I know nothing that I would not sooner encounter than this
passion in a child. In Pearl's young beauty, as in the wrinkled witch,
it has a preternatural effect. Pacify her, if thou lovest me!"
Hester turned again towards Pearl, with a crimson blush upon her
cheek, a conscious glance aside at the clergyman, and then a heavy
sigh; while, even before she had time to speak, the blush yielded to a
deadly pallor.
"Pearl," said she, sadly, "look down at thy feet! There!--before
thee!--on the hither side of the brook!"
The child turned her eyes to the point indicated; and there lay the
scarlet letter, so close upon the margin of the stream, that the gold
embroidery was reflected in it.
"Bring it hither!" said Hester.
"Come thou and take it up!" answered Pearl.
"Was ever such a child!" observed Hester, aside to the minister. "O, I
have much to tell thee about her! But, in very truth, she is right as
regards this hateful token. I must bear its torture yet a little
longer,--only a few days longer,--until we shall have left this
region, and look back hither as to a land which we have dreamed of.
The forest cannot hide it! The mid-ocean shall take it from my hand,
and swallow it up forever!"
With these words, she advanced to the margin of the brook, took up the
scarlet letter, and fastened it again into her bosom. Hopefully, but a
moment ago, as Hester had spoken of drowning it in the deep sea, there
was a sense of inevitable doom upon her, as she thus received back
this deadly symbol from the hand of fate. She had flung it into
infinite space!--she had drawn an hour's free breath!--and here again
was the scarlet misery, glittering on the old spot! So it ever is,
whether thus typified or no, that an evil deed invests itself with the
character of doom. Hester next gathered up the heavy tresses of her
hair, and confined them beneath her cap. As if there were a withering
spell in the sad letter, her beauty, the warmth and richness of her
womanhood, departed, like fading sunshine; and a gray shadow seemed to
fall across her.
When the dreary change was wrought, she extended her hand to Pearl.
"Dost thou know thy mother now, child?" asked she, reproachfully, but
with a subdued tone. "Wilt thou come across the brook, and own thy
mother, now that she has her shame upon her,--now that she is sad?"
"Yes; now I will!" answered the child, bounding across the brook, and
clasping Hester in her arms. "Now thou art my mother indeed! And I am
thy little Pearl!"
In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her
mother's head, and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then--by a
kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever
comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish--Pearl put up
her mouth, and kissed the scarlet letter too!
"That was not kind!" said Hester. "When thou hast shown me a little
love, thou mockest me!"
"Why doth the minister sit yonder?" asked Pearl.
"He waits to welcome thee," replied her mother. "Come thou, and
entreat his blessing! He loves thee, my little Pearl, and loves thy
mother too. Wilt thou not love him? Come! he longs to greet thee!"
"Doth he love us?" said Pearl, looking up, with acute intelligence,
into her mother's face. "Will he go back with us, hand in hand, we
three together, into the town?"
"Not now, dear child," answered Hester. "But in days to come he will
walk hand in hand with us. We will have a home and fireside of our
own; and thou shalt sit upon his knee; and he will teach thee many
things, and love thee dearly. Thou wilt love him; wilt thou not?"
"And will he always keep his hand over his heart?" inquired Pearl.
"Foolish child, what a question is that!" exclaimed her mother. "Come
and ask his blessing!"
But, whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with
every petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice
of her freakish nature, Pearl would show no favor to the clergyman. It
was only by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to
him, hanging back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces; of
which, ever since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety,
and could transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different
aspects, with a new mischief in them, each and all. The
minister--painfully embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a
talisman to admit him into the child's kindlier regards--bent forward,
and impressed one on her brow. Hereupon, Pearl broke away from her
mother, and, running to the brook, stooped over it, and bathed her
forehead, until the unwelcome kiss was quite washed off, and diffused
through a long lapse of the gliding water. She then remained apart,
silently watching Hester and the clergyman; while they talked
together, and made such arrangements as were suggested by their new
position, and the purposes soon to be fulfilled.
And now this fateful interview had come to a close. The dell was to be
left a solitude among its dark, old trees, which, with their
multitudinous tongues, would whisper long of what had passed there,
and no mortal be the wiser. And the melancholy brook would add this
other tale to the mystery with which its little heart was already
overburdened, and whereof it still kept up a murmuring babble, with
not a whit more cheerfulness of tone than for ages heretofore.
[Illustration]
[Illustration] | Hester decides the time has come for Dimmesdale to meet Pearl. Hester and Dimmesdale are joined spiritually and genetically to this child, and "in her was visible the tie that united them." While Dimmesdale confesses that he has always been afraid someone would recognize his features in Pearl, Hester simply speaks of Pearl's beauty and sees her as a "living hieroglyphic." Dimmesdale remembers Pearl being kind to him, yet he also feels ill at ease around children and is not very confident about this meeting. Hester, however, assures him that Pearl will love him and that he should be careful not to overwhelm her with emotion. Pearl moves very slowly toward them, trying to discern her parents' relationship. Dimmesdale senses her hesitation and puts his hand once again over his heart. Seeing the scarlet letter on the ground and her mother's hair sensuously falling about her shoulders, Pearl points her finger, stamps her foot, shrieks, and "bursts into a fit of passion." Hester's and Dimmesdale's reactions to Pearl's behavior vary. Hester realizes that Pearl recognizes the change in her , and she hurries to fasten the hated badge to her dress and to draw her cap over her hair. She excuses Pearl's actions by saying children cannot abide change easily. Dimmesdale, on the other hand, begs Hester to do whatever will stop this fit and pacify Pearl. As soon as Hester changes her appearance, Pearl willingly comes to her and mockingly kisses the scarlet letter. Pearl desires the minister to acknowledge her in public. While Hester assures her that this admission will happen in the future, Dimmesdale kisses Pearl's forehead in an attempt to mollify her. Pearl immediately goes to the brook and washes off the kiss. There she remains apart from the adults, and the brook babbles cheerlessly on. |
An up-hill and down-hill ride of twenty-odd miles through a garish
mid-day atmosphere brought him in the afternoon to a detached knoll
a mile or two west of Talbothays, whence he again looked into that
green trough of sappiness and humidity, the valley of the Var or
Froom. Immediately he began to descend from the upland to the fat
alluvial soil below, the atmosphere grew heavier; the languid perfume
of the summer fruits, the mists, the hay, the flowers, formed therein
a vast pool of odour which at this hour seemed to make the animals,
the very bees and butterflies drowsy. Clare was now so familiar with
the spot that he knew the individual cows by their names when, a long
distance off, he saw them dotted about the meads. It was with a
sense of luxury that he recognized his power of viewing life here
from its inner side, in a way that had been quite foreign to him in
his student-days; and, much as he loved his parents, he could not
help being aware that to come here, as now, after an experience of
home-life, affected him like throwing off splints and bandages; even
the one customary curb on the humours of English rural societies
being absent in this place, Talbothays having no resident landlord.
Not a human being was out of doors at the dairy. The denizens were
all enjoying the usual afternoon nap of an hour or so which the
exceedingly early hours kept in summer-time rendered a necessity.
At the door the wood-hooped pails, sodden and bleached by infinite
scrubbings, hung like hats on a stand upon the forked and peeled limb
of an oak fixed there for that purpose; all of them ready and dry
for the evening milking. Angel entered, and went through the silent
passages of the house to the back quarters, where he listened for a
moment. Sustained snores came from the cart-house, where some of
the men were lying down; the grunt and squeal of sweltering pigs
arose from the still further distance. The large-leaved rhubarb and
cabbage plants slept too, their broad limp surfaces hanging in the
sun like half-closed umbrellas.
He unbridled and fed his horse, and as he re-entered the house the
clock struck three. Three was the afternoon skimming-hour; and, with
the stroke, Clare heard the creaking of the floor-boards above, and
then the touch of a descending foot on the stairs. It was Tess's,
who in another moment came down before his eyes.
She had not heard him enter, and hardly realized his presence there.
She was yawning, and he saw the red interior of her mouth as if it
had been a snake's. She had stretched one arm so high above her
coiled-up cable of hair that he could see its satin delicacy above
the sunburn; her face was flushed with sleep, and her eyelids hung
heavy over their pupils. The brim-fulness of her nature breathed
from her. It was a moment when a woman's soul is more incarnate than
at any other time; when the most spiritual beauty bespeaks itself
flesh; and sex takes the outside place in the presentation.
Then those eyes flashed brightly through their filmy heaviness,
before the remainder of her face was well awake. With an oddly
compounded look of gladness, shyness, and surprise, she exclaimed--"O
Mr Clare! How you frightened me--I--"
There had not at first been time for her to think of the changed
relations which his declaration had introduced; but the full sense of
the matter rose up in her face when she encountered Clare's tender
look as he stepped forward to the bottom stair.
"Dear, darling Tessy!" he whispered, putting his arm round her, and
his face to her flushed cheek. "Don't, for Heaven's sake, Mister me
any more. I have hastened back so soon because of you!"
Tess's excitable heart beat against his by way of reply; and there
they stood upon the red-brick floor of the entry, the sun slanting in
by the window upon his back, as he held her tightly to his breast;
upon her inclining face, upon the blue veins of her temple, upon her
naked arm, and her neck, and into the depths of her hair. Having
been lying down in her clothes she was warm as a sunned cat. At
first she would not look straight up at him, but her eyes soon
lifted, and his plumbed the deepness of the ever-varying pupils, with
their radiating fibrils of blue, and black, and gray, and violet,
while she regarded him as Eve at her second waking might have
regarded Adam.
"I've got to go a-skimming," she pleaded, "and I have on'y old Deb to
help me to-day. Mrs Crick is gone to market with Mr Crick, and Retty
is not well, and the others are gone out somewhere, and won't be home
till milking."
As they retreated to the milk-house Deborah Fyander appeared on the
stairs.
"I have come back, Deborah," said Mr Clare, upwards. "So I can help
Tess with the skimming; and, as you are very tired, I am sure, you
needn't come down till milking-time."
Possibly the Talbothays milk was not very thoroughly skimmed that
afternoon. Tess was in a dream wherein familiar objects appeared
as having light and shade and position, but no particular outline.
Every time she held the skimmer under the pump to cool it for the
work her hand trembled, the ardour of his affection being so palpable
that she seemed to flinch under it like a plant in too burning a sun.
Then he pressed her again to his side, and when she had done running
her forefinger round the leads to cut off the cream-edge, he cleaned
it in nature's way; for the unconstrained manners of Talbothays dairy
came convenient now.
"I may as well say it now as later, dearest," he resumed gently. "I
wish to ask you something of a very practical nature, which I have
been thinking of ever since that day last week in the meads. I shall
soon want to marry, and, being a farmer, you see I shall require for
my wife a woman who knows all about the management of farms. Will
you be that woman, Tessy?"
He put it that way that she might not think he had yielded to an
impulse of which his head would disapprove.
She turned quite careworn. She had bowed to the inevitable result of
proximity, the necessity of loving him; but she had not calculated
upon this sudden corollary, which, indeed, Clare had put before her
without quite meaning himself to do it so soon. With pain that was
like the bitterness of dissolution she murmured the words of her
indispensable and sworn answer as an honourable woman.
"O Mr Clare--I cannot be your wife--I cannot be!"
The sound of her own decision seemed to break Tess's very heart, and
she bowed her face in her grief.
"But, Tess!" he said, amazed at her reply, and holding her still more
greedily close. "Do you say no? Surely you love me?"
"O yes, yes! And I would rather be yours than anybody's in the
world," returned the sweet and honest voice of the distressed girl.
"But I CANNOT marry you!"
"Tess," he said, holding her at arm's length, "you are engaged to
marry some one else!"
"No, no!"
"Then why do you refuse me?"
"I don't want to marry! I have not thought of doing it. I cannot!
I only want to love you."
"But why?"
Driven to subterfuge, she stammered--
"Your father is a parson, and your mother wouldn' like you to marry
such as me. She will want you to marry a lady."
"Nonsense--I have spoken to them both. That was partly why I went
home."
"I feel I cannot--never, never!" she echoed.
"Is it too sudden to be asked thus, my Pretty?"
"Yes--I did not expect it."
"If you will let it pass, please, Tessy, I will give you time," he
said. "It was very abrupt to come home and speak to you all at once.
I'll not allude to it again for a while."
She again took up the shining skimmer, held it beneath the pump, and
began anew. But she could not, as at other times, hit the exact
under-surface of the cream with the delicate dexterity required, try
as she might; sometimes she was cutting down into the milk, sometimes
in the air. She could hardly see, her eyes having filled with two
blurring tears drawn forth by a grief which, to this her best friend
and dear advocate, she could never explain.
"I can't skim--I can't!" she said, turning away from him.
Not to agitate and hinder her longer, the considerate Clare began
talking in a more general way:
You quite misapprehend my parents. They are the most simple-mannered
people alive, and quite unambitious. They are two of the few
remaining Evangelical school. Tessy, are you an Evangelical?"
"I don't know."
"You go to church very regularly, and our parson here is not very
High, they tell me."
Tess's ideas on the views of the parish clergyman, whom she heard
every week, seemed to be rather more vague than Clare's, who had
never heard him at all.
"I wish I could fix my mind on what I hear there more firmly than I
do," she remarked as a safe generality. "It is often a great sorrow
to me."
She spoke so unaffectedly that Angel was sure in his heart that his
father could not object to her on religious grounds, even though she
did not know whether her principles were High, Low or Broad. He
himself knew that, in reality, the confused beliefs which she held,
apparently imbibed in childhood, were, if anything, Tractarian as to
phraseology, and Pantheistic as to essence. Confused or otherwise,
to disturb them was his last desire:
Leave thou thy sister, when she prays,
Her early Heaven, her happy views;
Nor thou with shadow'd hint confuse
A life that leads melodious days.
He had occasionally thought the counsel less honest than musical; but
he gladly conformed to it now.
He spoke further of the incidents of his visit, of his father's mode
of life, of his zeal for his principles; she grew serener, and the
undulations disappeared from her skimming; as she finished one lead
after another he followed her, and drew the plugs for letting down
the milk.
"I fancied you looked a little downcast when you came in," she
ventured to observe, anxious to keep away from the subject of
herself.
"Yes--well, my father had been talking a good deal to me of his
troubles and difficulties, and the subject always tends to depress
me. He is so zealous that he gets many snubs and buffetings from
people of a different way of thinking from himself, and I don't
like to hear of such humiliations to a man of his age, the more
particularly as I don't think earnestness does any good when carried
so far. He has been telling me of a very unpleasant scene in
which he took part quite recently. He went as the deputy of some
missionary society to preach in the neighbourhood of Trantridge, a
place forty miles from here, and made it his business to expostulate
with a lax young cynic he met with somewhere about there--son of some
landowner up that way--and who has a mother afflicted with blindness.
My father addressed himself to the gentleman point-blank, and there
was quite a disturbance. It was very foolish of my father, I
must say, to intrude his conversation upon a stranger when the
probabilities were so obvious that it would be useless. But whatever
he thinks to be his duty, that he'll do, in season or out of season;
and, of course, he makes many enemies, not only among the absolutely
vicious, but among the easy-going, who hate being bothered. He says
he glories in what happened, and that good may be done indirectly;
but I wish he would not wear himself out now he is getting old, and
would leave such pigs to their wallowing."
Tess's look had grown hard and worn, and her ripe mouth tragical; but
she no longer showed any tremulousness. Clare's revived thoughts of
his father prevented his noticing her particularly; and so they went
on down the white row of liquid rectangles till they had finished
and drained them off, when the other maids returned, and took their
pails, and Deb came to scald out the leads for the new milk. As
Tess withdrew to go afield to the cows he said to her softly--
"And my question, Tessy?"
"O no--no!" replied she with grave hopelessness, as one who had
heard anew the turmoil of her own past in the allusion to Alec
d'Urberville. "It CAN'T be!"
She went out towards the mead, joining the other milkmaids with
a bound, as if trying to make the open air drive away her sad
constraint. All the girls drew onward to the spot where the cows
were grazing in the farther mead, the bevy advancing with the bold
grace of wild animals--the reckless, unchastened motion of women
accustomed to unlimited space--in which they abandoned themselves to
the air as a swimmer to the wave. It seemed natural enough to him
now that Tess was again in sight to choose a mate from unconstrained
Nature, and not from the abodes of Art. | Shortly after returning to the dairy farm, Angel tells Tess that he would be delighted to have her as his wife. She confesses that she loves him, but does not accept his proposal. He coaxes her to tell the reason for her denial of him, and she says it is because of her unprivileged background and position. Angel tells Tess he will give her time to think it over. Angel also tells Tess about the Trantridge incident in which a D'Urberville insulted his father. She is quick to realize that the man being discussed is Alec. Tess is once again appalled at the cruelty of her fate. |
When I awoke in the morning I thought very much of little Em'ly, and her
emotion last night, after Martha had left. I felt as if I had come into
the knowledge of those domestic weaknesses and tendernesses in a sacred
confidence, and that to disclose them, even to Steerforth, would be
wrong. I had no gentler feeling towards anyone than towards the
pretty creature who had been my playmate, and whom I have always been
persuaded, and shall always be persuaded, to my dying day, I then
devotedly loved. The repetition to any ears--even to Steerforth's--of
what she had been unable to repress when her heart lay open to me by an
accident, I felt would be a rough deed, unworthy of myself, unworthy of
the light of our pure childhood, which I always saw encircling her head.
I made a resolution, therefore, to keep it in my own breast; and there
it gave her image a new grace.
While we were at breakfast, a letter was delivered to me from my aunt.
As it contained matter on which I thought Steerforth could advise me
as well as anyone, and on which I knew I should be delighted to consult
him, I resolved to make it a subject of discussion on our journey home.
For the present we had enough to do, in taking leave of all our friends.
Mr. Barkis was far from being the last among them, in his regret at
our departure; and I believe would even have opened the box again, and
sacrificed another guinea, if it would have kept us eight-and-forty
hours in Yarmouth. Peggotty and all her family were full of grief at our
going. The whole house of Omer and Joram turned out to bid us good-bye;
and there were so many seafaring volunteers in attendance on Steerforth,
when our portmanteaux went to the coach, that if we had had the baggage
of a regiment with us, we should hardly have wanted porters to carry it.
In a word, we departed to the regret and admiration of all concerned,
and left a great many people very sorry behind US.
'Do you stay long here, Littimer?' said I, as he stood waiting to see the
coach start.
'No, sir,' he replied; 'probably not very long, sir.'
'He can hardly say, just now,' observed Steerforth, carelessly. 'He
knows what he has to do, and he'll do it.'
'That I am sure he will,' said I.
Littimer touched his hat in acknowledgement of my good opinion, and I
felt about eight years old. He touched it once more, wishing us a good
journey; and we left him standing on the pavement, as respectable a
mystery as any pyramid in Egypt.
For some little time we held no conversation, Steerforth being unusually
silent, and I being sufficiently engaged in wondering, within myself,
when I should see the old places again, and what new changes might
happen to me or them in the meanwhile. At length Steerforth, becoming
gay and talkative in a moment, as he could become anything he liked at
any moment, pulled me by the arm:
'Find a voice, David. What about that letter you were speaking of at
breakfast?'
'Oh!' said I, taking it out of my pocket. 'It's from my aunt.'
'And what does she say, requiring consideration?'
'Why, she reminds me, Steerforth,' said I, 'that I came out on this
expedition to look about me, and to think a little.'
'Which, of course, you have done?'
'Indeed I can't say I have, particularly. To tell you the truth, I am
afraid I have forgotten it.'
'Well! look about you now, and make up for your negligence,' said
Steerforth. 'Look to the right, and you'll see a flat country, with a
good deal of marsh in it; look to the left, and you'll see the same.
Look to the front, and you'll find no difference; look to the rear,
and there it is still.' I laughed, and replied that I saw no suitable
profession in the whole prospect; which was perhaps to be attributed to
its flatness.
'What says our aunt on the subject?' inquired Steerforth, glancing at
the letter in my hand. 'Does she suggest anything?'
'Why, yes,' said I. 'She asks me, here, if I think I should like to be a
proctor? What do you think of it?'
'Well, I don't know,' replied Steerforth, coolly. 'You may as well do
that as anything else, I suppose?'
I could not help laughing again, at his balancing all callings and
professions so equally; and I told him so.
'What is a proctor, Steerforth?' said I.
'Why, he is a sort of monkish attorney,' replied Steerforth. 'He is, to
some faded courts held in Doctors' Commons,--a lazy old nook near St.
Paul's Churchyard--what solicitors are to the courts of law and equity.
He is a functionary whose existence, in the natural course of things,
would have terminated about two hundred years ago. I can tell you best
what he is, by telling you what Doctors' Commons is. It's a
little out-of-the-way place, where they administer what is called
ecclesiastical law, and play all kinds of tricks with obsolete old
monsters of acts of Parliament, which three-fourths of the world know
nothing about, and the other fourth supposes to have been dug up, in
a fossil state, in the days of the Edwards. It's a place that has an
ancient monopoly in suits about people's wills and people's marriages,
and disputes among ships and boats.'
'Nonsense, Steerforth!' I exclaimed. 'You don't mean to say that there
is any affinity between nautical matters and ecclesiastical matters?'
'I don't, indeed, my dear boy,' he returned; 'but I mean to say that
they are managed and decided by the same set of people, down in that
same Doctors' Commons. You shall go there one day, and find them
blundering through half the nautical terms in Young's Dictionary,
apropos of the "Nancy" having run down the "Sarah Jane", or Mr. Peggotty
and the Yarmouth boatmen having put off in a gale of wind with an anchor
and cable to the "Nelson" Indiaman in distress; and you shall go there
another day, and find them deep in the evidence, pro and con, respecting
a clergyman who has misbehaved himself; and you shall find the judge
in the nautical case, the advocate in the clergyman's case, or
contrariwise. They are like actors: now a man's a judge, and now he is
not a judge; now he's one thing, now he's another; now he's something
else, change and change about; but it's always a very pleasant,
profitable little affair of private theatricals, presented to an
uncommonly select audience.'
'But advocates and proctors are not one and the same?' said I, a little
puzzled. 'Are they?'
'No,' returned Steerforth, 'the advocates are civilians--men who have
taken a doctor's degree at college--which is the first reason of my
knowing anything about it. The proctors employ the advocates. Both get
very comfortable fees, and altogether they make a mighty snug little
party. On the whole, I would recommend you to take to Doctors' Commons
kindly, David. They plume them-selves on their gentility there, I can
tell you, if that's any satisfaction.'
I made allowance for Steerforth's light way of treating the subject,
and, considering it with reference to the staid air of gravity and
antiquity which I associated with that 'lazy old nook near St. Paul's
Churchyard', did not feel indisposed towards my aunt's suggestion; which
she left to my free decision, making no scruple of telling me that it
had occurred to her, on her lately visiting her own proctor in Doctors'
Commons for the purpose of settling her will in my favour.
'That's a laudable proceeding on the part of our aunt, at all events,'
said Steerforth, when I mentioned it; 'and one deserving of all
encouragement. Daisy, my advice is that you take kindly to Doctors'
Commons.'
I quite made up my mind to do so. I then told Steerforth that my aunt
was in town awaiting me (as I found from her letter), and that she had
taken lodgings for a week at a kind of private hotel at Lincoln's Inn
Fields, where there was a stone staircase, and a convenient door in
the roof; my aunt being firmly persuaded that every house in London was
going to be burnt down every night.
We achieved the rest of our journey pleasantly, sometimes recurring to
Doctors' Commons, and anticipating the distant days when I should be a
proctor there, which Steerforth pictured in a variety of humorous and
whimsical lights, that made us both merry. When we came to our journey's
end, he went home, engaging to call upon me next day but one; and I
drove to Lincoln's Inn Fields, where I found my aunt up, and waiting
supper.
If I had been round the world since we parted, we could hardly have been
better pleased to meet again. My aunt cried outright as she embraced me;
and said, pretending to laugh, that if my poor mother had been alive,
that silly little creature would have shed tears, she had no doubt.
'So you have left Mr. Dick behind, aunt?' said I. 'I am sorry for that.
Ah, Janet, how do you do?'
As Janet curtsied, hoping I was well, I observed my aunt's visage
lengthen very much.
'I am sorry for it, too,' said my aunt, rubbing her nose. 'I have had
no peace of mind, Trot, since I have been here.' Before I could ask why,
she told me.
'I am convinced,' said my aunt, laying her hand with melancholy firmness
on the table, 'that Dick's character is not a character to keep the
donkeys off. I am confident he wants strength of purpose. I ought to
have left Janet at home, instead, and then my mind might perhaps have
been at ease. If ever there was a donkey trespassing on my green,' said
my aunt, with emphasis, 'there was one this afternoon at four o'clock.
A cold feeling came over me from head to foot, and I know it was a
donkey!'
I tried to comfort her on this point, but she rejected consolation.
'It was a donkey,' said my aunt; 'and it was the one with the stumpy
tail which that Murdering sister of a woman rode, when she came to my
house.' This had been, ever since, the only name my aunt knew for Miss
Murdstone. 'If there is any Donkey in Dover, whose audacity it is harder
to me to bear than another's, that,' said my aunt, striking the table,
'is the animal!'
Janet ventured to suggest that my aunt might be disturbing herself
unnecessarily, and that she believed the donkey in question was then
engaged in the sand-and-gravel line of business, and was not available
for purposes of trespass. But my aunt wouldn't hear of it.
Supper was comfortably served and hot, though my aunt's rooms were very
high up--whether that she might have more stone stairs for her money, or
might be nearer to the door in the roof, I don't know--and consisted of
a roast fowl, a steak, and some vegetables, to all of which I did ample
justice, and which were all excellent. But my aunt had her own ideas
concerning London provision, and ate but little.
'I suppose this unfortunate fowl was born and brought up in a cellar,'
said my aunt, 'and never took the air except on a hackney coach-stand. I
hope the steak may be beef, but I don't believe it. Nothing's genuine in
the place, in my opinion, but the dirt.'
'Don't you think the fowl may have come out of the country, aunt?' I
hinted.
'Certainly not,' returned my aunt. 'It would be no pleasure to a London
tradesman to sell anything which was what he pretended it was.'
I did not venture to controvert this opinion, but I made a good supper,
which it greatly satisfied her to see me do. When the table was cleared,
Janet assisted her to arrange her hair, to put on her nightcap, which
was of a smarter construction than usual ('in case of fire', my aunt
said), and to fold her gown back over her knees, these being her usual
preparations for warming herself before going to bed. I then made her,
according to certain established regulations from which no deviation,
however slight, could ever be permitted, a glass of hot wine and
water, and a slice of toast cut into long thin strips. With these
accompaniments we were left alone to finish the evening, my aunt sitting
opposite to me drinking her wine and water; soaking her strips of toast
in it, one by one, before eating them; and looking benignantly on me,
from among the borders of her nightcap.
'Well, Trot,' she began, 'what do you think of the proctor plan? Or have
you not begun to think about it yet?'
'I have thought a good deal about it, my dear aunt, and I have talked a
good deal about it with Steerforth. I like it very much indeed. I like
it exceedingly.'
'Come!' said my aunt. 'That's cheering!'
'I have only one difficulty, aunt.'
'Say what it is, Trot,' she returned.
'Why, I want to ask, aunt, as this seems, from what I understand, to
be a limited profession, whether my entrance into it would not be very
expensive?'
'It will cost,' returned my aunt, 'to article you, just a thousand
pounds.'
'Now, my dear aunt,' said I, drawing my chair nearer, 'I am uneasy in
my mind about that. It's a large sum of money. You have expended a
great deal on my education, and have always been as liberal to me in all
things as it was possible to be. You have been the soul of generosity.
Surely there are some ways in which I might begin life with hardly any
outlay, and yet begin with a good hope of getting on by resolution and
exertion. Are you sure that it would not be better to try that course?
Are you certain that you can afford to part with so much money, and that
it is right that it should be so expended? I only ask you, my second
mother, to consider. Are you certain?'
My aunt finished eating the piece of toast on which she was then
engaged, looking me full in the face all the while; and then setting
her glass on the chimney-piece, and folding her hands upon her folded
skirts, replied as follows:
'Trot, my child, if I have any object in life, it is to provide for
your being a good, a sensible, and a happy man. I am bent upon it--so is
Dick. I should like some people that I know to hear Dick's conversation
on the subject. Its sagacity is wonderful. But no one knows the
resources of that man's intellect, except myself!'
She stopped for a moment to take my hand between hers, and went on:
'It's in vain, Trot, to recall the past, unless it works some influence
upon the present. Perhaps I might have been better friends with your
poor father. Perhaps I might have been better friends with that poor
child your mother, even after your sister Betsey Trotwood disappointed
me. When you came to me, a little runaway boy, all dusty and way-worn,
perhaps I thought so. From that time until now, Trot, you have ever been
a credit to me and a pride and a pleasure. I have no other claim upon
my means; at least'--here to my surprise she hesitated, and was
confused--'no, I have no other claim upon my means--and you are my
adopted child. Only be a loving child to me in my age, and bear with my
whims and fancies; and you will do more for an old woman whose prime of
life was not so happy or conciliating as it might have been, than ever
that old woman did for you.'
It was the first time I had heard my aunt refer to her past history.
There was a magnanimity in her quiet way of doing so, and of dismissing
it, which would have exalted her in my respect and affection, if
anything could.
'All is agreed and understood between us, now, Trot,' said my aunt,
'and we need talk of this no more. Give me a kiss, and we'll go to the
Commons after breakfast tomorrow.'
We had a long chat by the fire before we went to bed. I slept in a room
on the same floor with my aunt's, and was a little disturbed in the
course of the night by her knocking at my door as often as she was
agitated by a distant sound of hackney-coaches or market-carts, and
inquiring, 'if I heard the engines?' But towards morning she slept
better, and suffered me to do so too.
At about mid-day, we set out for the office of Messrs Spenlow and
Jorkins, in Doctors' Commons. My aunt, who had this other general
opinion in reference to London, that every man she saw was a pickpocket,
gave me her purse to carry for her, which had ten guineas in it and some
silver.
We made a pause at the toy shop in Fleet Street, to see the giants of
Saint Dunstan's strike upon the bells--we had timed our going, so as to
catch them at it, at twelve o'clock--and then went on towards Ludgate
Hill, and St. Paul's Churchyard. We were crossing to the former place,
when I found that my aunt greatly accelerated her speed, and looked
frightened. I observed, at the same time, that a lowering ill-dressed
man who had stopped and stared at us in passing, a little before, was
coming so close after us as to brush against her.
'Trot! My dear Trot!' cried my aunt, in a terrified whisper, and
pressing my arm. 'I don't know what I am to do.'
'Don't be alarmed,' said I. 'There's nothing to be afraid of. Step into
a shop, and I'll soon get rid of this fellow.'
'No, no, child!' she returned. 'Don't speak to him for the world. I
entreat, I order you!'
'Good Heaven, aunt!' said I. 'He is nothing but a sturdy beggar.'
'You don't know what he is!' replied my aunt. 'You don't know who he is!
You don't know what you say!'
We had stopped in an empty door-way, while this was passing, and he had
stopped too.
'Don't look at him!' said my aunt, as I turned my head indignantly, 'but
get me a coach, my dear, and wait for me in St. Paul's Churchyard.'
'Wait for you?' I replied.
'Yes,' rejoined my aunt. 'I must go alone. I must go with him.'
'With him, aunt? This man?'
'I am in my senses,' she replied, 'and I tell you I must. Get me a
coach!'
However much astonished I might be, I was sensible that I had no right
to refuse compliance with such a peremptory command. I hurried away a
few paces, and called a hackney-chariot which was passing empty. Almost
before I could let down the steps, my aunt sprang in, I don't know how,
and the man followed. She waved her hand to me to go away, so earnestly,
that, all confounded as I was, I turned from them at once. In doing so,
I heard her say to the coachman, 'Drive anywhere! Drive straight on!'
and presently the chariot passed me, going up the hill.
What Mr. Dick had told me, and what I had supposed to be a delusion of
his, now came into my mind. I could not doubt that this person was the
person of whom he had made such mysterious mention, though what the
nature of his hold upon my aunt could possibly be, I was quite unable
to imagine. After half an hour's cooling in the churchyard, I saw the
chariot coming back. The driver stopped beside me, and my aunt was
sitting in it alone.
She had not yet sufficiently recovered from her agitation to be quite
prepared for the visit we had to make. She desired me to get into the
chariot, and to tell the coachman to drive slowly up and down a little
while. She said no more, except, 'My dear child, never ask me what
it was, and don't refer to it,' until she had perfectly regained her
composure, when she told me she was quite herself now, and we might get
out. On her giving me her purse to pay the driver, I found that all the
guineas were gone, and only the loose silver remained.
Doctors' Commons was approached by a little low archway. Before we had
taken many paces down the street beyond it, the noise of the city seemed
to melt, as if by magic, into a softened distance. A few dull courts
and narrow ways brought us to the sky-lighted offices of Spenlow and
Jorkins; in the vestibule of which temple, accessible to pilgrims
without the ceremony of knocking, three or four clerks were at work as
copyists. One of these, a little dry man, sitting by himself, who wore
a stiff brown wig that looked as if it were made of gingerbread, rose to
receive my aunt, and show us into Mr. Spenlow's room.
'Mr. Spenlow's in Court, ma'am,' said the dry man; 'it's an Arches day;
but it's close by, and I'll send for him directly.'
As we were left to look about us while Mr. Spenlow was fetched, I
availed myself of the opportunity. The furniture of the room was
old-fashioned and dusty; and the green baize on the top of the
writing-table had lost all its colour, and was as withered and pale as
an old pauper. There were a great many bundles of papers on it, some
endorsed as Allegations, and some (to my surprise) as Libels, and some
as being in the Consistory Court, and some in the Arches Court, and some
in the Prerogative Court, and some in the Admiralty Court, and some in
the Delegates' Court; giving me occasion to wonder much, how many Courts
there might be in the gross, and how long it would take to understand
them all. Besides these, there were sundry immense manuscript Books
of Evidence taken on affidavit, strongly bound, and tied together in
massive sets, a set to each cause, as if every cause were a history in
ten or twenty volumes. All this looked tolerably expensive, I thought,
and gave me an agreeable notion of a proctor's business. I was casting
my eyes with increasing complacency over these and many similar objects,
when hasty footsteps were heard in the room outside, and Mr. Spenlow,
in a black gown trimmed with white fur, came hurrying in, taking off his
hat as he came.
He was a little light-haired gentleman, with undeniable boots, and the
stiffest of white cravats and shirt-collars. He was buttoned up, mighty
trim and tight, and must have taken a great deal of pains with his
whiskers, which were accurately curled. His gold watch-chain was so
massive, that a fancy came across me, that he ought to have a sinewy
golden arm, to draw it out with, like those which are put up over the
goldbeaters' shops. He was got up with such care, and was so stiff, that
he could hardly bend himself; being obliged, when he glanced at some
papers on his desk, after sitting down in his chair, to move his whole
body, from the bottom of his spine, like Punch.
I had previously been presented by my aunt, and had been courteously
received. He now said:
'And so, Mr. Copperfield, you think of entering into our profession?
I casually mentioned to Miss Trotwood, when I had the pleasure of an
interview with her the other day,'--with another inclination of his
body--Punch again--'that there was a vacancy here. Miss Trotwood was
good enough to mention that she had a nephew who was her peculiar care,
and for whom she was seeking to provide genteelly in life. That
nephew, I believe, I have now the pleasure of'--Punch again. I bowed my
acknowledgements, and said, my aunt had mentioned to me that there was
that opening, and that I believed I should like it very much. That I was
strongly inclined to like it, and had taken immediately to the proposal.
That I could not absolutely pledge myself to like it, until I knew
something more about it. That although it was little else than a matter
of form, I presumed I should have an opportunity of trying how I liked
it, before I bound myself to it irrevocably.
'Oh surely! surely!' said Mr. Spenlow. 'We always, in this house,
propose a month--an initiatory month. I should be happy, myself, to
propose two months--three--an indefinite period, in fact--but I have a
partner. Mr. Jorkins.'
'And the premium, sir,' I returned, 'is a thousand pounds?'
'And the premium, Stamp included, is a thousand pounds,' said Mr.
Spenlow. 'As I have mentioned to Miss Trotwood, I am actuated by no
mercenary considerations; few men are less so, I believe; but Mr.
Jorkins has his opinions on these subjects, and I am bound to respect
Mr. Jorkins's opinions. Mr. Jorkins thinks a thousand pounds too little,
in short.'
'I suppose, sir,' said I, still desiring to spare my aunt, 'that it is
not the custom here, if an articled clerk were particularly useful,
and made himself a perfect master of his profession'--I could not help
blushing, this looked so like praising myself--'I suppose it is not the
custom, in the later years of his time, to allow him any--'
Mr. Spenlow, by a great effort, just lifted his head far enough out of
his cravat to shake it, and answered, anticipating the word 'salary':
'No. I will not say what consideration I might give to that point
myself, Mr. Copperfield, if I were unfettered. Mr. Jorkins is
immovable.'
I was quite dismayed by the idea of this terrible Jorkins. But I found
out afterwards that he was a mild man of a heavy temperament, whose
place in the business was to keep himself in the background, and be
constantly exhibited by name as the most obdurate and ruthless of men.
If a clerk wanted his salary raised, Mr. Jorkins wouldn't listen to such
a proposition. If a client were slow to settle his bill of costs, Mr.
Jorkins was resolved to have it paid; and however painful these things
might be (and always were) to the feelings of Mr. Spenlow, Mr. Jorkins
would have his bond. The heart and hand of the good angel Spenlow would
have been always open, but for the restraining demon Jorkins. As I have
grown older, I think I have had experience of some other houses doing
business on the principle of Spenlow and Jorkins!
It was settled that I should begin my month's probation as soon as I
pleased, and that my aunt need neither remain in town nor return at
its expiration, as the articles of agreement, of which I was to be the
subject, could easily be sent to her at home for her signature. When
we had got so far, Mr. Spenlow offered to take me into Court then and
there, and show me what sort of place it was. As I was willing enough
to know, we went out with this object, leaving my aunt behind; who would
trust herself, she said, in no such place, and who, I think, regarded
all Courts of Law as a sort of powder-mills that might blow up at any
time.
Mr. Spenlow conducted me through a paved courtyard formed of grave brick
houses, which I inferred, from the Doctors' names upon the doors, to be
the official abiding-places of the learned advocates of whom Steerforth
had told me; and into a large dull room, not unlike a chapel to my
thinking, on the left hand. The upper part of this room was fenced off
from the rest; and there, on the two sides of a raised platform of the
horse-shoe form, sitting on easy old-fashioned dining-room chairs, were
sundry gentlemen in red gowns and grey wigs, whom I found to be the
Doctors aforesaid. Blinking over a little desk like a pulpit-desk, in
the curve of the horse-shoe, was an old gentleman, whom, if I had seen
him in an aviary, I should certainly have taken for an owl, but who, I
learned, was the presiding judge. In the space within the horse-shoe,
lower than these, that is to say, on about the level of the floor, were
sundry other gentlemen, of Mr. Spenlow's rank, and dressed like him in
black gowns with white fur upon them, sitting at a long green table.
Their cravats were in general stiff, I thought, and their looks haughty;
but in this last respect I presently conceived I had done them an
injustice, for when two or three of them had to rise and answer a
question of the presiding dignitary, I never saw anything more sheepish.
The public, represented by a boy with a comforter, and a shabby-genteel
man secretly eating crumbs out of his coat pockets, was warming itself
at a stove in the centre of the Court. The languid stillness of the
place was only broken by the chirping of this fire and by the voice of
one of the Doctors, who was wandering slowly through a perfect library
of evidence, and stopping to put up, from time to time, at little
roadside inns of argument on the journey. Altogether, I have never,
on any occasion, made one at such a cosey, dosey, old-fashioned,
time-forgotten, sleepy-headed little family-party in all my life; and
I felt it would be quite a soothing opiate to belong to it in any
character--except perhaps as a suitor.
Very well satisfied with the dreamy nature of this retreat, I informed
Mr. Spenlow that I had seen enough for that time, and we rejoined
my aunt; in company with whom I presently departed from the Commons,
feeling very young when I went out of Spenlow and Jorkins's, on account
of the clerks poking one another with their pens to point me out.
We arrived at Lincoln's Inn Fields without any new adventures, except
encountering an unlucky donkey in a costermonger's cart, who suggested
painful associations to my aunt. We had another long talk about my
plans, when we were safely housed; and as I knew she was anxious to
get home, and, between fire, food, and pickpockets, could never be
considered at her ease for half-an-hour in London, I urged her not to be
uncomfortable on my account, but to leave me to take care of myself.
'I have not been here a week tomorrow, without considering that too, my
dear,' she returned. 'There is a furnished little set of chambers to be
let in the Adelphi, Trot, which ought to suit you to a marvel.'
With this brief introduction, she produced from her pocket an
advertisement, carefully cut out of a newspaper, setting forth that in
Buckingham Street in the Adelphi there was to be let furnished, with a
view of the river, a singularly desirable, and compact set of chambers,
forming a genteel residence for a young gentleman, a member of one
of the Inns of Court, or otherwise, with immediate possession. Terms
moderate, and could be taken for a month only, if required.
'Why, this is the very thing, aunt!' said I, flushed with the possible
dignity of living in chambers.
'Then come,' replied my aunt, immediately resuming the bonnet she had a
minute before laid aside. 'We'll go and look at 'em.'
Away we went. The advertisement directed us to apply to Mrs. Crupp
on the premises, and we rung the area bell, which we supposed to
communicate with Mrs. Crupp. It was not until we had rung three or four
times that we could prevail on Mrs. Crupp to communicate with us, but
at last she appeared, being a stout lady with a flounce of flannel
petticoat below a nankeen gown.
'Let us see these chambers of yours, if you please, ma'am,' said my
aunt.
'For this gentleman?' said Mrs. Crupp, feeling in her pocket for her
keys.
'Yes, for my nephew,' said my aunt.
'And a sweet set they is for sich!' said Mrs. Crupp.
So we went upstairs.
They were on the top of the house--a great point with my aunt, being
near the fire-escape--and consisted of a little half-blind entry where
you could see hardly anything, a little stone-blind pantry where you
could see nothing at all, a sitting-room, and a bedroom. The furniture
was rather faded, but quite good enough for me; and, sure enough, the
river was outside the windows.
As I was delighted with the place, my aunt and Mrs. Crupp withdrew into
the pantry to discuss the terms, while I remained on the sitting-room
sofa, hardly daring to think it possible that I could be destined to
live in such a noble residence. After a single combat of some duration
they returned, and I saw, to my joy, both in Mrs. Crupp's countenance
and in my aunt's, that the deed was done.
'Is it the last occupant's furniture?' inquired my aunt.
'Yes, it is, ma'am,' said Mrs. Crupp.
'What's become of him?' asked my aunt.
Mrs. Crupp was taken with a troublesome cough, in the midst of which
she articulated with much difficulty. 'He was took ill here, ma'am,
and--ugh! ugh! ugh! dear me!--and he died!'
'Hey! What did he die of?' asked my aunt.
'Well, ma'am, he died of drink,' said Mrs. Crupp, in confidence. 'And
smoke.'
'Smoke? You don't mean chimneys?' said my aunt.
'No, ma'am,' returned Mrs. Crupp. 'Cigars and pipes.'
'That's not catching, Trot, at any rate,' remarked my aunt, turning to
me.
'No, indeed,' said I.
In short, my aunt, seeing how enraptured I was with the premises, took
them for a month, with leave to remain for twelve months when that
time was out. Mrs. Crupp was to find linen, and to cook; every other
necessary was already provided; and Mrs. Crupp expressly intimated that
she should always yearn towards me as a son. I was to take possession
the day after tomorrow, and Mrs. Crupp said, thank Heaven she had now
found summun she could care for!
On our way back, my aunt informed me how she confidently trusted that
the life I was now to lead would make me firm and self-reliant, which
was all I wanted. She repeated this several times next day, in the
intervals of our arranging for the transmission of my clothes and books
from Mr. Wickfield's; relative to which, and to all my late holiday, I
wrote a long letter to Agnes, of which my aunt took charge, as she was
to leave on the succeeding day. Not to lengthen these particulars, I
need only add, that she made a handsome provision for all my
possible wants during my month of trial; that Steerforth, to my great
disappointment and hers too, did not make his appearance before she went
away; that I saw her safely seated in the Dover coach, exulting in the
coming discomfiture of the vagrant donkeys, with Janet at her side; and
that when the coach was gone, I turned my face to the Adelphi, pondering
on the old days when I used to roam about its subterranean arches, and
on the happy changes which had brought me to the surface. | I corroborate Mr. Dick, and choose a profession. David decides not to tell Steerforth about Little Em'ly's emotional reaction to Martha's visit, as he feels that she did not intend to reveal as much as she did. During the coach journey home, David receives a letter from Betsey asking him what profession he has decided on. Betsey suggests that he might train to be a proctor, a kind of attorney. David asks Steerforth for his opinion. Steerforth says that he might as well become a proctor as anything else, though he describes the profession in disparaging terms as a sort of "monkish attorney" who specializes in obscure disputes over wills, marriages, and ships. David decides to follow this profession. David arrives in London and meets Betsey. He tells her that he is ready to train as a proctor, but is concerned about how much money the training will cost his aunt. But Betsey says that David is her adopted child and that she takes pride and pleasure in looking after him, particularly as she was not happy when she was younger. The next day, David and Betsey set out to visit Mr. Spenlow and Mr. Jorkins in the Doctors' Commons, where proctors have their offices and where David is to train to be a proctor. On the way, Betsey is approached by a man who looks like a beggar. After sending David to a nearby place to wait for her, she gets into a hackney carriage with the man. David thinks that this must be the mysterious man of whom Mr. Dick spoke. When Betsey reappears, she asks David not to ask her about the incident. He notices that almost all of her money has vanished from her purse. David and Betsey arrive at Mr. Spenlow's offices. Mr. Spenlow agrees to employ David as his clerk. Mr. Spenlow says that his fee will be a thousand pounds. He claims that he is not at all mercenary but that his partner, Mr. Jorkins , is strict on such matters. David later finds out that Mr. Jorkins is a mild man who keeps in the background of the business. His only role seems to be to provide a figure of ruthlessness upon which Mr. Spenlow can draw to frighten employees and clients into submission. David goes with Betsey to rent lodgings from a landlady called Mrs. Crupp. Betsey tells David that she trusts that his life from now on will make him firm and self-reliant |
The next thing I remember is, waking up with a feeling as if I had had a
frightful nightmare, and seeing before me a terrible red glare, crossed
with thick black bars. I heard voices, too, speaking with a hollow
sound, and as if muffled by a rush of wind or water: agitation,
uncertainty, and an all-predominating sense of terror confused my
faculties. Ere long, I became aware that some one was handling me;
lifting me up and supporting me in a sitting posture, and that more
tenderly than I had ever been raised or upheld before. I rested my head
against a pillow or an arm, and felt easy.
In five minutes more the cloud of bewilderment dissolved: I knew quite
well that I was in my own bed, and that the red glare was the nursery
fire. It was night: a candle burnt on the table; Bessie stood at the bed-
foot with a basin in her hand, and a gentleman sat in a chair near my
pillow, leaning over me.
I felt an inexpressible relief, a soothing conviction of protection and
security, when I knew that there was a stranger in the room, an
individual not belonging to Gateshead, and not related to Mrs. Reed.
Turning from Bessie (though her presence was far less obnoxious to me
than that of Abbot, for instance, would have been), I scrutinised the
face of the gentleman: I knew him; it was Mr. Lloyd, an apothecary,
sometimes called in by Mrs. Reed when the servants were ailing: for
herself and the children she employed a physician.
"Well, who am I?" he asked.
I pronounced his name, offering him at the same time my hand: he took it,
smiling and saying, "We shall do very well by-and-by." Then he laid me
down, and addressing Bessie, charged her to be very careful that I was
not disturbed during the night. Having given some further directions,
and intimates that he should call again the next day, he departed; to my
grief: I felt so sheltered and befriended while he sat in the chair near
my pillow; and as he closed the door after him, all the room darkened and
my heart again sank: inexpressible sadness weighed it down.
"Do you feel as if you should sleep, Miss?" asked Bessie, rather softly.
Scarcely dared I answer her; for I feared the next sentence might be
rough. "I will try."
"Would you like to drink, or could you eat anything?"
"No, thank you, Bessie."
"Then I think I shall go to bed, for it is past twelve o'clock; but you
may call me if you want anything in the night."
Wonderful civility this! It emboldened me to ask a question.
"Bessie, what is the matter with me? Am I ill?"
"You fell sick, I suppose, in the red-room with crying; you'll be better
soon, no doubt."
Bessie went into the housemaid's apartment, which was near. I heard her
say--
"Sarah, come and sleep with me in the nursery; I daren't for my life be
alone with that poor child to-night: she might die; it's such a strange
thing she should have that fit: I wonder if she saw anything. Missis was
rather too hard."
Sarah came back with her; they both went to bed; they were whispering
together for half-an-hour before they fell asleep. I caught scraps of
their conversation, from which I was able only too distinctly to infer
the main subject discussed.
"Something passed her, all dressed in white, and vanished"--"A great
black dog behind him"--"Three loud raps on the chamber door"--"A light in
the churchyard just over his grave," etc., etc.
At last both slept: the fire and the candle went out. For me, the
watches of that long night passed in ghastly wakefulness; strained by
dread: such dread as children only can feel.
No severe or prolonged bodily illness followed this incident of the red-
room; it only gave my nerves a shock of which I feel the reverberation to
this day. Yes, Mrs. Reed, to you I owe some fearful pangs of mental
suffering, but I ought to forgive you, for you knew not what you did:
while rending my heart-strings, you thought you were only uprooting my
bad propensities.
Next day, by noon, I was up and dressed, and sat wrapped in a shawl by
the nursery hearth. I felt physically weak and broken down: but my worse
ailment was an unutterable wretchedness of mind: a wretchedness which
kept drawing from me silent tears; no sooner had I wiped one salt drop
from my cheek than another followed. Yet, I thought, I ought to have
been happy, for none of the Reeds were there, they were all gone out in
the carriage with their mama. Abbot, too, was sewing in another room,
and Bessie, as she moved hither and thither, putting away toys and
arranging drawers, addressed to me every now and then a word of unwonted
kindness. This state of things should have been to me a paradise of
peace, accustomed as I was to a life of ceaseless reprimand and thankless
fagging; but, in fact, my racked nerves were now in such a state that no
calm could soothe, and no pleasure excite them agreeably.
Bessie had been down into the kitchen, and she brought up with her a tart
on a certain brightly painted china plate, whose bird of paradise,
nestling in a wreath of convolvuli and rosebuds, had been wont to stir in
me a most enthusiastic sense of admiration; and which plate I had often
petitioned to be allowed to take in my hand in order to examine it more
closely, but had always hitherto been deemed unworthy of such a
privilege. This precious vessel was now placed on my knee, and I was
cordially invited to eat the circlet of delicate pastry upon it. Vain
favour! coming, like most other favours long deferred and often wished
for, too late! I could not eat the tart; and the plumage of the bird,
the tints of the flowers, seemed strangely faded: I put both plate and
tart away. Bessie asked if I would have a book: the word _book_ acted as
a transient stimulus, and I begged her to fetch Gulliver's Travels from
the library. This book I had again and again perused with delight. I
considered it a narrative of facts, and discovered in it a vein of
interest deeper than what I found in fairy tales: for as to the elves,
having sought them in vain among foxglove leaves and bells, under
mushrooms and beneath the ground-ivy mantling old wall-nooks, I had at
length made up my mind to the sad truth, that they were all gone out of
England to some savage country where the woods were wilder and thicker,
and the population more scant; whereas, Lilliput and Brobdignag being, in
my creed, solid parts of the earth's surface, I doubted not that I might
one day, by taking a long voyage, see with my own eyes the little fields,
houses, and trees, the diminutive people, the tiny cows, sheep, and birds
of the one realm; and the corn-fields forest-high, the mighty mastiffs,
the monster cats, the tower-like men and women, of the other. Yet, when
this cherished volume was now placed in my hand--when I turned over its
leaves, and sought in its marvellous pictures the charm I had, till now,
never failed to find--all was eerie and dreary; the giants were gaunt
goblins, the pigmies malevolent and fearful imps, Gulliver a most
desolate wanderer in most dread and dangerous regions. I closed the
book, which I dared no longer peruse, and put it on the table, beside the
untasted tart.
Bessie had now finished dusting and tidying the room, and having washed
her hands, she opened a certain little drawer, full of splendid shreds of
silk and satin, and began making a new bonnet for Georgiana's doll.
Meantime she sang: her song was--
"In the days when we went gipsying,
A long time ago."
I had often heard the song before, and always with lively delight; for
Bessie had a sweet voice,--at least, I thought so. But now, though her
voice was still sweet, I found in its melody an indescribable sadness.
Sometimes, preoccupied with her work, she sang the refrain very low, very
lingeringly; "A long time ago" came out like the saddest cadence of a
funeral hymn. She passed into another ballad, this time a really doleful
one.
"My feet they are sore, and my limbs they are weary;
Long is the way, and the mountains are wild;
Soon will the twilight close moonless and dreary
Over the path of the poor orphan child.
Why did they send me so far and so lonely,
Up where the moors spread and grey rocks are piled?
Men are hard-hearted, and kind angels only
Watch o'er the steps of a poor orphan child.
Yet distant and soft the night breeze is blowing,
Clouds there are none, and clear stars beam mild,
God, in His mercy, protection is showing,
Comfort and hope to the poor orphan child.
Ev'n should I fall o'er the broken bridge passing,
Or stray in the marshes, by false lights beguiled,
Still will my Father, with promise and blessing,
Take to His bosom the poor orphan child.
There is a thought that for strength should avail me,
Though both of shelter and kindred despoiled;
Heaven is a home, and a rest will not fail me;
God is a friend to the poor orphan child."
"Come, Miss Jane, don't cry," said Bessie as she finished. She might as
well have said to the fire, "don't burn!" but how could she divine the
morbid suffering to which I was a prey? In the course of the morning Mr.
Lloyd came again.
"What, already up!" said he, as he entered the nursery. "Well, nurse,
how is she?"
Bessie answered that I was doing very well.
"Then she ought to look more cheerful. Come here, Miss Jane: your name
is Jane, is it not?"
"Yes, sir, Jane Eyre."
"Well, you have been crying, Miss Jane Eyre; can you tell me what about?
Have you any pain?"
"No, sir."
"Oh! I daresay she is crying because she could not go out with Missis in
the carriage," interposed Bessie.
"Surely not! why, she is too old for such pettishness."
I thought so too; and my self-esteem being wounded by the false charge, I
answered promptly, "I never cried for such a thing in my life: I hate
going out in the carriage. I cry because I am miserable."
"Oh fie, Miss!" said Bessie.
The good apothecary appeared a little puzzled. I was standing before
him; he fixed his eyes on me very steadily: his eyes were small and grey;
not very bright, but I dare say I should think them shrewd now: he had a
hard-featured yet good-natured looking face. Having considered me at
leisure, he said--
"What made you ill yesterday?"
"She had a fall," said Bessie, again putting in her word.
"Fall! why, that is like a baby again! Can't she manage to walk at her
age? She must be eight or nine years old."
"I was knocked down," was the blunt explanation, jerked out of me by
another pang of mortified pride; "but that did not make me ill," I added;
while Mr. Lloyd helped himself to a pinch of snuff.
As he was returning the box to his waistcoat pocket, a loud bell rang for
the servants' dinner; he knew what it was. "That's for you, nurse," said
he; "you can go down; I'll give Miss Jane a lecture till you come back."
Bessie would rather have stayed, but she was obliged to go, because
punctuality at meals was rigidly enforced at Gateshead Hall.
"The fall did not make you ill; what did, then?" pursued Mr. Lloyd when
Bessie was gone.
"I was shut up in a room where there is a ghost till after dark."
I saw Mr. Lloyd smile and frown at the same time.
"Ghost! What, you are a baby after all! You are afraid of ghosts?"
"Of Mr. Reed's ghost I am: he died in that room, and was laid out there.
Neither Bessie nor any one else will go into it at night, if they can
help it; and it was cruel to shut me up alone without a candle,--so cruel
that I think I shall never forget it."
"Nonsense! And is it that makes you so miserable? Are you afraid now in
daylight?"
"No: but night will come again before long: and besides,--I am
unhappy,--very unhappy, for other things."
"What other things? Can you tell me some of them?"
How much I wished to reply fully to this question! How difficult it was
to frame any answer! Children can feel, but they cannot analyse their
feelings; and if the analysis is partially effected in thought, they know
not how to express the result of the process in words. Fearful, however,
of losing this first and only opportunity of relieving my grief by
imparting it, I, after a disturbed pause, contrived to frame a meagre,
though, as far as it went, true response.
"For one thing, I have no father or mother, brothers or sisters."
"You have a kind aunt and cousins."
Again I paused; then bunglingly enounced--
"But John Reed knocked me down, and my aunt shut me up in the red-room."
Mr. Lloyd a second time produced his snuff-box.
"Don't you think Gateshead Hall a very beautiful house?" asked he. "Are
you not very thankful to have such a fine place to live at?"
"It is not my house, sir; and Abbot says I have less right to be here
than a servant."
"Pooh! you can't be silly enough to wish to leave such a splendid place?"
"If I had anywhere else to go, I should be glad to leave it; but I can
never get away from Gateshead till I am a woman."
"Perhaps you may--who knows? Have you any relations besides Mrs. Reed?"
"I think not, sir."
"None belonging to your father?"
"I don't know. I asked Aunt Reed once, and she said possibly I might
have some poor, low relations called Eyre, but she knew nothing about
them."
"If you had such, would you like to go to them?"
I reflected. Poverty looks grim to grown people; still more so to
children: they have not much idea of industrious, working, respectable
poverty; they think of the word only as connected with ragged clothes,
scanty food, fireless grates, rude manners, and debasing vices: poverty
for me was synonymous with degradation.
"No; I should not like to belong to poor people," was my reply.
"Not even if they were kind to you?"
I shook my head: I could not see how poor people had the means of being
kind; and then to learn to speak like them, to adopt their manners, to be
uneducated, to grow up like one of the poor women I saw sometimes nursing
their children or washing their clothes at the cottage doors of the
village of Gateshead: no, I was not heroic enough to purchase liberty at
the price of caste.
"But are your relatives so very poor? Are they working people?"
"I cannot tell; Aunt Reed says if I have any, they must be a beggarly
set: I should not like to go a begging."
"Would you like to go to school?"
Again I reflected: I scarcely knew what school was: Bessie sometimes
spoke of it as a place where young ladies sat in the stocks, wore
backboards, and were expected to be exceedingly genteel and precise: John
Reed hated his school, and abused his master; but John Reed's tastes were
no rule for mine, and if Bessie's accounts of school-discipline (gathered
from the young ladies of a family where she had lived before coming to
Gateshead) were somewhat appalling, her details of certain
accomplishments attained by these same young ladies were, I thought,
equally attractive. She boasted of beautiful paintings of landscapes and
flowers by them executed; of songs they could sing and pieces they could
play, of purses they could net, of French books they could translate;
till my spirit was moved to emulation as I listened. Besides, school
would be a complete change: it implied a long journey, an entire
separation from Gateshead, an entrance into a new life.
"I should indeed like to go to school," was the audible conclusion of my
musings.
"Well, well! who knows what may happen?" said Mr. Lloyd, as he got up.
"The child ought to have change of air and scene," he added, speaking to
himself; "nerves not in a good state."
Bessie now returned; at the same moment the carriage was heard rolling up
the gravel-walk.
"Is that your mistress, nurse?" asked Mr. Lloyd. "I should like to speak
to her before I go."
Bessie invited him to walk into the breakfast-room, and led the way out.
In the interview which followed between him and Mrs. Reed, I presume,
from after-occurrences, that the apothecary ventured to recommend my
being sent to school; and the recommendation was no doubt readily enough
adopted; for as Abbot said, in discussing the subject with Bessie when
both sat sewing in the nursery one night, after I was in bed, and, as
they thought, asleep, "Missis was, she dared say, glad enough to get rid
of such a tiresome, ill-conditioned child, who always looked as if she
were watching everybody, and scheming plots underhand." Abbot, I think,
gave me credit for being a sort of infantine Guy Fawkes.
On that same occasion I learned, for the first time, from Miss Abbot's
communications to Bessie, that my father had been a poor clergyman; that
my mother had married him against the wishes of her friends, who
considered the match beneath her; that my grandfather Reed was so
irritated at her disobedience, he cut her off without a shilling; that
after my mother and father had been married a year, the latter caught the
typhus fever while visiting among the poor of a large manufacturing town
where his curacy was situated, and where that disease was then prevalent:
that my mother took the infection from him, and both died within a month
of each other.
Bessie, when she heard this narrative, sighed and said, "Poor Miss Jane
is to be pitied, too, Abbot."
"Yes," responded Abbot; "if she were a nice, pretty child, one might
compassionate her forlornness; but one really cannot care for such a
little toad as that."
"Not a great deal, to be sure," agreed Bessie: "at any rate, a beauty
like Miss Georgiana would be more moving in the same condition."
"Yes, I doat on Miss Georgiana!" cried the fervent Abbot. "Little
darling!--with her long curls and her blue eyes, and such a sweet colour
as she has; just as if she were painted!--Bessie, I could fancy a Welsh
rabbit for supper."
"So could I--with a roast onion. Come, we'll go down." They went. | Jane wakes up, confused and disoriented. Someone is holding her gently; she's never been held gently before. She starts to realize where she is--in her own bed. Bessie and a gentleman are there, looking after her. Jane's glad to see the gentleman, because he's not one of the Reeds. She looks at him closely and realizes that she knows him. It's Mr. Lloyd, a local apothecary . Mr. Lloyd gives Bessie instructions about looking after Jane and says he'll come back tomorrow, then leaves. Jane feels really depressed after he leaves; he's much nicer to her than anyone else who lives at Gateshead . Bessie offers to get Jane something to eat or drink and is generally really nice to her. Jane's pretty confused by this kindness. Bessie goes into another room, and Jane overhears her ask the housemaid, Sarah, to sleep in the nursery because she's scared that Jane could die. Sarah and Bessie come back to sleep in the nursery; Jane listens as they whisper about strange figures and visions that were seen around Jane earlier--something dressed in white, a black dog, lights, noises. They fall asleep, but Jane's wide awake in terror. Jane tells us that, even though she doesn't get sick after this shock, her nerves never really recover. She blames Mrs. Reed, even though she knows that maybe she shouldn't. When Jane gets up the next day, she sits by the fire wrapped in a shawl; the Reeds have gone out somewhere, Abbot is sewing, and Bessie's tidying up. Jane should be happy to be left alone for once, instead of bullied and tormented, but she can't stop crying silently to herself. Bessie brings Jane a treat--a tart, and on a beautiful china plate that Jane's always liked. She can't bring herself to eat it. Next Bessie asks if Jane wants a book; she asks for Gulliver's Travels, which she's always loved . But even reading can't comfort her now; Gulliver seems lonely and beset by terrible dangers. As she works, Bessie starts singing a song that Jane has always liked in the past. But this time--can you guess?--yep, it just sounds sad. We're starting to wonder if Jane will ever enjoy anything again. Mr. Lloyd comes to see how Jane is doing. She's not sick, and he starts trying to figure out why she's so miserable. Bessie tells Mr. Lloyd things that make Jane sound babyish: that she's crying because she didn't get to go out in the carriage with everyone else, and that she was sick because she had a fall. Jane's pretty indignant about these charges and denies them both--and explains that the "fall" was actually when John Reed knocked her down. A bell rings and Bessie has to go have dinner with the other servants, so Mr. Lloyd is left alone with Jane. Jane tells Mr. Lloyd about the ghost, and he finds that pretty silly. Jane protests that she's miserable for lots of other reasons: she doesn't have any immediate family, Mrs. Reed and her son John are cruel to her, and she's made to feel that she doesn't have any right to live at Gateshead. Mr. Lloyd starts asking about different ways Jane could leave Gateshead. Does she have any other family? She's not sure, but she doesn't think so, and she wouldn't want to live with them if they were poor anyway. Could she go to school? Jane thinks about school. She's heard bad stuff about school from Bessie and John, but she doesn't really trust either of them, and she is interested in learning to paint and sing and sew and read French and stuff--the things she knows young ladies get taught in school. Plus, she'd be able to get away from the Reeds. Jane tells Mr. Lloyd that she does want to go to school, and he advises Mrs. Reed to send her to one. Jane hears Abbot tell Bessie that Mrs. Reed will send Jane to school, if only to get rid of her. Jane also hears Abbot talk about her own family: her dad was a poor clergyman , her grandfather disinherited her mother for marrying him, and both of them died while taking care of sick people during a typhus outbreak. Well, at least now she knows where she comes from. Bessie and Abbot agree that they would be able to feel sorry for Jane "if she were a nice, pretty child" or "a beauty like Miss Georgiana" , but they can't really feel bad for her because she's unpleasant and ugly. We think they're jerks, especially for saying this in front of Jane. Hollywood movies may not show it, but you don't have to be stunningly gorgeous to suffer, you know. |
Scene III.
Friar Laurence's cell.
Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket.
Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,
Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.
Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye
The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb.
What is her burying gave, that is her womb;
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find;
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities;
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,
And vice sometime's by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power;
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
Enter Romeo.
Rom. Good morrow, father.
Friar. Benedicite!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?
Young son, it argues a distempered head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.
Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right-
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
Rom. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine.
Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?
Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.
I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.
Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then?
Rom. I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy,
Where on a sudden one hath wounded me
That's by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies.
I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet;
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine,
And all combin'd, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage. When, and where, and how
We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,
I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.
Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine
Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears.
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.
If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.
And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then:
Women may fall when there's no strength in men.
Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.
Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
Rom. And bad'st me bury love.
Friar. Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.
Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.
The other did not so.
Friar. O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come go with me.
In one respect I'll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove
To turn your households' rancour to pure love.
Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.
Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.
Exeunt. | Later that morning, just before nine, Mercutio and Benvolio wonder what happened to Romeo the previous night. Benvolio has learned from a Montague servant that Romeo did not return home; Mercutio spouts some unkind words about Rosaline. Benvolio also relates that Tybalt has sent a letter to Romeo challenging him to a duel. Mercutio responds that Romeo is already dead, struck by Cupid's arrow; he wonders aloud whether Romeo is man enough to defeat Tybalt. When Benvolio comes to Romeo's defense, Mercutio launches into an extended description of Tybalt. He describes Tybalt as a master swordsman, perfectly proper and composed in style. According to Mercutio, however, Tybalt is also a vain, affected "fashionmonger". Mercutio disdains all that Tybalt stands for. Romeo arrives. Mercutio immediately begins to ridicule him, claiming that Romeo has been made weak by love. As a way of mocking what he believes is Romeo's overwrought love for Rosaline, Mercutio takes the part of Romeo and compares Rosaline to all the most famous beauties of antiquity, finding Rosaline far superior. Then Mercutio accuses Romeo of abandoning his friends the previous night. Romeo does not deny the charge, but claims his need was great, and so the offense is forgivable. From this proceeds intricate, witty, and wildly sexual verbal jousting. The Nurse enters, trailed by the servant, Peter. The Nurse asks if any of the three young men know Romeo, and Romeo identifies himself. Mercutio teases the Nurse, insinuating that she is a harlot, thus infuriating her. Benvolio and Mercutio take their leave to have dinner at Montague's house, and Romeo says he will follow shortly. The Nurse warns Romeo that he had better not attempt to "deal double" with Juliet, and Romeo assures her he is not. He asks the Nurse to tell Juliet to find some way to attend confession at Friar Lawrence's cell that afternoon; there they will be married. The Nurse agrees to deliver the message. The Nurse also agrees to set up a cloth ladder so that Romeo might ascend to Juliet's room on their wedding night |
"My dearest Lucy,--
"I know you will be anxious to hear all that has happened since we
parted at the railway station at Whitby. Well, my dear, I got to Hull
all right, and caught the boat to Hamburg, and then the train on here. I
feel that I can hardly recall anything of the journey, except that I
knew I was coming to Jonathan, and, that as I should have to do some
nursing, I had better get all the sleep I could.... I found my dear one,
oh, so thin and pale and weak-looking. All the resolution has gone out
of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his
face has vanished. He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not
remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At
least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask. He has had some
terrible shock, and I fear it might tax his poor brain if he were to try
to recall it. Sister Agatha, who is a good creature and a born nurse,
tells me that he raved of dreadful things whilst he was off his head. I
wanted her to tell me what they were; but she would only cross herself,
and say she would never tell; that the ravings of the sick were the
secrets of God, and that if a nurse through her vocation should hear
them, she should respect her trust. She is a sweet, good soul, and the
next day, when she saw I was troubled, she opened up the subject again,
and after saying that she could never mention what my poor dear raved
about, added: 'I can tell you this much, my dear: that it was not about
anything which he has done wrong himself; and you, as his wife to be,
have no cause to be concerned. He has not forgotten you or what he owes
to you. His fear was of great and terrible things, which no mortal can
treat of.' I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous lest my
poor dear should have fallen in love with any other girl. The idea of
_my_ being jealous about Jonathan! And yet, my dear, let me whisper, I
felt a thrill of joy through me when I _knew_ that no other woman was a
cause of trouble. I am now sitting by his bedside, where I can see his
face while he sleeps. He is waking!...
"When he woke he asked me for his coat, as he wanted to get something
from the pocket; I asked Sister Agatha, and she brought all his things.
I saw that amongst them was his note-book, and was going to ask him to
let me look at it--for I knew then that I might find some clue to his
trouble--but I suppose he must have seen my wish in my eyes, for he sent
me over to the window, saying he wanted to be quite alone for a moment.
Then he called me back, and when I came he had his hand over the
note-book, and he said to me very solemnly:--
"'Wilhelmina'--I knew then that he was in deadly earnest, for he has
never called me by that name since he asked me to marry him--'you know,
dear, my ideas of the trust between husband and wife: there should be no
secret, no concealment. I have had a great shock, and when I try to
think of what it is I feel my head spin round, and I do not know if it
was all real or the dreaming of a madman. You know I have had brain
fever, and that is to be mad. The secret is here, and I do not want to
know it. I want to take up my life here, with our marriage.' For, my
dear, we had decided to be married as soon as the formalities are
complete. 'Are you willing, Wilhelmina, to share my ignorance? Here is
the book. Take it and keep it, read it if you will, but never let me
know; unless, indeed, some solemn duty should come upon me to go back to
the bitter hours, asleep or awake, sane or mad, recorded here.' He fell
back exhausted, and I put the book under his pillow, and kissed him. I
have asked Sister Agatha to beg the Superior to let our wedding be this
afternoon, and am waiting her reply....
* * * * *
"She has come and told me that the chaplain of the English mission
church has been sent for. We are to be married in an hour, or as soon
after as Jonathan awakes....
* * * * *
"Lucy, the time has come and gone. I feel very solemn, but very, very
happy. Jonathan woke a little after the hour, and all was ready, and he
sat up in bed, propped up with pillows. He answered his 'I will' firmly
and strongly. I could hardly speak; my heart was so full that even those
words seemed to choke me. The dear sisters were so kind. Please God, I
shall never, never forget them, nor the grave and sweet responsibilities
I have taken upon me. I must tell you of my wedding present. When the
chaplain and the sisters had left me alone with my husband--oh, Lucy, it
is the first time I have written the words 'my husband'--left me alone
with my husband, I took the book from under his pillow, and wrapped it
up in white paper, and tied it with a little bit of pale blue ribbon
which was round my neck, and sealed it over the knot with sealing-wax,
and for my seal I used my wedding ring. Then I kissed it and showed it
to my husband, and told him that I would keep it so, and then it would
be an outward and visible sign for us all our lives that we trusted each
other; that I would never open it unless it were for his own dear sake
or for the sake of some stern duty. Then he took my hand in his, and oh,
Lucy, it was the first time he took _his wife's_ hand, and said that it
was the dearest thing in all the wide world, and that he would go
through all the past again to win it, if need be. The poor dear meant to
have said a part of the past, but he cannot think of time yet, and I
shall not wonder if at first he mixes up not only the month, but the
year.
"Well, my dear, what could I say? I could only tell him that I was the
happiest woman in all the wide world, and that I had nothing to give him
except myself, my life, and my trust, and that with these went my love
and duty for all the days of my life. And, my dear, when he kissed me,
and drew me to him with his poor weak hands, it was like a very solemn
pledge between us....
"Lucy dear, do you know why I tell you all this? It is not only because
it is all sweet to me, but because you have been, and are, very dear to
me. It was my privilege to be your friend and guide when you came from
the schoolroom to prepare for the world of life. I want you to see now,
and with the eyes of a very happy wife, whither duty has led me; so that
in your own married life you too may be all happy as I am. My dear,
please Almighty God, your life may be all it promises: a long day of
sunshine, with no harsh wind, no forgetting duty, no distrust. I must
not wish you no pain, for that can never be; but I do hope you will be
_always_ as happy as I am _now_. Good-bye, my dear. I shall post this at
once, and, perhaps, write you very soon again. I must stop, for Jonathan
is waking--I must attend to my husband!
"Your ever-loving
"MINA HARKER."
_Letter, Lucy Westenra to Mina Harker._
"_Whitby, 30 August._
"My dearest Mina,--
"Oceans of love and millions of kisses, and may you soon be in your own
home with your husband. I wish you could be coming home soon enough to
stay with us here. The strong air would soon restore Jonathan; it has
quite restored me. I have an appetite like a cormorant, am full of
life, and sleep well. You will be glad to know that I have quite given
up walking in my sleep. I think I have not stirred out of my bed for a
week, that is when I once got into it at night. Arthur says I am getting
fat. By the way, I forgot to tell you that Arthur is here. We have such
walks and drives, and rides, and rowing, and tennis, and fishing
together; and I love him more than ever. He _tells_ me that he loves me
more, but I doubt that, for at first he told me that he couldn't love me
more than he did then. But this is nonsense. There he is, calling to me.
So no more just at present from your loving
"LUCY.
"P. S.--Mother sends her love. She seems better, poor dear. "P. P.
S.--We are to be married on 28 September."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_20 August._--The case of Renfield grows even more interesting. He has
now so far quieted that there are spells of cessation from his passion.
For the first week after his attack he was perpetually violent. Then one
night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to
himself: "Now I can wait; now I can wait." The attendant came to tell
me, so I ran down at once to have a look at him. He was still in the
strait-waistcoat and in the padded room, but the suffused look had gone
from his face, and his eyes had something of their old pleading--I might
almost say, "cringing"--softness. I was satisfied with his present
condition, and directed him to be relieved. The attendants hesitated,
but finally carried out my wishes without protest. It was a strange
thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for,
coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking
furtively at them:--
"They think I could hurt you! Fancy _me_ hurting _you_! The fools!"
It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself dissociated
even in the mind of this poor madman from the others; but all the same I
do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in
common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together; or has
he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well-being is needful
to him? I must find out later on. To-night he will not speak. Even the
offer of a kitten or even a full-grown cat will not tempt him. He will
only say: "I don't take any stock in cats. I have more to think of now,
and I can wait; I can wait."
After a while I left him. The attendant tells me that he was quiet
until just before dawn, and that then he began to get uneasy, and at
length violent, until at last he fell into a paroxysm which exhausted
him so that he swooned into a sort of coma.
* * * * *
... Three nights has the same thing happened--violent all day then quiet
from moonrise to sunrise. I wish I could get some clue to the cause. It
would almost seem as if there was some influence which came and went.
Happy thought! We shall to-night play sane wits against mad ones. He
escaped before without our help; to-night he shall escape with it. We
shall give him a chance, and have the men ready to follow in case they
are required....
* * * * *
_23 August._--"The unexpected always happens." How well Disraeli knew
life. Our bird when he found the cage open would not fly, so all our
subtle arrangements were for nought. At any rate, we have proved one
thing; that the spells of quietness last a reasonable time. We shall in
future be able to ease his bonds for a few hours each day. I have given
orders to the night attendant merely to shut him in the padded room,
when once he is quiet, until an hour before sunrise. The poor soul's
body will enjoy the relief even if his mind cannot appreciate it. Hark!
The unexpected again! I am called; the patient has once more escaped.
* * * * *
_Later._--Another night adventure. Renfield artfully waited until the
attendant was entering the room to inspect. Then he dashed out past him
and flew down the passage. I sent word for the attendants to follow.
Again he went into the grounds of the deserted house, and we found him
in the same place, pressed against the old chapel door. When he saw me
he became furious, and had not the attendants seized him in time, he
would have tried to kill me. As we were holding him a strange thing
happened. He suddenly redoubled his efforts, and then as suddenly grew
calm. I looked round instinctively, but could see nothing. Then I caught
the patient's eye and followed it, but could trace nothing as it looked
into the moonlit sky except a big bat, which was flapping its silent and
ghostly way to the west. Bats usually wheel and flit about, but this one
seemed to go straight on, as if it knew where it was bound for or had
some intention of its own. The patient grew calmer every instant, and
presently said:--
"You needn't tie me; I shall go quietly!" Without trouble we came back
to the house. I feel there is something ominous in his calm, and shall
not forget this night....
_Lucy Westenra's Diary_
_Hillingham, 24 August._--I must imitate Mina, and keep writing things
down. Then we can have long talks when we do meet. I wonder when it will
be. I wish she were with me again, for I feel so unhappy. Last night I
seemed to be dreaming again just as I was at Whitby. Perhaps it is the
change of air, or getting home again. It is all dark and horrid to me,
for I can remember nothing; but I am full of vague fear, and I feel so
weak and worn out. When Arthur came to lunch he looked quite grieved
when he saw me, and I hadn't the spirit to try to be cheerful. I wonder
if I could sleep in mother's room to-night. I shall make an excuse and
try.
* * * * *
_25 August._--Another bad night. Mother did not seem to take to my
proposal. She seems not too well herself, and doubtless she fears to
worry me. I tried to keep awake, and succeeded for a while; but when the
clock struck twelve it waked me from a doze, so I must have been falling
asleep. There was a sort of scratching or flapping at the window, but I
did not mind it, and as I remember no more, I suppose I must then have
fallen asleep. More bad dreams. I wish I could remember them. This
morning I am horribly weak. My face is ghastly pale, and my throat pains
me. It must be something wrong with my lungs, for I don't seem ever to
get air enough. I shall try to cheer up when Arthur comes, or else I
know he will be miserable to see me so.
_Letter, Arthur Holmwood to Dr. Seward._
"_Albemarle Hotel, 31 August._
"My dear Jack,--
"I want you to do me a favour. Lucy is ill; that is, she has no special
disease, but she looks awful, and is getting worse every day. I have
asked her if there is any cause; I do not dare to ask her mother, for to
disturb the poor lady's mind about her daughter in her present state of
health would be fatal. Mrs. Westenra has confided to me that her doom is
spoken--disease of the heart--though poor Lucy does not know it yet. I
am sure that there is something preying on my dear girl's mind. I am
almost distracted when I think of her; to look at her gives me a pang. I
told her I should ask you to see her, and though she demurred at
first--I know why, old fellow--she finally consented. It will be a
painful task for you, I know, old friend, but it is for _her_ sake, and
I must not hesitate to ask, or you to act. You are to come to lunch at
Hillingham to-morrow, two o'clock, so as not to arouse any suspicion in
Mrs. Westenra, and after lunch Lucy will take an opportunity of being
alone with you. I shall come in for tea, and we can go away together; I
am filled with anxiety, and want to consult with you alone as soon as I
can after you have seen her. Do not fail!
"ARTHUR."
_Telegram, Arthur Holmwood to Seward._
"_1 September._
"Am summoned to see my father, who is worse. Am writing. Write me fully
by to-night's post to Ring. Wire me if necessary."
_Letter from Dr. Seward to Arthur Holmwood._
"_2 September._
"My dear old fellow,--
"With regard to Miss Westenra's health I hasten to let you know at once
that in my opinion there is not any functional disturbance or any malady
that I know of. At the same time, I am not by any means satisfied with
her appearance; she is woefully different from what she was when I saw
her last. Of course you must bear in mind that I did not have full
opportunity of examination such as I should wish; our very friendship
makes a little difficulty which not even medical science or custom can
bridge over. I had better tell you exactly what happened, leaving you to
draw, in a measure, your own conclusions. I shall then say what I have
done and propose doing.
"I found Miss Westenra in seemingly gay spirits. Her mother was present,
and in a few seconds I made up my mind that she was trying all she knew
to mislead her mother and prevent her from being anxious. I have no
doubt she guesses, if she does not know, what need of caution there is.
We lunched alone, and as we all exerted ourselves to be cheerful, we
got, as some kind of reward for our labours, some real cheerfulness
amongst us. Then Mrs. Westenra went to lie down, and Lucy was left with
me. We went into her boudoir, and till we got there her gaiety remained,
for the servants were coming and going. As soon as the door was closed,
however, the mask fell from her face, and she sank down into a chair
with a great sigh, and hid her eyes with her hand. When I saw that her
high spirits had failed, I at once took advantage of her reaction to
make a diagnosis. She said to me very sweetly:--
"'I cannot tell you how I loathe talking about myself.' I reminded her
that a doctor's confidence was sacred, but that you were grievously
anxious about her. She caught on to my meaning at once, and settled that
matter in a word. 'Tell Arthur everything you choose. I do not care for
myself, but all for him!' So I am quite free.
"I could easily see that she is somewhat bloodless, but I could not see
the usual anaemic signs, and by a chance I was actually able to test the
quality of her blood, for in opening a window which was stiff a cord
gave way, and she cut her hand slightly with broken glass. It was a
slight matter in itself, but it gave me an evident chance, and I secured
a few drops of the blood and have analysed them. The qualitative
analysis gives a quite normal condition, and shows, I should infer, in
itself a vigorous state of health. In other physical matters I was quite
satisfied that there is no need for anxiety; but as there must be a
cause somewhere, I have come to the conclusion that it must be something
mental. She complains of difficulty in breathing satisfactorily at
times, and of heavy, lethargic sleep, with dreams that frighten her, but
regarding which she can remember nothing. She says that as a child she
used to walk in her sleep, and that when in Whitby the habit came back,
and that once she walked out in the night and went to East Cliff, where
Miss Murray found her; but she assures me that of late the habit has not
returned. I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of; I
have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing, of
Amsterdam, who knows as much about obscure diseases as any one in the
world. I have asked him to come over, and as you told me that all things
were to be at your charge, I have mentioned to him who you are and your
relations to Miss Westenra. This, my dear fellow, is in obedience to
your wishes, for I am only too proud and happy to do anything I can for
her. Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal
reason, so, no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his
wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, but this is because he knows
what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher
and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day;
and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron
nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, an indomitable resolution,
self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the
kindliest and truest heart that beats--these form his equipment for the
noble work that he is doing for mankind--work both in theory and
practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I
tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in
him. I have asked him to come at once. I shall see Miss Westenra
to-morrow again. She is to meet me at the Stores, so that I may not
alarm her mother by too early a repetition of my call.
"Yours always,
"JOHN SEWARD."
_Letter, Abraham Van Helsing, M. D., D. Ph., D. Lit., etc., etc., to Dr.
Seward._
"_2 September._
"My good Friend,--
"When I have received your letter I am already coming to you. By good
fortune I can leave just at once, without wrong to any of those who have
trusted me. Were fortune other, then it were bad for those who have
trusted, for I come to my friend when he call me to aid those he holds
dear. Tell your friend that when that time you suck from my wound so
swiftly the poison of the gangrene from that knife that our other
friend, too nervous, let slip, you did more for him when he wants my
aids and you call for them than all his great fortune could do. But it
is pleasure added to do for him, your friend; it is to you that I come.
Have then rooms for me at the Great Eastern Hotel, so that I may be near
to hand, and please it so arrange that we may see the young lady not too
late on to-morrow, for it is likely that I may have to return here that
night. But if need be I shall come again in three days, and stay longer
if it must. Till then good-bye, my friend John.
"VAN HELSING."
_Letter, Dr. Seward to Hon. Arthur Holmwood._
"_3 September._
"My dear Art,--
"Van Helsing has come and gone. He came on with me to Hillingham, and
found that, by Lucy's discretion, her mother was lunching out, so that
we were alone with her. Van Helsing made a very careful examination of
the patient. He is to report to me, and I shall advise you, for of
course I was not present all the time. He is, I fear, much concerned,
but says he must think. When I told him of our friendship and how you
trust to me in the matter, he said: 'You must tell him all you think.
Tell him what I think, if you can guess it, if you will. Nay, I am not
jesting. This is no jest, but life and death, perhaps more.' I asked
what he meant by that, for he was very serious. This was when we had
come back to town, and he was having a cup of tea before starting on his
return to Amsterdam. He would not give me any further clue. You must not
be angry with me, Art, because his very reticence means that all his
brains are working for her good. He will speak plainly enough when the
time comes, be sure. So I told him I would simply write an account of
our visit, just as if I were doing a descriptive special article for
_The Daily Telegraph_. He seemed not to notice, but remarked that the
smuts in London were not quite so bad as they used to be when he was a
student here. I am to get his report to-morrow if he can possibly make
it. In any case I am to have a letter.
"Well, as to the visit. Lucy was more cheerful than on the day I first
saw her, and certainly looked better. She had lost something of the
ghastly look that so upset you, and her breathing was normal. She was
very sweet to the professor (as she always is), and tried to make him
feel at ease; though I could see that the poor girl was making a hard
struggle for it. I believe Van Helsing saw it, too, for I saw the quick
look under his bushy brows that I knew of old. Then he began to chat of
all things except ourselves and diseases and with such an infinite
geniality that I could see poor Lucy's pretense of animation merge into
reality. Then, without any seeming change, he brought the conversation
gently round to his visit, and suavely said:--
"'My dear young miss, I have the so great pleasure because you are so
much beloved. That is much, my dear, ever were there that which I do not
see. They told me you were down in the spirit, and that you were of a
ghastly pale. To them I say: "Pouf!"' And he snapped his fingers at me
and went on: 'But you and I shall show them how wrong they are. How can
he'--and he pointed at me with the same look and gesture as that with
which once he pointed me out to his class, on, or rather after, a
particular occasion which he never fails to remind me of--'know anything
of a young ladies? He has his madams to play with, and to bring them
back to happiness, and to those that love them. It is much to do, and,
oh, but there are rewards, in that we can bestow such happiness. But the
young ladies! He has no wife nor daughter, and the young do not tell
themselves to the young, but to the old, like me, who have known so many
sorrows and the causes of them. So, my dear, we will send him away to
smoke the cigarette in the garden, whiles you and I have little talk all
to ourselves.' I took the hint, and strolled about, and presently the
professor came to the window and called me in. He looked grave, but
said: 'I have made careful examination, but there is no functional
cause. With you I agree that there has been much blood lost; it has
been, but is not. But the conditions of her are in no way anaemic. I have
asked her to send me her maid, that I may ask just one or two question,
that so I may not chance to miss nothing. I know well what she will say.
And yet there is cause; there is always cause for everything. I must go
back home and think. You must send to me the telegram every day; and if
there be cause I shall come again. The disease--for not to be all well
is a disease--interest me, and the sweet young dear, she interest me
too. She charm me, and for her, if not for you or disease, I come.'
"As I tell you, he would not say a word more, even when we were alone.
And so now, Art, you know all I know. I shall keep stern watch. I trust
your poor father is rallying. It must be a terrible thing to you, my
dear old fellow, to be placed in such a position between two people who
are both so dear to you. I know your idea of duty to your father, and
you are right to stick to it; but, if need be, I shall send you word to
come at once to Lucy; so do not be over-anxious unless you hear from
me."
_Dr. Seward's Diary._
_4 September._--Zooephagous patient still keeps up our interest in him.
He had only one outburst and that was yesterday at an unusual time. Just
before the stroke of noon he began to grow restless. The attendant knew
the symptoms, and at once summoned aid. Fortunately the men came at a
run, and were just in time, for at the stroke of noon he became so
violent that it took all their strength to hold him. In about five
minutes, however, he began to get more and more quiet, and finally sank
into a sort of melancholy, in which state he has remained up to now. The
attendant tells me that his screams whilst in the paroxysm were really
appalling; I found my hands full when I got in, attending to some of the
other patients who were frightened by him. Indeed, I can quite
understand the effect, for the sounds disturbed even me, though I was
some distance away. It is now after the dinner-hour of the asylum, and
as yet my patient sits in a corner brooding, with a dull, sullen,
woe-begone look in his face, which seems rather to indicate than to show
something directly. I cannot quite understand it.
* * * * *
_Later._--Another change in my patient. At five o'clock I looked in on
him, and found him seemingly as happy and contented as he used to be. He
was catching flies and eating them, and was keeping note of his capture
by making nail-marks on the edge of the door between the ridges of
padding. When he saw me, he came over and apologised for his bad
conduct, and asked me in a very humble, cringing way to be led back to
his own room and to have his note-book again. I thought it well to
humour him: so he is back in his room with the window open. He has the
sugar of his tea spread out on the window-sill, and is reaping quite a
harvest of flies. He is not now eating them, but putting them into a
box, as of old, and is already examining the corners of his room to find
a spider. I tried to get him to talk about the past few days, for any
clue to his thoughts would be of immense help to me; but he would not
rise. For a moment or two he looked very sad, and said in a sort of
far-away voice, as though saying it rather to himself than to me:--
"All over! all over! He has deserted me. No hope for me now unless I do
it for myself!" Then suddenly turning to me in a resolute way, he said:
"Doctor, won't you be very good to me and let me have a little more
sugar? I think it would be good for me."
"And the flies?" I said.
"Yes! The flies like it, too, and I like the flies; therefore I like
it." And there are people who know so little as to think that madmen do
not argue. I procured him a double supply, and left him as happy a man
as, I suppose, any in the world. I wish I could fathom his mind.
* * * * *
_Midnight._--Another change in him. I had been to see Miss Westenra,
whom I found much better, and had just returned, and was standing at our
own gate looking at the sunset, when once more I heard him yelling. As
his room is on this side of the house, I could hear it better than in
the morning. It was a shock to me to turn from the wonderful smoky
beauty of a sunset over London, with its lurid lights and inky shadows
and all the marvellous tints that come on foul clouds even as on foul
water, and to realise all the grim sternness of my own cold stone
building, with its wealth of breathing misery, and my own desolate heart
to endure it all. I reached him just as the sun was going down, and from
his window saw the red disc sink. As it sank he became less and less
frenzied; and just as it dipped he slid from the hands that held him, an
inert mass, on the floor. It is wonderful, however, what intellectual
recuperative power lunatics have, for within a few minutes he stood up
quite calmly and looked around him. I signalled to the attendants not to
hold him, for I was anxious to see what he would do. He went straight
over to the window and brushed out the crumbs of sugar; then he took his
fly-box, and emptied it outside, and threw away the box; then he shut
the window, and crossing over, sat down on his bed. All this surprised
me, so I asked him: "Are you not going to keep flies any more?"
"No," said he; "I am sick of all that rubbish!" He certainly is a
wonderfully interesting study. I wish I could get some glimpse of his
mind or of the cause of his sudden passion. Stop; there may be a clue
after all, if we can find why to-day his paroxysms came on at high noon
and at sunset. Can it be that there is a malign influence of the sun at
periods which affects certain natures--as at times the moon does others?
We shall see.
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_4 September._--Patient still better to-day."
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_5 September._--Patient greatly improved. Good appetite; sleeps
naturally; good spirits; colour coming back."
_Telegram, Seward, London, to Van Helsing, Amsterdam._
"_6 September._--Terrible change for the worse. Come at once; do not
lose an hour. I hold over telegram to Holmwood till have seen you." | Mina makes her way to Hungary, where she finds Jonathan, still recovering in the hospital, "only a wreck of himself. " Nevertheless, the two are married there. Jonathan solemnly implores Mina not to read the journal he kept ; Mina agrees, and seals the book with wax and her wedding ring as a sign of her intention not to look its pages "unless it were for his own dear sake or for the sake of some stern duty." In the meantime, in England, Lucy grows worse, after an initial return to good health. Feeling week and "full of vague fear," Lucy, unaware of her mother's own terminal condition, resolves to try and be cheerful for her sake--but it is clear to Arthur that Lucy is unwell. Arthur writes to Seward, who agrees to examine Lucy . Seward finds Lucy "somewhat bloodless," but without the usual indicators of anemia; perplexed, he writes to his old instructor and friend, Professor Abraham Van Helsing of Amsterdam. When Van Helsing examines Lucy, he becomes quite concerned about her apparent loss of blood, and vows to keep a close watch on his patient. Seward is also maintaining a close watch on his own patient, Renfield. The seeming madman has grown somewhat more docile in recent days, and Seward arranges for Renfield to have a chance to "escape," so that Seward might learn something of Renfield's mind. Unexpectedly, when given the opportunity to leave, Renfield does not take it; but no sooner has he been shut back up in a padded room than he makes a true escape. He is found where he was before, "pressed up against the old chapel door" on the grounds of the abandoned Carfax estate. He returns to the asylum quietly. Seward takes notice of Renfield eyeing "a big bat... flapping its silent and ghostly way to the west. " Over the next several days, Renfield has periods of rage that wax and wane. Seemingly despondent, the patient returns to his old practice of gathering flies. But, one night at midnight, he again declares he is "sick of all that rubbish" and empties his box of flies out the window. Seward tries to determine why Renfield's fits seem tied to high noon, sunset and midnight. He also remains mindful of Lucy. Three days later, Seward urgently cables Van Helsing with the news that Lucy, who had been improving, has taken a "errible change for the worse." |
58 ESCAPE
As Lord de Winter had thought, Milady's wound was not dangerous. So soon
as she was left alone with the woman whom the baron had summoned to her
assistance she opened her eyes.
It was, however, necessary to affect weakness and pain--not a very
difficult task for so finished an actress as Milady. Thus the poor woman
was completely the dupe of the prisoner, whom, notwithstanding her
hints, she persisted in watching all night.
But the presence of this woman did not prevent Milady from thinking.
There was no longer a doubt that Felton was convinced; Felton was hers.
If an angel appeared to that young man as an accuser of Milady, he would
take him, in the mental disposition in which he now found himself, for a
messenger sent by the devil.
Milady smiled at this thought, for Felton was now her only hope--her
only means of safety.
But Lord de Winter might suspect him; Felton himself might now be
watched!
Toward four o'clock in the morning the doctor arrived; but since the
time Milady stabbed herself, however short, the wound had closed. The
doctor could therefore measure neither the direction nor the depth of
it; he only satisfied himself by Milady's pulse that the case was not
serious.
In the morning Milady, under the pretext that she had not slept well in
the night and wanted rest, sent away the woman who attended her.
She had one hope, which was that Felton would appear at the breakfast
hour; but Felton did not come.
Were her fears realized? Was Felton, suspected by the baron, about to
fail her at the decisive moment? She had only one day left. Lord de
Winter had announced her embarkation for the twenty-third, and it was
now the morning of the twenty-second.
Nevertheless she still waited patiently till the hour for dinner.
Although she had eaten nothing in the morning, the dinner was brought in
at its usual time. Milady then perceived, with terror, that the uniform
of the soldiers who guarded her was changed.
Then she ventured to ask what had become of Felton.
She was told that he had left the castle an hour before on horseback.
She inquired if the baron was still at the castle. The soldier replied
that he was, and that he had given orders to be informed if the prisoner
wished to speak to him.
Milady replied that she was too weak at present, and that her only
desire was to be left alone.
The soldier went out, leaving the dinner served.
Felton was sent away. The marines were removed. Felton was then
mistrusted.
This was the last blow to the prisoner.
Left alone, she arose. The bed, which she had kept from prudence and
that they might believe her seriously wounded, burned her like a bed of
fire. She cast a glance at the door; the baron had had a plank nailed
over the grating. He no doubt feared that by this opening she might
still by some diabolical means corrupt her guards.
Milady smiled with joy. She was free now to give way to her transports
without being observed. She traversed her chamber with the excitement of
a furious maniac or of a tigress shut up in an iron cage. CERTES, if the
knife had been left in her power, she would now have thought, not of
killing herself, but of killing the baron.
At six o'clock Lord de Winter came in. He was armed at all points. This
man, in whom Milady till that time had only seen a very simple
gentleman, had become an admirable jailer. He appeared to foresee all,
to divine all, to anticipate all.
A single look at Milady apprised him of all that was passing in her
mind.
"Ay!" said he, "I see; but you shall not kill me today. You have no
longer a weapon; and besides, I am on my guard. You had begun to pervert
my poor Felton. He was yielding to your infernal influence; but I will
save him. He will never see you again; all is over. Get your clothes
together. Tomorrow you will go. I had fixed the embarkation for the
twenty-fourth; but I have reflected that the more promptly the affair
takes place the more sure it will be. Tomorrow, by twelve o'clock, I
shall have the order for your exile, signed, BUCKINGHAM. If you speak a
single word to anyone before going aboard ship, my sergeant will blow
your brains out. He has orders to do so. If when on the ship you speak a
single word to anyone before the captain permits you, the captain will
have you thrown into the sea. That is agreed upon.
"AU REVOIR; then; that is all I have to say today. Tomorrow I will see
you again, to take my leave." With these words the baron went out.
Milady had listened to all this menacing tirade with a smile of disdain
on her lips, but rage in her heart.
Supper was served. Milady felt that she stood in need of all her
strength. She did not know what might take place during this night which
approached so menacingly--for large masses of cloud rolled over the face
of the sky, and distant lightning announced a storm.
The storm broke about ten o'clock. Milady felt a consolation in seeing
nature partake of the disorder of her heart. The thunder growled in the
air like the passion and anger in her thoughts. It appeared to her that
the blast as it swept along disheveled her brow, as it bowed the
branches of the trees and bore away their leaves. She howled as the
hurricane howled; and her voice was lost in the great voice of nature,
which also seemed to groan with despair.
All at once she heard a tap at her window, and by the help of a flash of
lightning she saw the face of a man appear behind the bars.
She ran to the window and opened it.
"Felton!" cried she. "I am saved."
"Yes," said Felton; "but silence, silence! I must have time to file
through these bars. Only take care that I am not seen through the
wicket."
"Oh, it is a proof that the Lord is on our side, Felton," replied
Milady. "They have closed up the grating with a board."
"That is well; God has made them senseless," said Felton.
"But what must I do?" asked Milady.
"Nothing, nothing, only shut the window. Go to bed, or at least lie down
in your clothes. As soon as I have done I will knock on one of the panes
of glass. But will you be able to follow me?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Your wound?"
"Gives me pain, but will not prevent my walking."
"Be ready, then, at the first signal."
Milady shut the window, extinguished the lamp, and went, as Felton had
desired her, to lie down on the bed. Amid the moaning of the storm she
heard the grinding of the file upon the bars, and by the light of every
flash she perceived the shadow of Felton through the panes.
She passed an hour without breathing, panting, with a cold sweat upon
her brow, and her heart oppressed by frightful agony at every movement
she heard in the corridor.
There are hours which last a year.
At the expiration of an hour, Felton tapped again.
Milady sprang out of bed and opened the window. Two bars removed formed
an opening for a man to pass through.
"Are you ready?" asked Felton.
"Yes. Must I take anything with me?"
"Money, if you have any."
"Yes; fortunately they have left me all I had."
"So much the better, for I have expended all mine in chartering a
vessel."
"Here!" said Milady, placing a bag full of louis in Felton's hands.
Felton took the bag and threw it to the foot of the wall.
"Now," said he, "will you come?"
"I am ready."
Milady mounted upon a chair and passed the upper part of her body
through the window. She saw the young officer suspended over the abyss
by a ladder of ropes. For the first time an emotion of terror reminded
her that she was a woman.
The dark space frightened her.
"I expected this," said Felton.
"It's nothing, it's nothing!" said Milady. "I will descend with my eyes
shut."
"Have you confidence in me?" said Felton.
"You ask that?"
"Put your two hands together. Cross them; that's right!"
Felton tied her two wrists together with his handkerchief, and then with
a cord over the handkerchief.
"What are you doing?" asked Milady, with surprise.
"Pass your arms around my neck, and fear nothing."
"But I shall make you lose your balance, and we shall both be dashed to
pieces."
"Don't be afraid. I am a sailor."
Not a second was to be lost. Milady passed her two arms round Felton's
neck, and let herself slip out of the window. Felton began to descend
the ladder slowly, step by step. Despite the weight of two bodies, the
blast of the hurricane shook them in the air.
All at once Felton stopped.
"What is the matter?" asked Milady.
"Silence," said Felton, "I hear footsteps."
"We are discovered!"
There was a silence of several seconds.
"No," said Felton, "it is nothing."
"But what, then, is the noise?"
"That of the patrol going their rounds."
"Where is their road?"
"Just under us."
"They will discover us!"
"No, if it does not lighten."
"But they will run against the bottom of the ladder."
"Fortunately it is too short by six feet."
"Here they are! My God!"
"Silence!"
Both remained suspended, motionless and breathless, within twenty paces
of the ground, while the patrol passed beneath them laughing and
talking. This was a terrible moment for the fugitives.
The patrol passed. The noise of their retreating footsteps and the
murmur of their voices soon died away.
"Now," said Felton, "we are safe."
Milady breathed a deep sigh and fainted.
Felton continued to descend. Near the bottom of the ladder, when he
found no more support for his feet, he clung with his hands; at length,
arrived at the last step, he let himself hang by the strength of his
wrists, and touched the ground. He stooped down, picked up the bag of
money, and placed it between his teeth. Then he took Milady in his arms,
and set off briskly in the direction opposite to that which the patrol
had taken. He soon left the pathway of the patrol, descended across the
rocks, and when arrived on the edge of the sea, whistled.
A similar signal replied to him; and five minutes after, a boat
appeared, rowed by four men.
The boat approached as near as it could to the shore; but there was not
depth enough of water for it to touch land. Felton walked into the sea
up to his middle, being unwilling to trust his precious burden to
anybody.
Fortunately the storm began to subside, but still the sea was disturbed.
The little boat bounded over the waves like a nut-shell.
"To the sloop," said Felton, "and row quickly."
The four men bent to their oars, but the sea was too high to let them
get much hold of it.
However, they left the castle behind; that was the principal thing. The
night was extremely dark. It was almost impossible to see the shore from
the boat; they would therefore be less likely to see the boat from the
shore.
A black point floated on the sea. That was the sloop. While the boat was
advancing with all the speed its four rowers could give it, Felton
untied the cord and then the handkerchief which bound Milady's hands
together. When her hands were loosed he took some sea water and
sprinkled it over her face.
Milady breathed a sigh, and opened her eyes.
"Where am I?" said she.
"Saved!" replied the young officer.
"Oh, saved, saved!" cried she. "Yes, there is the sky; here is the sea!
The air I breathe is the air of liberty! Ah, thanks, Felton, thanks!"
The young man pressed her to his heart.
"But what is the matter with my hands!" asked Milady; "it seems as if my
wrists had been crushed in a vice."
Milady held out her arms; her wrists were bruised.
"Alas!" said Felton, looking at those beautiful hands, and shaking his
head sorrowfully.
"Oh, it's nothing, nothing!" cried Milady. "I remember now."
Milady looked around her, as if in search of something.
"It is there," said Felton, touching the bag of money with his foot.
They drew near to the sloop. A sailor on watch hailed the boat; the boat
replied.
"What vessel is that?" asked Milady.
"The one I have hired for you."
"Where will it take me?"
"Where you please, after you have put me on shore at Portsmouth."
"What are you going to do at Portsmouth?" asked Milady.
"Accomplish the orders of Lord de Winter," said Felton, with a gloomy
smile.
"What orders?" asked Milady.
"You do not understand?" asked Felton.
"No; explain yourself, I beg."
"As he mistrusted me, he determined to guard you himself, and sent me in
his place to get Buckingham to sign the order for your transportation."
"But if he mistrusted you, how could he confide such an order to you?"
"How could I know what I was the bearer of?"
"That's true! And you are going to Portsmouth?"
"I have no time to lose. Tomorrow is the twenty-third, and Buckingham
sets sail tomorrow with his fleet."
"He sets sail tomorrow! Where for?"
"For La Rochelle."
"He need not sail!" cried Milady, forgetting her usual presence of mind.
"Be satisfied," replied Felton; "he will not sail."
Milady started with joy. She could read to the depths of the heart of
this young man; the death of Buckingham was written there at full
length.
"Felton," cried she, "you are as great as Judas Maccabeus! If you die, I
will die with you; that is all I can say to you."
"Silence!" cried Felton; "we are here."
In fact, they touched the sloop.
Felton mounted the ladder first, and gave his hand to Milady, while the
sailors supported her, for the sea was still much agitated.
An instant after they were on the deck.
"Captain," said Felton, "this is the person of whom I spoke to you, and
whom you must convey safe and sound to France."
"For a thousand pistoles," said the captain.
"I have paid you five hundred of them."
"That's correct," said the captain.
"And here are the other five hundred," replied Milady, placing her hand
upon the bag of gold.
"No," said the captain, "I make but one bargain; and I have agreed with
this young man that the other five hundred shall not be due to me till
we arrive at Boulogne."
"And shall we arrive there?"
"Safe and sound, as true as my name's Jack Butler."
"Well," said Milady, "if you keep your word, instead of five hundred, I
will give you a thousand pistoles."
"Hurrah for you, then, my beautiful lady," cried the captain; "and may
God often send me such passengers as your Ladyship!"
"Meanwhile," said Felton, "convey me to the little bay of--; you know it
was agreed you should put in there."
The captain replied by ordering the necessary maneuvers, and toward
seven o'clock in the morning the little vessel cast anchor in the bay
that had been named.
During this passage, Felton related everything to Milady--how, instead
of going to London, he had chartered the little vessel; how he had
returned; how he had scaled the wall by fastening cramps in the
interstices of the stones, as he ascended, to give him foothold; and
how, when he had reached the bars, he fastened his ladder. Milady knew
the rest.
On her side, Milady tried to encourage Felton in his project; but at the
first words which issued from her mouth, she plainly saw that the young
fanatic stood more in need of being moderated than urged.
It was agreed that Milady should wait for Felton till ten o'clock; if he
did not return by ten o'clock she was to sail.
In that case, and supposing he was at liberty, he was to rejoin her in
France, at the convent of the Carmelites at Bethune. | Milady's wound is not dangerous, but she pretends to be weak. She waits patiently for Felton to come to her, but is disappointed when she learns that he has been sent away. Milady notices that a piece of wood has been nailed over the grating to her room. No one can spy on her anymore, which is great news for her, because she no longer has to hide her emotions. Lord de Winter enters and tells her that Felton has been sent away and that she should prepare for her departure the next day. A storm breaks that evening. She hers tapping at her window. It's Felton! He files through the bars on her window. She climbs out into Felton's waiting arms. He begins climbing down a ladder. A patrol passes underneath them, but they remain undetected. She thanks Felton as the two board a nearby ship. The ship will take her wherever she wants to go, but Felton asks to be put ashore at Portsmouth. He is going to murder Buckingham. Milady promises that if he dies, she will die with him. During their trip to Portsmouth, Felton tells her about all his preparations. Milady, for her part, tries to encourage Felton in his assassination attempt, but soon realizes that encouragement is the last thing he needs: he is already more than eager to kill the Duke! The two decide that Milady will wait for Felton until ten o'clock. If he does not make it, she will set sail and meet him at a convent in Bethune. |
_SCENE II.
The same._
_Enter LUCIANA and _ANTIPHOLUS of Syracuse_._
_Luc._ And may it be that you have quite forgot
A husband's office? shall, Antipholus,
Even in the spring of love, thy love-springs rot?
Shall love, in building, grow so ruinous?
If you did wed my sister for her wealth, 5
Then for her wealth's sake use her with more kindness:
Or if you like elsewhere, do it by stealth;
Muffle your false love with some show of blindness:
Let not my sister read it in your eye;
Be not thy tongue thy own shame's orator; 10
Look sweet, speak fair, become disloyalty;
Apparel vice like virtue's harbinger;
Bear a fair presence, though your heart be tainted;
Teach sin the carriage of a holy saint;
Be secret-false: what need she be acquainted? 15
What simple thief brags of his own attaint?
'Tis double wrong, to truant with your bed,
And let her read it in thy looks at board:
Shame hath a bastard fame, well managed;
Ill deeds are doubled with an evil word. 20
Alas, poor women! make us but believe,
Being compact of credit, that you love us;
Though others have the arm, show us the sleeve;
We in your motion turn, and you may move us.
Then, gentle brother, get you in again; 25
Comfort my sister, cheer her, call her wife:
'Tis holy sport, to be a little vain,
When the sweet breath of flattery conquers strife.
_Ant. S._ Sweet mistress,--what your name is else, I know not,
Nor by what wonder you do hit of mine,-- 30
Less in your knowledge and your grace you show not
Than our earth's wonder; more than earth divine.
Teach me, dear creature, how to think and speak;
Lay open to my earthy-gross conceit,
Smother'd in errors, feeble, shallow, weak, 35
The folded meaning of your words' deceit.
Against my soul's pure truth why labour you
To make it wander in an unknown field?
Are you a god? would you create me new?
Transform me, then, and to your power I'll yield. 40
But if that I am I, then well I know
Your weeping sister is no wife of mine,
Nor to her bed no homage do I owe:
Far more, far more to you do I decline.
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note, 45
To drown me in thy sister flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote:
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take them, and there lie;
And, in that glorious supposition, think 50
He gains by death that hath such means to die:
Let Love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
_Luc._ What, are you mad, that you do reason so?
_Ant. S._ Not mad, but mated; how, I do not know.
_Luc._ It is a fault that springeth from your eye. 55
_Ant. S._ For gazing on your beams, fair sun, being by.
_Luc._ Gaze where you should, and that will clear your sight.
_Ant. S._ As good to wink, sweet love, as look on night.
_Luc._ Why call you me love? call my sister so.
_Ant. S._ Thy sister's sister.
_Luc._ That's my sister.
_Ant. S._ No; 60
It is thyself, mine own self's better part,
Mine eye's clear eye, my dear heart's dearer heart,
My food, my fortune, and my sweet hope's aim,
My sole earth's heaven, and my heaven's claim.
_Luc._ All this my sister is, or else should be. 65
_Ant. S._ Call thyself sister, sweet, for I am thee.
Thee will I love, and with thee lead my life:
Thou hast no husband yet, nor I no wife.
Give me thy hand.
_Luc._ O, soft, sir! hold you still:
I'll fetch my sister, to get her good will. [_Exit._ 70
_Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._
_Ant. S._ Why, how now, Dromio! where runn'st thou
so fast?
_Dro. S._ Do you know me, sir? am I Dromio? am I
your man? am I myself?
_Ant. S._ Thou art Dromio, thou art my man, thou art 75
thyself.
_Dro. S._ I am an ass, I am a woman's man, and
besides myself.
_Ant. S._ What woman's man? and how besides thyself?
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, besides myself, I am due to a 80
woman; one that claims me, one that haunts me, one that
will have me.
_Ant. S._ What claim lays she to thee?
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, such claim as you would lay to
your horse; and she would have me as a beast: not that, 85
I being a beast, she would have me; but that she, being
a very beastly creature, lays claim to me.
_Ant. S._ What is she?
_Dro. S._ A very reverent body; ay, such a one as a man
may not speak of, without he say Sir-reverence. I have 90
but lean luck in the match, and yet is she a wondrous fat
marriage.
_Ant. S._ How dost thou mean a fat marriage?
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, she's the kitchen-wench, and all
grease; and I know not what use to put her to, but to make 95
a lamp of her, and run from her by her own light. I warrant,
her rags, and the tallow in them, will burn a Poland
winter: if she lives till doomsday, she'll burn a week
longer than the whole world.
_Ant. S._ What complexion is she of? 100
_Dro. S._ Swart, like my shoe, but her face nothing like
so clean kept: for why she sweats; a man may go over
shoes in the grime of it.
_Ant. S._ That's a fault that water will mend.
_Dro. S._ No, sir, 'tis in grain; Noah's flood could not 105
do it.
_Ant. S._ What's her name?
_Dro. S._ Nell, sir; but her name and three quarters,
that's an ell and three quarters, will not measure her from
hip to hip. 110
_Ant. S._ Then she bears some breadth?
_Dro. S._ No longer from head to foot than from hip to
hip: she is spherical, like a globe; I could find out countries
in her.
_Ant. S._ In what part of her body stands Ireland? 115
_Dro. S._ Marry, sir, in her buttocks: I found it out by
the bogs.
_Ant. S._ Where Scotland?
_Dro. S._ I found it by the barrenness; hard in the palm
of the hand. 120
_Ant. S._ Where France?
_Dro. S._ In her forehead; armed and reverted, making
war against her heir.
_Ant. S._ Where England?
_Dro. S._ I looked for the chalky cliffs, but I could find 125
no whiteness in them; but I guess it stood in her chin, by
the salt rheum that ran between France and it.
_Ant. S._ Where Spain?
_Dro. S._ Faith, I saw it not; but I felt it hot in her
breath. 130
_Ant. S._ Where America, the Indies?
_Dro. S._ Oh, sir, upon her nose, all o'er embellished
with rubies, carbuncles, sapphires, declining their rich aspect
to the hot breath of Spain; who sent whole armadoes
of caracks to be ballast at her nose. 135
_Ant. S._ Where stood Belgia, the Netherlands?
_Dro. S._ Oh, sir, I did not look so low. To conclude,
this drudge, or diviner, laid claim to me; called me
Dromio; swore I was assured to her; told me what privy
marks I had about me, as, the mark of my shoulder, the 140
mole in my neck, the great wart on my left arm, that
I, amazed, ran from her as a witch:
And, I think, if my breast had not been made of faith, and
my heart of steel,
She had transform'd me to a curtal dog, and made me turn
i' the wheel.
_Ant. S._ Go hie thee presently, post to the road:-- 145
An if the wind blow any way from shore,
I will not harbour in this town to-night:--
If any bark put forth, come to the mart,
Where I will walk till thou return to me.
If every one knows us, and we know none, 150
'Tis time, I think, to trudge, pack, and be gone.
_Dro. S._ As from a bear a man would run for life,
So fly I from her that would be my wife. [_Exit._
_Ant. S._ There's none but witches do inhabit here;
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence. 155
She that doth call me husband, even my soul
Doth for a wife abhor. But her fair sister,
Possess'd with such a gentle sovereign grace,
Of such enchanting presence and discourse,
Hath almost made me traitor to myself: 160
But, lest myself be guilty to self-wrong,
I'll stop mine ears against the mermaid's song.
_Enter ANGELO with the chain._
_Ang._ Master Antipholus,--
_Ant. S._ Ay, that's my name.
_Ang._ I know it well, sir:--lo, here is the chain.
I thought to have ta'en you at the Porpentine: 165
The chain unfinish'd made me stay thus long.
_Ant. S._ What is your will that I shall do with this?
_Ang._ What please yourself, sir: I have made it for you.
_Ant. S._ Made it for me, sir! I bespoke it not.
_Ang._ Not once, nor twice, but twenty times you have. 170
Go home with it, and please your wife withal;
And soon at supper-time I'll visit you,
And then receive my money for the chain.
_Ant. S._ I pray you, sir, receive the money now,
For fear you ne'er see chain nor money more. 175
_Ang._ You are a merry man, sir: fare you well. [_Exit._
_Ant. S._ What I should think of this, I cannot tell:
But this I think, there's no man is so vain
That would refuse so fair an offer'd chain.
I see a man here needs not live by shifts, 180
When in the streets he meets such golden gifts.
I'll to the mart, and there for Dromio stay:
If any ship put out, then straight away. [_Exit._
NOTES: III, 2.
SCENE II. Enter LUCIANA] F2. Enter JULIANA F1.
1: Luc.] Rowe. Julia Ff.
2: _Antipholus_] _Antipholis, hate_ Theobald. _Antipholis, thus_
Id. conj. _a nipping hate_ Heath conj. _unkind debate_ Collier MS.
4: _building_] Theobald. _buildings_ Ff.
_ruinous_] Capell (Theobald conj.). _ruinate_ Ff.
16: _attaint_] Rowe. _attaine_ F1 F2 F3. _attain_ F4.
20: _are_] F2 F3 F4. _is_ F1.
21: _but_] Theobald. _not_ Ff.
26: _wife_] _wise_ F1.
35: _shallow_] F1. _shaddow_ F2 F3. _shadow_ F4.
43: _no_] F1. _a_ F2 F3 F4.
44: _decline_] _incline_ Collier MS.
46: _sister_] F1. _sister's_ F2 F3 F4.
49: _bed_] F2 F3 F4. _bud_ F1. _bride_ Dyce.
_them_] Capell (Edwards conj.). _thee_ Ff.
52: _she_] _he_ Capell.
57: _where_] Pope. _when_ Ff.
66: _am_] _mean_ Pope. _aim_ Capell.
71: SCENE III. Pope.
93: _How_] _What_ Capell.
97: _Poland_] _Lapland_ Warburton.
108: _and_] Theobald (Thirlby conj). _is_ Ff.
120: _the_] Ff. _her_ Rowe.
122: _forehead_] _sore head_ Jackson conj.
_reverted_] _revolted_ Grant White.
123: _heir_] _heire_ F1. _haire_ F2 F3. _hair_ F4.
125: _chalky_] _chalkle_ F1.
135: _caracks_] Hanmer. _carrects_ F1. _carracts_ F2 F3 F4.
_ballast_] _ballasted_ Capell.
138: _drudge, or_] _drudge of the Devil, this_ Warburton.
_or diviner_] _this divine one_ Capell conj.
140: _mark_] _marke_ F1. _marks_ F2 F3 F4.
143: _faith_] _flint_ Hanmer.
143, 144: Printed as prose in Ff. As verse first by Knight.
144: _curtal_] F4. _curtull_ F1. _curtall_ F2 F3. _cur-tail_ Hanmer.
146: _An_] Capell. _And_ Ff.
150: _knows us_] _know us_ Johnson.
154: SCENE IV. Pope.
161: _to_] _of_ Pope.
164: _here is_] Pope. _here's_ Ff.
177: Ant. S.] Ant. F1 F4. Dro. F2 F3.
181: _streets_] _street_ Capell conj.
ACT IV. SCENE I.
A public place.
_Enter _Second Merchant_, ANGELO, and an _Officer_._
_Sec. Mer._ You know since Pentecost the sum is due,
And since I have not much importuned you;
Nor now I had not, but that I am bound
To Persia, and want guilders for my voyage:
Therefore make present satisfaction, 5
Or I'll attach you by this officer.
_Ang._ Even just the sum that I do owe to you
Is growing to me by Antipholus;
And in the instant that I met with you
He had of me a chain: at five o'clock 10
I shall receive the money for the same.
Pleaseth you walk with me down to his house,
I will discharge my bond, and thank you too.
_Enter _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_ and _DROMIO of Ephesus_ from
the courtezan's._
_Off._ That labour may you save: see where he comes.
_Ant. E._ While I go to the goldsmith's house, go thou 15
And buy a rope's end: that will I bestow
Among my wife and her confederates,
For locking me out of my doors by day.--
But, soft! I see the goldsmith. Get thee gone;
Buy thou a rope, and bring it home to me. 20
_Dro. E._ I buy a thousand pound a year: I buy a rope.
[_Exit._
_Ant. E._ A man is well holp up that trusts to you:
I promised your presence and the chain;
But neither chain nor goldsmith came to me.
Belike you thought our love would last too long, 25
If it were chain'd together, and therefore came not.
_Ang._ Saving your merry humour, here's the note
How much your chain weighs to the utmost carat,
The fineness of the gold, and chargeful fashion,
Which doth amount to three odd ducats more 30
Than I stand debted to this gentleman:
I pray you, see him presently discharged,
For he is bound to sea, and stays but for it.
_Ant. E._ I am not furnish'd with the present money;
Besides, I have some business in the town. 35
Good signior, take the stranger to my house,
And with you take the chain, and bid my wife
Disburse the sum on the receipt thereof:
Perchance I will be there as soon as you.
_Ang._ Then you will bring the chain to her yourself? 40
_Ant. E._ No; bear it with you, lest I come not time enough.
_Ang._ Well, sir, I will. Have you the chain about you?
_Ant. E._ An if I have not, sir, I hope you have;
Or else you may return without your money.
_Ang._ Nay, come, I pray you, sir, give me the chain: 45
Both wind and tide stays for this gentleman,
And I, to blame, have held him here too long.
_Ant. E._ Good Lord! you use this dalliance to excuse
Your breach of promise to the Porpentine.
I should have chid you for not bringing it, 50
But, like a shrew, you first begin to brawl.
_Sec. Mer._ The hour steals on; I pray you, sir, dispatch.
_Ang._ You hear how he importunes me;--the chain!
_Ant. E._ Why, give it to my wife, and fetch your money.
_Ang._ Come, come, you know I gave it you even now. 55
Either send the chain, or send me by some token.
_Ant. E._ Fie, now you run this humour out of breath.
Come, where's the chain? I pray you, let me see it.
_Sec. Mer._ My business cannot brook this dalliance.
Good sir, say whether you'll answer me or no: 60
If not, I'll leave him to the officer.
_Ant. E._ I answer you! what should I answer you?
_Ang._ The money that you owe me for the chain.
_Ant. E._ I owe you none till I receive the chain.
_Ang._ You know I gave it you half an hour since. 65
_Ant. E._ You gave me none: you wrong me much to say so.
_Ang._ You wrong me more, sir, in denying it:
Consider how it stands upon my credit.
_Sec. Mer._ Well, officer, arrest him at my suit.
_Off._ I do; and charge you in the duke's name to obey me. 70
_Ang._ This touches me in reputation.
Either consent to pay this sum for me,
Or I attach you by this officer.
_Ant. E._ Consent to pay thee that I never had!
Arrest me, foolish fellow, if thou darest. 75
_Ang._ Here is thy fee; arrest him, officer.
I would not spare my brother in this case,
If he should scorn me so apparently.
_Off._ I do arrest you, sir: you hear the suit.
_Ant. E._ I do obey thee till I give thee bail. 80
But, sirrah, you shall buy this sport as dear
As all the metal in your shop will answer.
_Ang._ Sir, sir, I shall have law in Ephesus,
To your notorious shame; I doubt it not.
_Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_, from the bay._
_Dro. S._ Master, there is a bark of Epidamnum 85
That stays but till her owner comes aboard,
And then, sir, she bears away. Our fraughtage, sir,
I have convey'd aboard; and I have bought
The oil, the balsamum, and aqua-vitae.
The ship is in her trim; the merry wind 90
Blows fair from land: they stay for nought at all
But for their owner, master, and yourself.
_Ant. E._ How now! a madman! Why, thou peevish sheep,
What ship of Epidamnum stays for me?
_Dro. S._ A ship you sent me to, to hire waftage. 95
_Ant. E._ Thou drunken slave, I sent thee for a rope,
And told thee to what purpose and what end.
_Dro. S._ You sent me for a rope's end as soon:
You sent me to the bay, sir, for a bark.
_Ant. E._ I will debate this matter at more leisure, 100
And teach your ears to list me with more heed.
To Adriana, villain, hie thee straight:
Give her this key, and tell her, in the desk
That's cover'd o'er with Turkish tapestry
There is a purse of ducats; let her send it: 105
Tell her I am arrested in the street,
And that shall bail me: hie thee, slave, be gone!
On, officer, to prison till it come.
[_Exeunt Sec. Merchant, Angelo, Officer, and Ant. E._
_Dro. S._ To Adriana! that is where we dined,
Where Dowsabel did claim me for her husband: 110
She is too big, I hope, for me to compass.
Thither I must, although against my will,
For servants must their masters' minds fulfil. [_Exit._
NOTES: IV, 1.
8: _growing_] _owing_ Pope.
12: _Pleaseth you_] Ff. _Please you but_ Pope. _Please it you_
Anon. conj.
14: _may you_] F1 F2 F3. _you may_ F4.
17: _her_] Rowe. _their_ Ff. _these_ Collier MS.
26: _and_] om. Pope.
28: _carat_] Pope. _charect_ F1. _Raccat_ F2 F3 F4. _caract_ Collier.
29: _chargeful_] _charge for_ Anon. conj.
41: _time enough_] _in time_ Hanmer.
46: _stays_] _stay_ Pope.
_this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
47: _to blame_] F3. _too blame_ F1 F2 F4.
53: _the chain!_] Dyce. _the chain,_ Ff. _the chain--_ Johnson.
56: _Either_] _Or_ Pope.
_me by_] _by me_ Heath conj.
60: _whether_] _whe'r_ Ff. _where_ Rowe. _if_ Pope.
62: _what_] F1. _why_ F2 F3 F4.
67: _more_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
70: Printed as verse by Capell.
73: _this_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
74: _thee_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _for_ Rowe.
85: SCENE II. Pope.
_there is_] Pope. _there's_ Ff.
87: _And then, sir,_] F1. _Then, sir,_ F2 F3 F4. _And then_ Capell.
_she_] om. Steevens.
88: _bought_] F1. _brought_ F2 F3 F4.
98: _You sent me_] _A rope! You sent me_ Capell.
_You sent me, Sir,_ Steevens.
SCENE II.
The house of _ANTIPHOLUS of Ephesus_.
_Enter ADRIANA and LUCIANA._
_Adr._ Ah, Luciana, did he tempt thee so?
Mightst thou perceive austerely in his eye
That he did plead in earnest? yea or no?
Look'd he or red or pale, or sad or merrily?
What observation madest thou, in this case, 5
Of his heart's meteors tilting in his face?
_Luc._ First he denied you had in him no right.
_Adr._ He meant he did me none; the more my spite.
_Luc._ Then swore he that he was a stranger here.
_Adr._ And true he swore, though yet forsworn he were. 10
_Luc._ Then pleaded I for you.
_Adr._ And what said he?
_Luc._ That love I begg'd for you he begg'd of me.
_Adr._ With what persuasion did he tempt thy love?
_Luc._ With words that in an honest suit might move.
First he did praise my beauty, then my speech. 15
_Adr._ Didst speak him fair?
_Luc._ Have patience, I beseech.
_Adr._ I cannot, nor I will not, hold me still;
My tongue, though not my heart, shall have his will.
He is deformed, crooked, old, and sere,
Ill-faced, worse bodied, shapeless everywhere; 20
Vicious, ungentle, foolish, blunt, unkind;
Stigmatical in making, worse in mind.
_Luc._ Who would be jealous, then, of such a one?
No evil lost is wail'd when it is gone.
_Adr._ Ah, but I think him better than I say, 25
And yet would herein others' eyes were worse.
Far from her nest the lapwing cries away:
My heart prays for him, though my tongue do curse.
_Enter _DROMIO of Syracuse_._
_Dro. S._ Here! go; the desk, the purse! sweet, now, make haste.
_Luc._ How hast thou lost thy breath?
_Dro. S._ By running fast. 30
_Adr._ Where is thy master, Dromio? is he well?
_Dro. S._ No, he's in Tartar limbo, worse than hell.
A devil in an everlasting garment hath him;
One whose hard heart is button'd up with steel;
A fiend, a fury, pitiless and rough; 35
A wolf, nay, worse; a fellow all in buff;
A back-friend, a shoulder-clapper, one that countermands
The passages of alleys, creeks, and narrow lands;
A hound that runs counter, and yet draws dry-foot well;
One that, before the Judgment, carries poor souls to hell. 40
_Adr._ Why, man, what is the matter?
_Dro. S._ I do not know the matter: he is 'rested on the case.
_Adr._ What, is he arrested? Tell me at whose suit.
_Dro. S._ I know not at whose suit he is arrested well;
But he's in a suit of buff which 'rested him, that can I tell. 45
Will you send him, mistress, redemption, the money in his desk?
_Adr._ Go fetch it, sister. [_Exit Luciana._] This I wonder at,
That he, unknown to me, should be in debt.
Tell me, was he arrested on a band?
_Dro. S._ Not on a band, but on a stronger thing; 50
A chain, a chain! Do you not hear it ring?
_Adr._ What, the chain?
_Dro. S._ No, no, the bell: 'tis time that I were gone:
It was two ere I left him, and now the clock strikes one.
_Adr._ The hours come back! that did I never hear. 55
_Dro. S._ O, yes; if any hour meet a sergeant, 'a turns back
for very fear.
_Adr._ As if Time were in debt! how fondly dost thou reason!
_Dro. S._ Time is a very bankrupt, and owes more than he's
worth to season.
Nay, he's a thief too: have you not heard men say,
That Time comes stealing on by night and day? 60
If Time be in debt and theft, and a sergeant in the way,
Hath he not reason to turn back an hour in a day?
_Re-enter LUCIANA with a purse._
_Adr._ Go, Dromio; there's the money, bear it straight;
And bring thy master home immediately.
Come, sister: I am press'd down with conceit,-- 65
Conceit, my comfort and my injury.
[_Exeunt._
NOTES: IV, 2.
SCENE II.] SCENE III. Pope.
2: _austerely_] _assuredly_ Heath conj.
4: _or sad or_] _sad_ Capell.
_merrily_] _merry_ Collier MS.
6: _Of_] F2 F3 F4. _Oh,_ F1.
7: _you_] _you; you_ Capell.
_no_] _a_ Rowe.
18: _his_] _it's_ Rowe.
22: _in mind_] F1. _the mind_ F2 F3 F4.
26: _herein_] _he in_ Hanmer.
29: SCENE IV. Pope.
_sweet_] _swift_ Collier MS.
33: _hath him_] _hath him fell_ Collier MS. _hath him by the heel_
Spedding conj.
34: _One_] F2 F3 F4. _On_ F1.
After this line Collier MS. inserts: _Who knows no touch of mercy,
cannot feel_.
35: _fury_] Pope, ed. 2 (Theobald). _Fairie_ Ff.
37: _countermands_] _commands_ Theobald.
38: _of_] _and_ Collier MS.
_alleys_] _allies_ Ff.
_lands_] _lanes_ Grey conj. See note (V).
37, 38: _countermands The ... lands_] _his court maintains I' the
... lanes_ Becket conj.
42, 45: _'rested_] Theobald. _rested_ Ff.
43: _Tell_] _Well, tell_ Edd. conj.
44: _arrested well;_] F1. _arrested, well;_ F2 F3.
_arrested: well:_ F4.
45: _But he's_] F3 F4. _But is_ F1 F2. _But 'a's_ Edd. conj.
_can I_] F1 F2. _I can_ F3 F4.
46: _mistress, redemption_] Hanmer. _Mistris redemption_ F1 F2 F3.
_Mistris Redemption_ F4. See note (VI).
48: _That_] _Thus_ F1.
49, 50: _band_] _bond_ Rowe.
50: _but on_] _but_ Pope.
54-62: Put in the margin as spurious by Pope.
55: _hear_] _here_ F1.
56: _'a turns_] _it turns_ Pope. _he turns_ Capell.
58: _bankrupt_] _bankrout_ Ff.
_to season_] om. Pope.
61: _Time_] Rowe. _I_ Ff. _he_ Malone. _'a_ Staunton.
62: _an hour_] _any hour_ Collier MS. | Inside the house, Luciana and Antipholus of Syracuse are alone together. Luciana rebukes the man she believes to be her brother-in-law for not treating Adriana well; if he must betray his wife, she pleads, he should at least do it secretly. Antipholus S., meanwhile, insists that he is not Adriana's husband and then professes his love for Luciana. Appalled, she flees to find her sister. Dromio of Syracuse joins his master and recounts how the kitchen maid, Nell, mistook him for her husband . Nell, as the Syracusan Dromio tells it, is a prodigiously fat, ugly, and fearsome woman, and he and his master have a good laugh at her expense. Then, Antipholus S. tells his slave that he intends to depart from Ephesus immediately and sends him to the harbor to book passage. Once Dromio is gone, his master ponders the beauty of Luciana but resolves not to be tempted to remain in the city, since "none but witches do inhabit here". As he stands in thought, Angelo the goldsmith comes in and, mistaking him for Antipholus of Ephesus, gives him the gold chain that the Ephesian Antipholus had ordered, promising to stop by later to collect payment. Angelo, we learn, is in debt to a Second Merchant, who threatens to arrest him unless the money is paid. The goldsmith promises to collect the sum from Antipholus of Ephesus, who he sees walking down the street with Dromio of Ephesus. Antipholus E. sends his slave off to buy rope, with which he plans to beat his wife and servants for locking him out of the house at the last meal. Next, he greets Angelo, who asks to be paid for his gold chain. Antipholus, of course, never received the chain, and refuses to pay, so Angelo has him arrested. At that moment, Dromio of Syracuse returns from the harbor, and mistaking Antipholus E. for his master, tells him which ships are ready to sail. Cursing, Antipholus orders him to be silent and sends him to Adriana to fetch a purse of money with which to pay his way out of jail. Meanwhile, Luciana has told Adriana about how her "husband" declared his love for her and pledges her innocence of any illicit behavior. Adriana curses Antipholus furiously but admits to still feeling some love for him. Dromio of Syracuse dashes in to report that Antipholus has been arrested and needs money; Adriana sends Luciana to fetch it and then orders Dromio to hurry and save her husband from prison. |
35 Jerry Barker
I never knew a better man than my new master. He was kind and good, and
as strong for the right as John Manly; and so good-tempered and merry
that very few people could pick a quarrel with him. He was very fond of
making little songs, and singing them to himself. One he was very fond
of was this:
"Come, father and mother,
And sister and brother,
Come, all of you, turn to
And help one another."
And so they did; Harry was as clever at stable-work as a much older boy,
and always wanted to do what he could. Then Polly and Dolly used to come
in the morning to help with the cab--to brush and beat the cushions,
and rub the glass, while Jerry was giving us a cleaning in the yard, and
Harry was rubbing the harness. There used to be a great deal of laughing
and fun between them, and it put Captain and me in much better spirits
than if we had heard scolding and hard words. They were always early in
the morning, for Jerry would say:
"If you in the morning
Throw minutes away,
You can't pick them up
In the course of a day.
You may hurry and scurry,
And flurry and worry,
You've lost them forever,
Forever and aye."
He could not bear any careless loitering and waste of time; and nothing
was so near making him angry as to find people, who were always late,
wanting a cab horse to be driven hard, to make up for their idleness.
One day two wild-looking young men came out of a tavern close by the
stand, and called Jerry.
"Here, cabby! look sharp, we are rather late; put on the steam, will
you, and take us to the Victoria in time for the one o'clock train? You
shall have a shilling extra."
"I will take you at the regular pace, gentlemen; shillings don't pay for
putting on the steam like that."
Larry's cab was standing next to ours; he flung open the door, and said,
"I'm your man, gentlemen! take my cab, my horse will get you there all
right;" and as he shut them in, with a wink toward Jerry, said, "It's
against his conscience to go beyond a jog-trot." Then slashing his jaded
horse, he set off as hard as he could. Jerry patted me on the neck: "No,
Jack, a shilling would not pay for that sort of thing, would it, old
boy?"
Although Jerry was determinedly set against hard driving, to please
careless people, he always went a good fair pace, and was not against
putting on the steam, as he said, if only he knew why.
I well remember one morning, as we were on the stand waiting for a
fare, that a young man, carrying a heavy portmanteau, trod on a piece of
orange peel which lay on the pavement, and fell down with great force.
Jerry was the first to run and lift him up. He seemed much stunned, and
as they led him into a shop he walked as if he were in great pain. Jerry
of course came back to the stand, but in about ten minutes one of the
shopmen called him, so we drew up to the pavement.
"Can you take me to the South-Eastern Railway?" said the young man;
"this unlucky fall has made me late, I fear; but it is of great
importance that I should not lose the twelve o'clock train. I should be
most thankful if you could get me there in time, and will gladly pay you
an extra fare."
"I'll do my very best," said Jerry heartily, "if you think you are well
enough, sir," for he looked dreadfully white and ill.
"I must go," he said earnestly, "please to open the door, and let us
lose no time."
The next minute Jerry was on the box; with a cheery chirrup to me, and a
twitch of the rein that I well understood.
"Now then, Jack, my boy," said he, "spin along, we'll show them how we
can get over the ground, if we only know why."
It is always difficult to drive fast in the city in the middle of the
day, when the streets are full of traffic, but we did what could be
done; and when a good driver and a good horse, who understand each
other, are of one mind, it is wonderful what they can do. I had a very
good mouth--that is I could be guided by the slightest touch of the
rein; and that is a great thing in London, among carriages, omnibuses,
carts, vans, trucks, cabs, and great wagons creeping along at a walking
pace; some going one way, some another, some going slowly, others
wanting to pass them; omnibuses stopping short every few minutes to take
up a passenger, obliging the horse that is coming behind to pull up too,
or to pass, and get before them; perhaps you try to pass, but just then
something else comes dashing in through the narrow opening, and you
have to keep in behind the omnibus again; presently you think you see a
chance, and manage to get to the front, going so near the wheels on each
side that half an inch nearer and they would scrape. Well, you get along
for a bit, but soon find yourself in a long train of carts and carriages
all obliged to go at a walk; perhaps you come to a regular block-up, and
have to stand still for minutes together, till something clears out into
a side street, or the policeman interferes; you have to be ready for
any chance--to dash forward if there be an opening, and be quick as a
rat-dog to see if there be room and if there be time, lest you get your
own wheels locked or smashed, or the shaft of some other vehicle run
into your chest or shoulder. All this is what you have to be ready for.
If you want to get through London fast in the middle of the day it wants
a deal of practice.
Jerry and I were used to it, and no one could beat us at getting through
when we were set upon it. I was quick and bold and could always trust
my driver; Jerry was quick and patient at the same time, and could trust
his horse, which was a great thing too. He very seldom used the whip; I
knew by his voice, and his click, click, when he wanted to get on fast,
and by the rein where I was to go; so there was no need for whipping;
but I must go back to my story.
The streets were very full that day, but we got on pretty well as far
as the bottom of Cheapside, where there was a block for three or four
minutes. The young man put his head out and said anxiously, "I think I
had better get out and walk; I shall never get there if this goes on."
"I'll do all that can be done, sir," said Jerry; "I think we shall be
in time. This block-up cannot last much longer, and your luggage is very
heavy for you to carry, sir."
Just then the cart in front of us began to move on, and then we had a
good turn. In and out, in and out we went, as fast as horseflesh could
do it, and for a wonder had a good clear time on London Bridge, for
there was a whole train of cabs and carriages all going our way at a
quick trot, perhaps wanting to catch that very train. At any rate, we
whirled into the station with many more, just as the great clock pointed
to eight minutes to twelve o'clock.
"Thank God! we are in time," said the young man, "and thank you, too, my
friend, and your good horse. You have saved me more than money can ever
pay for. Take this extra half-crown."
"No, sir, no, thank you all the same; so glad we hit the time, sir;
but don't stay now, sir, the bell is ringing. Here, porter! take this
gentleman's luggage--Dover line twelve o'clock train--that's it," and
without waiting for another word Jerry wheeled me round to make room for
other cabs that were dashing up at the last minute, and drew up on one
side till the crush was past.
"'So glad!' he said, 'so glad!' Poor young fellow! I wonder what it was
that made him so anxious!"
Jerry often talked to himself quite loud enough for me to hear when we
were not moving.
On Jerry's return to the rank there was a good deal of laughing and
chaffing at him for driving hard to the train for an extra fare, as they
said, all against his principles, and they wanted to know how much he
had pocketed.
"A good deal more than I generally get," said he, nodding slyly; "what
he gave me will keep me in little comforts for several days."
"Gammon!" said one.
"He's a humbug," said another; "preaching to us and then doing the same
himself."
"Look here, mates," said Jerry; "the gentleman offered me half a crown
extra, but I didn't take it; 'twas quite pay enough for me to see how
glad he was to catch that train; and if Jack and I choose to have a
quick run now and then to please ourselves, that's our business and not
yours."
"Well," said Larry, "you'll never be a rich man."
"Most likely not," said Jerry; "but I don't know that I shall be the
less happy for that. I have heard the commandments read a great many
times and I never noticed that any of them said, 'Thou shalt be rich';
and there are a good many curious things said in the New Testament about
rich men that I think would make me feel rather queer if I was one of
them."
"If you ever do get rich," said Governor Gray, looking over his shoulder
across the top of his cab, "you'll deserve it, Jerry, and you won't find
a curse come with your wealth. As for you, Larry, you'll die poor; you
spend too much in whipcord."
"Well," said Larry, "what is a fellow to do if his horse won't go
without it?"
"You never take the trouble to see if he will go without it; your whip
is always going as if you had the St. Vitus' dance in your arm, and
if it does not wear you out it wears your horse out; you know you are
always changing your horses; and why? Because you never give them any
peace or encouragement."
"Well, I have not had good luck," said Larry, "that's where it is."
"And you never will," said the governor. "Good Luck is rather particular
who she rides with, and mostly prefers those who have got common sense
and a good heart; at least that is my experience."
Governor Gray turned round again to his newspaper, and the other men
went to their cabs. | Beauty's beyond thrilled with his master. Jerry Barker sings songs, treats people well, and is generally a decent and kind human being. Plus his kids are not only sweet but useful in the stable, too. One day, Jerry and Beauty encounter two drunk young men who want to pay extra to rush to the train station. Jerry refuses, saying it's never worth it to do that to a horse, and his colleague Larry takes the fare instead. "Although Jerry was determinedly set against hard driving to please careless people, he always went at a good fair pace, and was not against putting on the steam, as he said, if only he knew why" , Beauty explains. So basically, no rushing without good reason. Beauty gives an example of a time Jerry is willing to rush: When a kind man slips and falls, making himself late for a train, Jerry promises to try to get the man there on time, and Beauty understands. Beauty then describes the total craziness of trying to rush through London traffic. Jerry and Beauty make it to Victoria Station in time for the train, where they're rewarded with a generous tip--which Jerry doesn't take, because he's just happy to see the man make his train. Yep, Jerry's actually that nice. Jerry's fellow cabbies give him a hard time for being such a nice guy, and Jerry answers that wealth isn't necessary if you're following the word of the Ten Commandments. So he's not only nice, but pious. |
The sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden. The Secret
Garden was what Mary called it when she was thinking of it. She liked
the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful
old walls shut her in no one knew where she was. It seemed almost like
being shut out of the world in some fairy place. The few books she had
read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret
gardens in some of the stories. Sometimes people went to sleep in them
for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid. She
had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming
wider awake every day which passed at Misselthwaite. She was beginning
to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed
it. She could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a
hundred. The bulbs in the secret garden must have been much
astonished. Such nice clear places were made round them that they had
all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if Mistress Mary had
known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work
tremendously. The sun could get at them and warm them, and when the
rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very
much alive.
Mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something
interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed.
She worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more
pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it. It seemed to
her like a fascinating sort of play. She found many more of the
sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find. They
seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found
tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth.
There were so many that she remembered what Martha had said about the
"snowdrops by the thousands," and about bulbs spreading and making new
ones. These had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they
had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands. She wondered how long
it would be before they showed that they were flowers. Sometimes she
stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would
be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.
During that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with Ben
Weatherstaff. She surprised him several times by seeming to start up
beside him as if she sprang out of the earth. The truth was that she
was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her
coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible. But,
in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first.
Perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his
elderly company. Then, also, she was more civil than she had been. He
did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would
have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old
Yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be
merely commanded by them to do things.
"Tha'rt like th' robin," he said to her one morning when he lifted his
head and saw her standing by him. "I never knows when I shall see thee
or which side tha'll come from."
"He's friends with me now," said Mary.
"That's like him," snapped Ben Weatherstaff. "Makin' up to th' women
folk just for vanity an' flightiness. There's nothin' he wouldn't do
for th' sake o' showin' off an' flirtin' his tail-feathers. He's as
full o' pride as an egg's full o' meat."
He very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer Mary's
questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual.
He stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while
he looked her over.
"How long has tha' been here?" he jerked out.
"I think it's about a month," she answered.
"Tha's beginnin' to do Misselthwaite credit," he said. "Tha's a bit
fatter than tha' was an' tha's not quite so yeller. Tha' looked like a
young plucked crow when tha' first came into this garden. Thinks I to
myself I never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young 'un."
Mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she
was not greatly disturbed.
"I know I'm fatter," she said. "My stockings are getting tighter.
They used to make wrinkles. There's the robin, Ben Weatherstaff."
There, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than
ever. His red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his
wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of
lively graces. He seemed determined to make Ben Weatherstaff admire
him. But Ben was sarcastic.
"Aye, there tha' art!" he said. "Tha' can put up with me for a bit
sometimes when tha's got no one better. Tha's been reddenin' up thy
waistcoat an' polishin' thy feathers this two weeks. I know what tha's
up to. Tha's courtin' some bold young madam somewhere tellin' thy lies
to her about bein' th' finest cock robin on Missel Moor an' ready to
fight all th' rest of 'em."
"Oh! look at him!" exclaimed Mary.
The robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood. He hopped closer
and closer and looked at Ben Weatherstaff more and more engagingly. He
flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a
little song right at him.
"Tha' thinks tha'll get over me by doin' that," said Ben, wrinkling his
face up in such a way that Mary felt sure he was trying not to look
pleased. "Tha' thinks no one can stand out against thee--that's what
tha' thinks."
The robin spread his wings--Mary could scarcely believe her eyes. He
flew right up to the handle of Ben Weatherstaff's spade and alighted on
the top of it. Then the old man's face wrinkled itself slowly into a
new expression. He stood still as if he were afraid to breathe--as if
he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start
away. He spoke quite in a whisper.
"Well, I'm danged!" he said as softly as if he were saying something
quite different. "Tha' does know how to get at a chap--tha' does!
Tha's fair unearthly, tha's so knowin'."
And he stood without stirring--almost without drawing his breath--until
the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away. Then he stood
looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be Magic in it,
and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes.
But because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, Mary was
not afraid to talk to him.
"Have you a garden of your own?" she asked.
"No. I'm bachelder an' lodge with Martin at th' gate."
"If you had one," said Mary, "what would you plant?"
"Cabbages an' 'taters an' onions."
"But if you wanted to make a flower garden," persisted Mary, "what
would you plant?"
"Bulbs an' sweet-smellin' things--but mostly roses."
Mary's face lighted up.
"Do you like roses?" she said.
Ben Weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.
"Well, yes, I do. I was learned that by a young lady I was gardener
to. She had a lot in a place she was fond of, an' she loved 'em like
they was children--or robins. I've seen her bend over an' kiss 'em."
He dragged out another weed and scowled at it. "That were as much as
ten year' ago."
"Where is she now?" asked Mary, much interested.
"Heaven," he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil,
"'cording to what parson says."
"What happened to the roses?" Mary asked again, more interested than
ever.
"They was left to themselves."
Mary was becoming quite excited.
"Did they quite die? Do roses quite die when they are left to
themselves?" she ventured.
"Well, I'd got to like 'em--an' I liked her--an' she liked 'em," Ben
Weatherstaff admitted reluctantly. "Once or twice a year I'd go an'
work at 'em a bit--prune 'em an' dig about th' roots. They run wild,
but they was in rich soil, so some of 'em lived."
"When they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you
tell whether they are dead or alive?" inquired Mary.
"Wait till th' spring gets at 'em--wait till th' sun shines on th' rain
and th' rain falls on th' sunshine an' then tha'll find out."
"How--how?" cried Mary, forgetting to be careful. "Look along th'
twigs an' branches an' if tha' see a bit of a brown lump swelling here
an' there, watch it after th' warm rain an' see what happens." He
stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face. "Why does
tha' care so much about roses an' such, all of a sudden?" he demanded.
Mistress Mary felt her face grow red. She was almost afraid to answer.
"I--I want to play that--that I have a garden of my own," she
stammered. "I--there is nothing for me to do. I have nothing--and no
one."
"Well," said Ben Weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, "that's true.
Tha' hasn't."
He said it in such an odd way that Mary wondered if he was actually a
little sorry for her. She had never felt sorry for herself; she had
only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so
much. But now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer. If
no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself
always.
She stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as
many questions as she dared. He answered every one of them in his
queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up
his spade and leave her. He said something about roses just as she was
going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond
of.
"Do you go and see those other roses now?" she asked.
"Not been this year. My rheumatics has made me too stiff in th'
joints."
He said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to
get angry with her, though she did not see why he should.
"Now look here!" he said sharply. "Don't tha' ask so many questions.
Tha'rt th' worst wench for askin' questions I've ever come a cross.
Get thee gone an' play thee. I've done talkin' for today."
And he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in
staying another minute. She went skipping slowly down the outside
walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was,
here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness. She
liked old Ben Weatherstaff. Yes, she did like him. She always wanted
to try to make him talk to her. Also she began to believe that he knew
everything in the world about flowers.
There was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and
ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park. She thought she
would slip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were
any rabbits hopping about. She enjoyed the skipping very much and when
she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she
heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it
was.
It was a very strange thing indeed. She quite caught her breath as she
stopped to look at it. A boy was sitting under a tree, with his back
against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe. He was a funny looking boy
about twelve. He looked very clean and his nose turned up and his
cheeks were as red as poppies and never had Mistress Mary seen such
round and such blue eyes in any boy's face. And on the trunk of the
tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him,
and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching
his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up
and sniffing with tremulous noses--and actually it appeared as if they
were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little
call his pipe seemed to make.
When he saw Mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost
as low as and rather like his piping.
"Don't tha' move," he said. "It'd flight 'em." Mary remained
motionless. He stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the
ground. He moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were
moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel
scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew
his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away,
though not at all as if they were frightened.
"I'm Dickon," the boy said. "I know tha'rt Miss Mary."
Then Mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was
Dickon. Who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the
natives charm snakes in India? He had a wide, red, curving mouth and
his smile spread all over his face.
"I got up slow," he explained, "because if tha' makes a quick move it
startles 'em. A body 'as to move gentle an' speak low when wild things
is about."
He did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but
as if he knew her quite well. Mary knew nothing about boys and she
spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy.
"Did you get Martha's letter?" she asked.
He nodded his curly, rust-colored head. "That's why I come."
He stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground
beside him when he piped.
"I've got th' garden tools. There's a little spade an' rake an' a fork
an' hoe. Eh! they are good 'uns. There's a trowel, too. An' th' woman
in th' shop threw in a packet o' white poppy an' one o' blue larkspur
when I bought th' other seeds."
"Will you show the seeds to me?" Mary said.
She wished she could talk as he did. His speech was so quick and easy.
It sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would
not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes
and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head. As she came closer
to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and
grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them. She
liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red
cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.
"Let us sit down on this log and look at them," she said.
They sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of
his coat pocket. He untied the string and inside there were ever so
many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one.
"There's a lot o' mignonette an' poppies," he said. "Mignonette's th'
sweetest smellin' thing as grows, an' it'll grow wherever you cast it,
same as poppies will. Them as'll come up an' bloom if you just whistle
to 'em, them's th' nicest of all." He stopped and turned his head
quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up.
"Where's that robin as is callin' us?" he said.
The chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries,
and Mary thought she knew whose it was.
"Is it really calling us?" she asked.
"Aye," said Dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world,
"he's callin' some one he's friends with. That's same as sayin' 'Here
I am. Look at me. I wants a bit of a chat.' There he is in the bush.
Whose is he?"
"He's Ben Weatherstaff's, but I think he knows me a little," answered
Mary.
"Aye, he knows thee," said Dickon in his low voice again. "An' he
likes thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a
minute."
He moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement Mary had
noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin's own
twitter. The robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered
quite as if he were replying to a question.
"Aye, he's a friend o' yours," chuckled Dickon.
"Do you think he is?" cried Mary eagerly. She did so want to know.
"Do you think he really likes me?"
"He wouldn't come near thee if he didn't," answered Dickon. "Birds is
rare choosers an' a robin can flout a body worse than a man. See, he's
making up to thee now. 'Cannot tha' see a chap?' he's sayin'."
And it really seemed as if it must be true. He so sidled and twittered
and tilted as he hopped on his bush.
"Do you understand everything birds say?" said Mary.
Dickon's grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and
he rubbed his rough head.
"I think I do, and they think I do," he said. "I've lived on th' moor
with 'em so long. I've watched 'em break shell an' come out an' fledge
an' learn to fly an' begin to sing, till I think I'm one of 'em.
Sometimes I think p'raps I'm a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a
squirrel, or even a beetle, an' I don't know it."
He laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower
seeds again. He told her what they looked like when they were flowers;
he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.
"See here," he said suddenly, turning round to look at her. "I'll
plant them for thee myself. Where is tha' garden?"
Mary's thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap. She did
not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing. She had
never thought of this. She felt miserable. And she felt as if she
went red and then pale.
"Tha's got a bit o' garden, hasn't tha'?" Dickon said.
It was true that she had turned red and then pale. Dickon saw her do
it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.
"Wouldn't they give thee a bit?" he asked. "Hasn't tha' got any yet?"
She held her hands tighter and turned her eyes toward him.
"I don't know anything about boys," she said slowly. "Could you keep a
secret, if I told you one? It's a great secret. I don't know what I
should do if any one found it out. I believe I should die!" She said
the last sentence quite fiercely.
Dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his
rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly. "I'm keepin'
secrets all th' time," he said. "If I couldn't keep secrets from th'
other lads, secrets about foxes' cubs, an' birds' nests, an' wild
things' holes, there'd be naught safe on th' moor. Aye, I can keep
secrets."
Mistress Mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve
but she did it.
"I've stolen a garden," she said very fast. "It isn't mine. It isn't
anybody's. Nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into
it. Perhaps everything is dead in it already. I don't know."
She began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.
"I don't care, I don't care! Nobody has any right to take it from me
when I care about it and they don't. They're letting it die, all shut
in by itself," she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her
face and burst out crying-poor little Mistress Mary.
Dickon's curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder. "Eh-h-h!" he
said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant
both wonder and sympathy.
"I've nothing to do," said Mary. "Nothing belongs to me. I found it
myself and I got into it myself. I was only just like the robin, and
they wouldn't take it from the robin." "Where is it?" asked Dickon in a
dropped voice.
Mistress Mary got up from the log at once. She knew she felt contrary
again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all. She was imperious
and Indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.
"Come with me and I'll show you," she said.
She led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so
thickly. Dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his
face. He felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird's
nest and must move softly. When she stepped to the wall and lifted the
hanging ivy he started. There was a door and Mary pushed it slowly
open and they passed in together, and then Mary stood and waved her
hand round defiantly.
"It's this," she said. "It's a secret garden, and I'm the only one in
the world who wants it to be alive."
Dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again.
"Eh!" he almost whispered, "it is a queer, pretty place! It's like as
if a body was in a dream." | Mary spends as much time as she can in the Secret Garden clearing away old, dead sticks. She also chats often with Ben Weatherstaff, the gardener. Ben seems flattered that Mary actually wants to listen to what a crusty old guy has to say. She starts asking Ben about roses: If you have a rose that's been left on its own for years and years, will it come back? As Mary is walking, she sees a boy playing a pipe. There are two rabbits at his feet and a squirrel watching him--clearly, this is Dickon the strange Nature Boy. He's brought Mary's garden tools and a few flower seeds. When Dickon hears the robin calling, he translates to Mary: "he's callin' some one he's friends with" . Dickon continues, "he likes thee. He's took thee on. He'll tell me all about thee in a minute" . Now, most people would be just a bit surprised to find out that Dickon can apparently talk to animals, but Mary's used to the idea of snake charmers from India, so this doesn't seem that weird to her. Dickon offers to help Mary plant her garden. Mary immediately gets weird--she doesn't know if she wants to reveal her secret--but finally, she's got no choice, so she brings Dickon into the Secret Garden. Dickon describes it as "a queer, pretty place! It's like as if a body was in a dream" . |
There are many follies, in some degree, peculiar to women: sins
against reason, of commission, as well as of omission; but all
flowing from ignorance or prejudice, I shall only point out such as
appear to be injurious to their moral character. And in
animadverting on them, I wish especially to prove, that the
weakness of mind and body, which men have endeavoured by various
motives to perpetuate, prevents their discharging the peculiar duty
of their sex: for when weakness of body will not permit them to
suckle their children, and weakness of mind makes them spoil their
tempers--is woman in a natural state?
SECTION 13.1.
One glaring instance of the weakness which proceeds from ignorance,
first claims attention, and calls for severe reproof.
In this metropolis a number of lurking leeches infamously gain a
subsistence by practising on the credulity of women, pretending to
cast nativities, to use the technical phrase; and many females who,
proud of their rank and fortune, look down on the vulgar with
sovereign contempt, show by this credulity, that the distinction is
arbitrary, and that they have not sufficiently cultivated their
minds to rise above vulgar prejudices. Women, because they have
not been led to consider the knowledge of their duty as the one
thing necessary to know, or, to live in the present moment by the
discharge of it, are very anxious to peep into futurity, to learn
what they have to expect to render life interesting, and to break
the vacuum of ignorance. I must be allowed to expostulate
seriously with the ladies, who follow these idle inventions; for
ladies, mistresses of families, are not ashamed to drive in their
own carriages to the door of the cunning man. And if any of them
should peruse this work, I entreat them to answer to their own
hearts the following questions, not forgetting that they are in the
presence of God.
Do you believe that there is but one God, and that he is powerful,
wise, and good?
Do you believe that all things were created by him, and that all
beings are dependent on him?
Do you rely on his wisdom, so conspicuous in his works, and in your
own frame, and are you convinced, that he has ordered all things
which do not come under the cognizance of your senses, in the same
perfect harmony, to fulfil his designs?
Do you acknowledge that the power of looking into futurity and
seeing things that are not, as if they were, is an attribute of the
Creator? And should he, by an impression on the minds of his
creatures, think fit to impart to them some event hid in the shades
of time, yet unborn, to whom would the secret be revealed by
immediate inspiration? The opinion of ages will answer this
question--to reverend old men, to people distinguished for eminent
piety.
The oracles of old were thus delivered by priests dedicated to the
service of the God, who was supposed to inspire them. The glare of
worldly pomp which surrounded these impostors, and the respect paid
to them by artful politicians, who knew how to avail themselves of
this useful engine to bend the necks of the strong under the
dominion of the cunning, spread a sacred mysterious veil of
sanctity over their lies and abominations. Impressed by such
solemn devotional parade, a Greek or Roman lady might be excused,
if she inquired of the oracle, when she was anxious to pry into
futurity, or inquire about some dubious event: and her inquiries,
however contrary to reason, could not be reckoned impious. But,
can the professors of Christianity ward off that imputation? Can a
Christian suppose, that the favourites of the most High, the highly
favoured would be obliged to lurk in disguise, and practise the
most dishonest tricks to cheat silly women out of the money, which
the poor cry for in vain?
Say not that such questions are an insult to common sense for it is
your own conduct, O ye foolish women! which throws an odium on your
sex! And these reflections should make you shudder at your
thoughtlessness, and irrational devotion, for I do not suppose that
all of you laid aside your religion, such as it is, when you
entered those mysterious dwellings. Yet, as I have throughout
supposed myself talking to ignorant women, for ignorant ye are in
the most emphatical sense of the word, it would be absurd to reason
with you on the egregious folly of desiring to know what the
Supreme Wisdom has concealed.
Probably you would not understand me, were I to attempt to show you
that it would be absolutely inconsistent with the grand purpose of
life, that of rendering human creatures wise and virtuous: and
that, were it sanctioned by God, it would disturb the order
established in creation; and if it be not sanctioned by God, do you
expect to hear truth? Can events be foretold, events which have
not yet assumed a body to become subject to mortal inspection, can
they be foreseen by a vicious worldling, who pampers his appetites
by preying on the foolish ones?
Perhaps, however, you devoutly believe in the devil, and imagine,
to shift the question, that he may assist his votaries? but if
really respecting the power of such a being, an enemy to goodness
and to God, can you go to church after having been under such an
obligation to him. From these delusions to those still more
fashionable deceptions, practised by the whole tribe of
magnetisers, the transition is very natural. With respect to them,
it is equally proper to ask women a few questions.
Do you know any thing of the construction of the human frame? If
not, it is proper that you should be told, what every child ought
to know, that when its admirable economy has been disturbed by
intemperance or indolence, I speak not of violent disorders, but of
chronical diseases, it must be brought into a healthy state again
by slow degrees, and if the functions of life have not been
materially injured, regimen, another word for temperance, air,
exercise, and a few medicines prescribed by persons who have
studied the human body, are the only human means, yet discovered,
of recovering that inestimable blessing health, that will bear
investigation.
Do you then believe, that these magnetisers, who, by hocus pocus
tricks, pretend, to work a miracle, are delegated by God, or
assisted by the solver of all these kind of difficulties--the
devil.
Do they, when they put to flight, as it is said, disorders that
have baffled the powers of medicine, work in conformity to the
light of reason? Or do they effect these wonderful cures by
supernatural aid?
By a communication, an adept may answer, with the world of spirits.
A noble privilege, it must be allowed. Some of the ancients
mention familiar demons, who guarded them from danger, by kindly
intimating (we cannot guess in what manner,) when any danger was
nigh; or pointed out what they ought to undertake. Yet the men who
laid claim to this privilege, out of the order of nature, insisted,
that it was the reward or consequence of superior temperance and
piety. But the present workers of wonders are not raised above
their fellows by superior temperance or sanctity. They do not cure
for the love of God, but money. These are the priests of quackery,
though it be true they have not the convenient expedient of selling
masses for souls in purgatory, nor churches, where they can display
crutches, and models of limbs made sound by a touch or a word.
I am not conversant with the technical terms, nor initiated into
the arcana, therefore I may speak improperly; but it is clear, that
men who will not conform to the law of reason, and earn a
subsistence in an honest way, by degrees, are very fortunate in
becoming acquainted with such obliging spirits. We cannot, indeed,
give them credit for either great sagacity or goodness, else they
would have chosen more noble instruments, when they wished to show
themselves the benevolent friends of man.
It is, however, little short of blasphemy to pretend to such power.
>From the whole tenor of the dispensations of Providence, it appears
evident to sober reason, that certain vices produce certain
effects: and can any one so grossly insult the wisdom of God, as to
suppose, that a miracle will be allowed to disturb his general
laws, to restore to health the intemperate and vicious, merely to
enable them to pursue the same course with impunity? Be whole, and
sin no more, said Jesus. And are greater miracles to be performed
by those who do not follow his footsteps, who healed the body to
reach the mind?
The mentioning of the name of Christ, after such vile impostors may
displease some of my readers--I respect their warmth; but let them
not forget, that the followers of these delusions bear his name,
and profess to be the disciples of him, who said, by their works we
should know who were the children of God or the servants of sin. I
allow that it is easier to touch the body of a saint, or to be
magnetised, than to restrain our appetites or govern our passions;
but health of body or mind can only be recovered by these means, or
we make the Supreme Judge partial and revengeful.
Is he a man, that he should change, or punish out of resentment?
He--the common father, wounds but to heal, says reason, and our
irregularities producing certain consequences, we are forcibly
shown the nature of vice; that thus learning to know good from
evil, by experience, we may hate one and love the other, in
proportion to the wisdom which we attain. The poison contains the
antidote; and we either reform our evil habits, and cease to sin
against our own bodies, to use the forcible language of scripture,
or a premature death, the punishment of sin, snaps the thread of
life.
Here an awful stop is put to our inquiries. But, why should I
conceal my sentiments? Considering the attributes of God, I
believe, that whatever punishment may follow, will tend, like the
anguish of disease, to show the malignity of vice, for the purpose
of reformation. Positive punishment appears so contrary to the
nature of God, discoverable in all his works, and in our own
reason, that I could sooner believe that the Deity paid no
attention to the conduct of men, than that he punished without the
benevolent design of reforming.
To suppose only, that an all-wise and powerful Being, as good as he
is great, should create a being, foreseeing, that after fifty or
sixty years of feverish existence, it would be plunged into never
ending woe--is blasphemy. On what will the worm feed that is never
to die? On folly, on ignorance, say ye--I should blush indignantly
at drawing the natural conclusion, could I insert it, and wish to
withdraw myself from the wing of my God! On such a supposition, I
speak with reverence, he would be a consuming fire. We should
wish, though vainly, to fly from his presence when fear absorbed
love, and darkness involved all his counsels.
I know that many devout people boast of submitting to the Will of
God blindly, as to an arbitrary sceptre or rod, on the same
principle as the Indians worship the devil. In other words, like
people in the common concerns of life, they do homage to power, and
cringe under the foot that can crush them. Rational religion, on
the contrary, is a submission to the will of a being so perfectly
wise, that all he wills must be directed by the proper motive--must
be reasonable.
And, if thus we respect God, can we give credit to the mysterious
insinuations which insult his laws? Can we believe, though it
should stare us in the face, that he would work a miracle to
authorize confusion by sanctioning an error? Yet we must either
allow these impious conclusions, or treat with contempt every
promise to restore health to a diseased body by supernatural means,
or to foretell, the incidents that can only be foreseen by God.
SECTION 13.2.
Another instance of that feminine weakness of character, often
produced by a confined education, is a romantic twist of the mind,
which has been very properly termed SENTIMENTAL.
Women, subjected by ignorance to their sensations, and only taught
to look for happiness in love, refine on sensual feelings, and
adopt metaphysical notions respecting that passion, which lead them
shamefully to neglect the duties of life, and frequently in the
midst of these sublime refinements they plunge into actual vice.
These are the women who are amused by the reveries of the stupid
novelists, who, knowing little of human nature, work up stale
tales, and describe meretricious scenes, all retailed in a
sentimental jargon, which equally tend to corrupt the taste, and
draw the heart aside from its daily duties. I do not mention the
understanding, because never having been exercised, its slumbering
energies rest inactive, like the lurking particles of fire which
are supposed universally to pervade matter.
Females, in fact, denied all political privileges, and not allowed,
as married women, excepting in criminal cases, a civil existence,
have their attention naturally drawn from the interest of the whole
community to that of the minute parts, though the private duty of
any member of society must be very imperfectly performed, when not
connected with the general good. The mighty business of female
life is to please, and, restrained from entering into more
important concerns by political and civil oppression, sentiments
become events, and reflection deepens what it should, and would
have effaced, if the understanding had been allowed to take a wider
range.
But, confined to trifling employments, they naturally imbibe
opinions which the only kind of reading calculated to interest an
innocent frivolous mind, inspires. Unable to grasp any thing
great, is it surprising that they find the reading of history a
very dry task, and disquisitions addressed to the understanding,
intolerably tedious, and almost unintelligible? Thus are they
necessarily dependent on the novelist for amusement. Yet, when I
exclaim against novels, I mean when contrasted with those works
which exercise the understanding and regulate the imagination. For
any kind of reading I think better than leaving a blank still a
blank, because the mind must receive a degree of enlargement, and
obtain a little strength by a slight exertion of its thinking
powers; besides, even the productions that are only addressed to
the imagination, raise the reader a little above the gross
gratification of appetites, to which the mind has not given a shade
of delicacy.
This observation is the result of experience; for I have known
several notable women, and one in particular, who was a very good
woman--as good as such a narrow mind would allow her to be, who
took care that her daughters (three in number) should never see a
novel. As she was a woman of fortune and fashion, they had various
masters to attend them, and a sort of menial governess to watch
their footsteps. From their masters they learned how tables,
chairs, etc. were called in French and Italian; but as the few
books thrown in their way were far above their capacities, or
devotional, they neither acquired ideas nor sentiments, and passed
their time, when not compelled to repeat WORDS, in dressing,
quarrelling with each other, or conversing with their maids by
stealth, till they were brought into company as marriageable.
Their mother, a widow, was busy in the mean time in keeping up her
connexions, as she termed a numerous acquaintance lest her girls
should want a proper introduction into the great world. And these
young ladies, with minds vulgar in every sense of the word, and
spoiled tempers, entered life puffed up with notions of their own
consequence, and looking down with contempt on those who could not
vie with them in dress and parade.
With respect to love, nature, or their nurses, had taken care to
teach them the physical meaning of the word; and, as they had few
topics of conversation, and fewer refinements of sentiment, they
expressed their gross wishes not in very delicate phrases, when
they spoke freely, talking of matrimony.
Could these girls have been injured by the perusal of novels? I
almost forgot a shade in the character of one of them; she affected
a simplicity bordering on folly, and with a simper would utter the
most immodest remarks and questions, the full meaning of which she
had learned whilst secluded from the world, and afraid to speak in
her mother's presence, who governed with a high hand; they were
all educated, as she prided herself, in a most exemplary manner;
and read their chapters and psalms before breakfast, never touching
a silly novel.
This is only one instance; but I recollect many other women who,
not led by degrees to proper studies, and not permitted to choose
for themselves, have indeed been overgrown children; or have
obtained, by mixing in the world, a little of what is termed common
sense; that is, a distinct manner of seeing common occurrences, as
they stand detached: but what deserves the name of intellect, the
power of gaining general or abstract ideas, or even intermediate
ones, was out of the question. Their minds were quiescent, and
when they were not roused by sensible objects and employments of
that kind, they were low-spirited, would cry, or go to sleep.
When, therefore, I advise my sex not to read such flimsy works, it
is to induce them to read something superior; for I coincide in
opinion with a sagacious man, who, having a daughter and niece
under his care, pursued a very different plan with each.
The niece, who had considerable abilities, had, before she was left
to his guardianship, been indulged in desultory reading. Her he
endeavoured to lead, and did lead, to history and moral essays; but
his daughter whom a fond weak mother had indulged, and who
consequently was averse to every thing like application, he allowed
to read novels; and used to justify his conduct by saying, that if
she ever attained a relish for reading them, he should have some
foundation to work upon; and that erroneous opinions were better
than none at all.
In fact, the female mind has been so totally neglected, that
knowledge was only to be acquired from this muddy source, till from
reading novels some women of superior talents learned to despise
them.
The best method, I believe, that can be adopted to correct a
fondness for novels is to ridicule them; not indiscriminately, for
then it would have little effect; but, if a judicious person, with
some turn for humour, would read several to a young girl, and point
out, both by tones and apt comparisons with pathetic incidents and
heroic characters in history, how foolishly and ridiculously they
caricatured human nature, just opinions might be substituted
instead of romantic sentiments.
In one respect, however, the majority of both sexes resemble, and
equally show a want of taste and modesty. Ignorant women, forced
to be chaste to preserve their reputation, allow their imagination
to revel in the unnatural and meretricious scenes sketched by the
novel writers of the day, slighting as insipid the sober dignity
and matronly grace of history,* whilst men carry the same vitiated
taste into life, and fly for amusement to the wanton, from the
unsophisticated charms of virtue, and the grave respectability of
sense.
(*Footnote. I am not now alluding to that superiority of mind
which leads to the creation of ideal beauty, when life surveyed
with a penetrating eye, appears a tragi-comedy, in which little can
be seen to satisfy the heart without the help of fancy.)
Besides, the reading of novels makes women, and particularly ladies
of fashion, very fond of using strong expressions and superlatives
in conversation; and, though the dissipated artificial life which
they lead prevents their cherishing any strong legitimate passion,
the language of passion in affected tones slips for ever from their
glib tongues, and every trifle produces those phosphoric bursts
which only mimick in the dark the flame of passion.
SECTION 13.3.
Ignorance and the mistaken cunning that nature sharpens in weak
heads, as a principle of self-preservation, render women very fond
of dress, and produce all the vanity which such a fondness may
naturally be expected to generate, to the exclusion of emulation
and magnanimity.
I agree with Rousseau, that the physical part of the art of
pleasing consists in ornaments, and for that very reason I should
guard girls against the contagious fondness for dress so common to
weak women, that they may not rest in the physical part. Yet, weak
are the women who imagine that they can long please without the aid
of the mind; or, in other words, without the moral art of pleasing.
But the moral art, if it be not a profanation to use the word art,
when alluding to the grace which is an effect of virtue, and not
the motive of action, is never to be found with ignorance; the
sportiveness of innocence, so pleasing to refined libertines of
both sexes, is widely different in its essence from this superior
gracefulness.
A strong inclination for external ornaments ever appears in
barbarous states, only the men not the women adorn themselves; for
where women are allowed to be so far on a level with men, society
has advanced at least one step in civilization.
The attention to dress, therefore, which has been thought a sexual
propensity, I think natural to mankind. But I ought to express
myself with more precision. When the mind is not sufficiently
opened to take pleasure in reflection, the body will be adorned
with sedulous care; and ambition will appear in tattooing or
painting it.
So far is the first inclination carried, that even the hellish yoke
of slavery cannot stifle the savage desire of admiration which the
black heroes inherit from both their parents, for all the
hardly-earned savings of a slave are commonly expended in a little
tawdry finery. And I have seldom known a good male or female
servant that was not particularly fond of dress. Their clothes
were their riches; and I argue from analogy, that the fondness for
dress, so extravagant in females, arises from the same cause--want
of cultivation of mind. When men meet they converse about
business, politics, or literature; but, says Swift, "how naturally
do women apply their hands to each others lappets and ruffles."
And very natural it is--for they have not any business to interest
them, have not a taste for literature, and they find politics dry,
because they have not acquired a love for mankind by turning their
thoughts to the grand pursuits that exalt the human race and
promote general happiness.
Besides, various are the paths to power and fame, which by accident
or choice men pursue, and though they jostle against each other,
for men of the same profession are seldom friends, yet there is a
much greater number of their fellow-creatures with whom they never
clash. But women are very differently situated with respect to
each other--for they are all rivals.
Before marriage it is their business to please men; and after, with
a few exceptions, they follow the same scent, with all the
persevering pertinacity of instinct. Even virtuous women never
forget their sex in company, for they are for ever trying to make
themselves AGREEABLE. A female beauty and a male wit, appear to be
equally anxious to draw the attention of the company to themselves;
and the animosity of contemporary wits is proverbial.
Is it then surprising, that when the sole ambition of woman centres
in beauty, and interest gives vanity additional force, perpetual
rivalships should ensue? They are all running the same race, and
would rise above the virtue of mortals if they did not view each
other with a suspicious and even envious eye.
An immoderate fondness for dress, for pleasure and for sway, are
the passions of savages; the passions that occupy those uncivilized
beings who have not yet extended the dominion of the mind, or even
learned to think with the energy necessary to concatenate that
abstract train of thought which produces principles. And that
women, from their education and the present state of civilized
life, are in the same condition, cannot, I think, be controverted.
To laugh at them then, or satirize the follies of a being who is
never to be allowed to act freely from the light of her own reason,
is as absurd as cruel; for that they who are taught blindly to obey
authority, will endeavour cunningly to elude it, is most natural
and certain.
Yet let it be proved, that they ought to obey man implicitly, and I
shall immediately agree that it is woman's duty to cultivate a
fondness for dress, in order to please, and a propensity to cunning
for her own preservation.
The virtues, however, which are supported by ignorance, must ever
be wavering--the house built on sand could not endure a storm. It
is almost unnecessary to draw the inference. If women are to be
made virtuous by authority, which is a contradiction in terms, let
them be immured in seraglios and watched with a jealous eye. Fear
not that the iron will enter into their souls--for the souls that
can bear such treatment are made of yielding materials, just
animated enough to give life to the body.
"Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,
And best distinguish'd by black, brown, or fair."
The most cruel wounds will of course soon heal, and they may still
people the world, and dress to please man--all the purposes which
certain celebrated writers have allowed that they were created to
fill.
SECTION 13.4.
Women are supposed to possess more sensibility, and even humanity,
than men, and their strong attachments and instantaneous emotions
of compassion are given as proofs; but the clinging affection of
ignorance has seldom any thing noble in it, and may mostly be
resolved into selfishness, as well as the affection of children and
brutes. I have known many weak women whose sensibility was
entirely engrossed by their husbands; and as for their humanity, it
was very faint indeed, or rather it was only a transient emotion of
compassion, "Humanity does not consist in a squeamish ear," says
an eminent orator. "It belongs to the mind as well as the nerves."
But this kind of exclusive affection, though it degrade the
individual, should not be brought forward as a proof of the
inferiority of the sex, because it is the natural consequence of
confined views: for even women of superior sense, having their
attention turned to little employments, and private plans, rarely
rise to heroism, unless when spurred on by love; and love as an
heroic passion, like genius, appears but once in an age. I
therefore agree with the moralist who asserts, "that women have
seldom so much generosity as men;" and that their narrow
affections, to which justice and humanity are often sacrificed,
render the sex apparently inferior, especially as they are commonly
inspired by men; but I contend, that the heart would expand as the
understanding gained strength, if women were not depressed from
their cradles.
I know that a little sensibility and great weakness will produce a
strong sexual attachment, and that reason must cement friendship;
consequently I allow, that more friendship is to be found in the
male than the female world, and that men have a higher sense of
justice. The exclusive affections of women seem indeed to resemble
Cato's most unjust love for his country. He wished to crush
Carthage, not to save Rome, but to promote its vain glory; and in
general, it is to similar principles that humanity is sacrificed,
for genuine duties support each other.
Besides, how can women be just or generous, when they are the
slaves of injustice.
SECTION 13.5.
As the rearing of children, that is, the laying a foundation of
sound health both of body and mind in the rising generation, has
justly been insisted on as the peculiar destination of woman, the
ignorance that incapacitates them must be contrary to the order of
things. And I contend, that their minds can take in much more, and
ought to do so, or they will never become sensible mothers. Many
men attend to the breeding of horses, and overlook the management
of the stable, who would, strange want of sense and feeling! think
themselves degraded by paying any attention to the nursery; yet,
how many children are absolutely murdered by the ignorance of
women! But when they escape, and are neither destroyed by
unnatural negligence nor blind fondness, how few are managed
properly with respect to the infant mind! So that to break the
spirit, allowed to become vicious at home, a child is sent to
school; and the methods taken there, which must be taken to keep a
number of children in order, scatter the seeds of almost every vice
in the soil thus forcibly torn up.
I have sometimes compared the struggles of these poor children who
ought never to have felt restraint, nor would, had they been always
held in with an even hand, to the despairing plunges of a spirited
filly, which I have seen breaking on a strand; its feet sinking
deeper and deeper in the sand every time it endeavoured to throw
its rider, till at last it sullenly submitted.
I have always found horses, an animal I am attached to, very
tractable when treated with humanity and steadiness, so that I
doubt whether the violent methods taken to break them, do not
essentially injure them; I am, however, certain that a child should
never be thus forcibly tamed after it has injudiciously been
allowed to run wild; for every violation of justice and reason, in
the treatment of children, weakens their reason. And, so early do
they catch a character, that the base of the moral character,
experience leads me to infer, is fixed before their seventh year,
the period during which women are allowed the sole management of
children. Afterwards it too often happens that half the business
of education is to correct, and very imperfectly is it done, if
done hastily, the faults, which they would never have acquired if
their mothers had had more understanding.
One striking instance of the folly of women must not be omitted.
The manner in which they treat servants in the presence of
children, permitting them to suppose, that they ought to wait on
them, and bear their humours. A child should always be made to
receive assistance from a man or woman as a favour; and, as the
first lesson of independence, they should practically be taught, by
the example of their mother, not to require that personal
attendance which it is an insult to humanity to require, when in
health; and instead of being led to assume airs of consequence, a
sense of their own weakness should first make them feel the natural
equality of man. Yet, how frequently have I indignantly heard
servants imperiously called to put children to bed, and sent away
again and again, because master or miss hung about mamma, to stay a
little longer. Thus made slavishly to attend the little idol, all
those most disgusting humours were exhibited which characterize a
spoiled child.
In short, speaking of the majority of mothers, they leave their
children entirely to the care of servants: or, because they are
their children, treat them as if they were little demi-gods, though
I have always observed, that the women who thus idolize their
children, seldom show common humanity to servants, or feel the
least tenderness for any children but their own.
It is, however, these exclusive affections, and an individual
manner of seeing things, produced by ignorance, which keep women
for ever at a stand, with respect to improvement, and make many of
them dedicate their lives to their children only to weaken their
bodies and spoil their tempers, frustrating also any plan of
education that a more rational father may adopt; for unless a
mother concurs, the father who restrains will ever be considered as
a tyrant.
But, fulfilling the duties of a mother, a woman with a sound
constitution, may still keep her person scrupulously neat, and
assist to maintain her family, if necessary, or by reading and
conversations with both sexes, indiscriminately, improve her mind.
For nature has so wisely ordered things, that did women suckle
their children, they would preserve their own health, and there
would be such an interval between the birth of each child, that we
should seldom see a house full of babes. And did they pursue a
plan of conduct, and not waste their time in following the
fashionable vagaries of dress, the management of their household
and children need not shut them out from literature, nor prevent
their attaching themselves to a science, with that steady eye which
strengthens the mind, or practising one of the fine arts that
cultivate the taste.
But, visiting to display finery, card playing, and balls, not to
mention the idle bustle of morning trifling, draw women from their
duty, to render them insignificant, to render them pleasing,
according to the present acceptation of the word, to every man, but
their husband. For a round of pleasures in which the affections
are not exercised, cannot be said to improve the understanding,
though it be erroneously called seeing the world; yet the heart is
rendered cold and averse to duty, by such a senseless intercourse,
which becomes necessary from habit, even when it has ceased to
amuse.
But, till more equality be established in society, till ranks are
confounded and women freed, we shall not see that dignified
domestic happiness, the simple grandeur of which cannot be relished
by ignorant or vitiated minds; nor will the important task of
education ever be properly begun till the person of a woman is no
longer preferred to her mind. For it would be as wise to expect
corn from tares, or figs from thistles, as that a foolish ignorant
woman should be a good mother.
SECTION 13.6.
It is not necessary to inform the sagacious reader, now I enter on
my concluding reflections, that the discussion of this subject
merely consists in opening a few simple principles, and clearing
away the rubbish which obscured them. But, as all readers are not
sagacious, I must be allowed to add some explanatory remarks to
bring the subject home to reason--to that sluggish reason, which
supinely takes opinions on trust, and obstinately supports them to
spare itself the labour of thinking.
Moralists have unanimously agreed, that unless virtue be nursed by
liberty, it will never attain due strength--and what they say of
man I extend to mankind, insisting, that in all cases morals must
be fixed on immutable principles; and that the being cannot be
termed rational or virtuous, who obeys any authority but that of
reason.
To render women truly useful members of society, I argue, that they
should be led, by having their understandings cultivated on a large
scale, to acquire a rational affection for their country, founded
on knowledge, because it is obvious, that we are little interested
about what we do not understand. And to render this general
knowledge of due importance, I have endeavoured to show that
private duties are never properly fulfilled, unless the
understanding enlarges the heart; and that public virtue is only an
aggregate of private. But, the distinctions established in society
undermine both, by beating out the solid gold of virtue, till it
becomes only the tinsel-covering of vice; for, whilst wealth
renders a man more respectable than virtue, wealth will be sought
before virtue; and, whilst women's persons are caressed, when a
childish simper shows an absence of mind--the mind will lie fallow.
Yet, true voluptuousness must proceed from the mind--for what can
equal the sensations produced by mutual affection, supported by
mutual respect? What are the cold or feverish caresses of
appetite, but sin embracing death, compared with the modest
overflowings of a pure heart and exalted imagination? Yes, let me
tell the libertine of fancy when he despises understanding in
woman--that the mind, which he disregards, gives life to the
enthusiastic affection from which rapture, short-lived as it is,
alone can flow! And, that, without virtue, a sexual attachment
must expire, like a tallow candle in the socket, creating
intolerable disgust. To prove this, I need only observe, that men
who have wasted great part of their lives with women, and with whom
they have sought for pleasure with eager thirst, entertain the
meanest opinion of the sex. Virtue, true refiner of joy! if
foolish men were to fright thee from earth, in order to give loose
to all their appetites without a check--some sensual wight of taste
would scale the heavens to invite thee back, to give a zest to
pleasure!
That women at present are by ignorance rendered foolish or vicious,
is, I think, not to be disputed; and, that the most salutary
effects tending to improve mankind, might be expected from a
REVOLUTION in female manners, appears at least, with a face of
probability, to rise out of the observation. For as marriage has
been termed the parent of those endearing charities, which draw man
from the brutal herd, the corrupting intercourse that wealth,
idleness, and folly produce between the sexes, is more universally
injurious to morality, than all the other vices of mankind
collectively considered. To adulterous lust the most sacred duties
are sacrificed, because, before marriage, men, by a promiscuous
intimacy with women, learned to consider love as a selfish
gratification--learned to separate it not only from esteem, but
from the affection merely built on habit, which mixes a little
humanity with it. Justice and friendship are also set at defiance,
and that purity of taste is vitiated, which would naturally lead a
man to relish an artless display of affection, rather than affected
airs. But that noble simplicity of affection, which dares to
appear unadorned, has few attractions for the libertine, though it
be the charm, which, by cementing the matrimonial tie, secures to
the pledges of a warmer passion the necessary parental attention;
for children will never be properly educated till friendship
subsists between parents. Virtue flies from a house divided
against itself--and a whole legion of devils take up their
residence there.
The affection of husbands and wives cannot be pure when they have
so few sentiments in common, and when so little confidence is
established at home, as must be the case when their pursuits are so
different. That intimacy from which tenderness should flow, will
not, cannot subsist between the vicious.
Contending, therefore, that the sexual distinction, which men have
so warmly insisted upon, is arbitrary, I have dwelt on an
observation, that several sensible men, with whom I have conversed
on the subject, allowed to be well founded; and it is simply this,
that the little chastity to be found amongst men, and consequent
disregard of modesty, tend to degrade both sexes; and further, that
the modesty of women, characterized as such, will often be only the
artful veil of wantonness, instead of being the natural reflection
of purity, till modesty be universally respected.
>From the tyranny of man, I firmly believe, the greater number of
female follies proceed; and the cunning, which I allow, makes at
present a part of their character, I likewise have repeatedly
endeavoured to prove, is produced by oppression. Were not
dissenters, for instance, a class of people, with strict truth
characterized as cunning? And may I not lay some stress on this
fact to prove, that when any power but reason curbs the free spirit
of man, dissimulation is practised, and the various shifts of art
are naturally called forth? Great attention to decorum, which was
carried to a degree of scrupulosity, and all that puerile bustle
about trifles and consequential solemnity, which Butler's
caricature of a dissenter brings before the imagination, shaped
their persons as well as their minds in the mould of prim
littleness. I speak collectively, for I know how many ornaments to
human nature have been enrolled amongst sectaries; yet, I assert,
that the same narrow prejudice for their sect, which women have for
their families, prevailed in the dissenting part of the community,
however worthy in other respects; and also that the same timid
prudence, or headstrong efforts, often disgraced the exertions of
both. Oppression thus formed many of the features of their
character perfectly to coincide with that of the oppressed half of
mankind; for is it not notorious, that dissenters were like women,
fond of deliberating together, and asking advice of each other,
till by a complication of little contrivances, some little end was
brought about? A similar attention to preserve their reputation
was conspicuous in the dissenting and female world, and was
produced by a similar cause.
Asserting the rights which women in common with men ought to
contend for, I have not attempted to extenuate their faults; but to
prove them to be the natural consequence of their education and
station in society. If so, it is reasonable to suppose, that they
will change their character, and correct their vices and follies,
when they are allowed to be free in a physical, moral, and civil
sense.
Let woman share the rights, and she will emulate the virtues of
man; for she must grow more perfect when emancipated, or justify
the authority that chains such a weak being to her duty. If the
latter, it will be expedient to open a fresh trade with Russia for
whips; a present which a father should always make to his
son-in-law on his wedding day, that a husband may keep his whole
family in order by the same means; and without any violation of
justice reign, wielding this sceptre, sole master of his house,
because he is the only being in it who has reason; the divine,
indefeasible, earthly sovereignty breathed into man by the Master
of the universe. Allowing this position, women have not any
inherent rights to claim; and, by the same rule their duties
vanish, for rights and duties are inseparable.
Be just then, O ye men of understanding! and mark not more severely
what women do amiss, than the vicious tricks of the horse or the
ass for whom ye provide provender, and allow her the privileges of
ignorance, to whom ye deny the rights of reason, or ye will be
worse than Egyptian task-masters, expecting virtue where nature has
not given understanding! | Wollstonecraft decides that she wants to close Vindication with a discussion of some of the faults that are most common to women. As you can imagine, she attributes most of these faults to a lack of education. Here, Wollstonecraft directly accuses her women readers of being the cause of their own oppression, because so many of them try to gain an advantage in life by acting as "ladylike" as possible. But these women don't realize that their actions reflect on their entire gender and have an impact outside their personal lives. She especially goes after women who like to visit quack doctors who use magnets and crazy things to cure diseases. Wollstonecraft thinks these quacks should all be arrested, and she blames gullible, uneducated women for making quackery such a thriving industry in England. Another common fault that Wollstonecraft sees with women is that their ideas about life are way too influenced by the romance novels they read. Women grow up thinking that Prince Charming will ride up on his horse and sweep them away. To be fair, Wollstonecraft thinks that some reading is better than no reading at all. But she thinks there are better things women could be putting their minds to. The best way for people to deal with novels is to point out all of the things in a novel that are silly or nonsensical. This might seem kind of harsh, but Wollstonecraft is more interested in producing good citizens than women who think that life is one big romance. One of the things that Wollstonecraft dislikes most about women is how judgmental they are toward other women, especially when it comes to appearances. Society tends to make a big deal out of how compassionate women are compared to men. But this compassion usually stems from ignorance, and women are often compassionate toward people who don't deserve it. They're just as likely to feel compassion for a murderer as for a poor person because they haven't got the education to know any better. On top of all the other faults, women are often too harsh with their servants, especially in front of their own children. What kind of message does it teach your child when you're mean to those who are worse off than you? In closing, Wollstonecraft says that she has no interest in excusing the faults of women. She simply thinks that these faults wouldn't be so bad if women were given a better education and a more equal place in society. |
The chateau, a modern building in Italian style, with two projecting
wings and three flights of steps, lay at the foot of an immense
green-sward, on which some cows were grazing among groups of large trees
set out at regular intervals, while large beds of arbutus, rhododendron,
syringas, and guelder roses bulged out their irregular clusters of
green along the curve of the gravel path. A river flowed under a bridge;
through the mist one could distinguish buildings with thatched roofs
scattered over the field bordered by two gently sloping, well timbered
hillocks, and in the background amid the trees rose in two parallel
lines the coach houses and stables, all that was left of the ruined old
chateau.
Charles's dog-cart pulled up before the middle flight of steps; servants
appeared; the Marquis came forward, and, offering his arm to the
doctor's wife, conducted her to the vestibule.
It was paved with marble slabs, was very lofty, and the sound of
footsteps and that of voices re-echoed through it as in a church.
Opposite rose a straight staircase, and on the left a gallery
overlooking the garden led to the billiard room, through whose door one
could hear the click of the ivory balls. As she crossed it to go to the
drawing room, Emma saw standing round the table men with grave faces,
their chins resting on high cravats. They all wore orders, and smiled
silently as they made their strokes.
On the dark wainscoting of the walls large gold frames bore at
the bottom names written in black letters. She read: "Jean-Antoine
d'Andervilliers d'Yvervonbille, Count de la Vaubyessard and Baron de la
Fresnay, killed at the battle of Coutras on the 20th of October,
1587." And on another: "Jean-Antoine-Henry-Guy d'Andervilliers de
la Vaubyessard, Admiral of France and Chevalier of the Order of St.
Michael, wounded at the battle of the Hougue-Saint-Vaast on the 29th of
May, 1692; died at Vaubyessard on the 23rd of January 1693." One could
hardly make out those that followed, for the light of the lamps lowered
over the green cloth threw a dim shadow round the room. Burnishing the
horizontal pictures, it broke up against these in delicate lines where
there were cracks in the varnish, and from all these great black squares
framed in with gold stood out here and there some lighter portion of the
painting--a pale brow, two eyes that looked at you, perukes flowing over
and powdering red-coated shoulders, or the buckle of a garter above a
well-rounded calf.
The Marquis opened the drawing room door; one of the ladies (the
Marchioness herself) came to meet Emma. She made her sit down by her on
an ottoman, and began talking to her as amicably as if she had known her
a long time. She was a woman of about forty, with fine shoulders, a hook
nose, a drawling voice, and on this evening she wore over her brown hair
a simple guipure fichu that fell in a point at the back. A fair young
woman sat in a high-backed chair in a corner; and gentlemen with flowers
in their buttonholes were talking to ladies round the fire.
At seven dinner was served. The men, who were in the majority, sat down
at the first table in the vestibule; the ladies at the second in the
dining room with the Marquis and Marchioness.
Emma, on entering, felt herself wrapped round by the warm air, a
blending of the perfume of flowers and of the fine linen, of the fumes
of the viands, and the odour of the truffles. The silver dish covers
reflected the lighted wax candles in the candelabra, the cut crystal
covered with light steam reflected from one to the other pale rays;
bouquets were placed in a row the whole length of the table; and in
the large-bordered plates each napkin, arranged after the fashion of a
bishop's mitre, held between its two gaping folds a small oval shaped
roll. The red claws of lobsters hung over the dishes; rich fruit in open
baskets was piled up on moss; there were quails in their plumage; smoke
was rising; and in silk stockings, knee-breeches, white cravat, and
frilled shirt, the steward, grave as a judge, offering ready carved
dishes between the shoulders of the guests, with a touch of the spoon
gave you the piece chosen. On the large stove of porcelain inlaid
with copper baguettes the statue of a woman, draped to the chin, gazed
motionless on the room full of life.
Madame Bovary noticed that many ladies had not put their gloves in their
glasses.
But at the upper end of the table, alone amongst all these women, bent
over his full plate, and his napkin tied round his neck like a child, an
old man sat eating, letting drops of gravy drip from his mouth. His eyes
were bloodshot, and he wore a little queue tied with black ribbon. He
was the Marquis's father-in-law, the old Duke de Laverdiere, once on
a time favourite of the Count d'Artois, in the days of the Vaudreuil
hunting-parties at the Marquis de Conflans', and had been, it was said,
the lover of Queen Marie Antoinette, between Monsieur de Coigny and
Monsieur de Lauzun. He had lived a life of noisy debauch, full of duels,
bets, elopements; he had squandered his fortune and frightened all his
family. A servant behind his chair named aloud to him in his ear the
dishes that he pointed to stammering, and constantly Emma's eyes
turned involuntarily to this old man with hanging lips, as to something
extraordinary. He had lived at court and slept in the bed of queens!
Iced champagne was poured out. Emma shivered all over as she felt
it cold in her mouth. She had never seen pomegranates nor tasted
pineapples. The powdered sugar even seemed to her whiter and finer than
elsewhere.
The ladies afterwards went to their rooms to prepare for the ball.
Emma made her toilet with the fastidious care of an actress on her
debut. She did her hair according to the directions of the hairdresser,
and put on the barege dress spread out upon the bed.
Charles's trousers were tight across the belly.
"My trouser-straps will be rather awkward for dancing," he said.
"Dancing?" repeated Emma.
"Yes!"
"Why, you must be mad! They would make fun of you; keep your place.
Besides, it is more becoming for a doctor," she added.
Charles was silent. He walked up and down waiting for Emma to finish
dressing.
He saw her from behind in the glass between two lights. Her black eyes
seemed blacker than ever. Her hair, undulating towards the ears, shone
with a blue lustre; a rose in her chignon trembled on its mobile stalk,
with artificial dewdrops on the tip of the leaves. She wore a gown of
pale saffron trimmed with three bouquets of pompon roses mixed with
green.
Charles came and kissed her on her shoulder.
"Let me alone!" she said; "you are tumbling me."
One could hear the flourish of the violin and the notes of a horn. She
went downstairs restraining herself from running.
Dancing had begun. Guests were arriving. There was some crushing.
She sat down on a form near the door.
The quadrille over, the floor was occupied by groups of men standing up
and talking and servants in livery bearing large trays. Along the line
of seated women painted fans were fluttering, bouquets half hid smiling
faces, and gold stoppered scent-bottles were turned in partly-closed
hands, whose white gloves outlined the nails and tightened on the flesh
at the wrists. Lace trimmings, diamond brooches, medallion bracelets
trembled on bodices, gleamed on breasts, clinked on bare arms.
The hair, well-smoothed over the temples and knotted at the nape,
bore crowns, or bunches, or sprays of mytosotis, jasmine, pomegranate
blossoms, ears of corn, and corn-flowers. Calmly seated in their places,
mothers with forbidding countenances were wearing red turbans.
Emma's heart beat rather faster when, her partner holding her by the
tips of the fingers, she took her place in a line with the dancers, and
waited for the first note to start. But her emotion soon vanished, and,
swaying to the rhythm of the orchestra, she glided forward with slight
movements of the neck. A smile rose to her lips at certain delicate
phrases of the violin, that sometimes played alone while the other
instruments were silent; one could hear the clear clink of the louis
d'or that were being thrown down upon the card tables in the next room;
then all struck again, the cornet-a-piston uttered its sonorous note,
feet marked time, skirts swelled and rustled, hands touched and parted;
the same eyes falling before you met yours again.
A few men (some fifteen or so), of twenty-five to forty, scattered here
and there among the dancers or talking at the doorways, distinguished
themselves from the crowd by a certain air of breeding, whatever their
differences in age, dress, or face.
Their clothes, better made, seemed of finer cloth, and their hair,
brought forward in curls towards the temples, glossy with more delicate
pomades. They had the complexion of wealth--that clear complexion that
is heightened by the pallor of porcelain, the shimmer of satin, the
veneer of old furniture, and that an ordered regimen of exquisite
nurture maintains at its best. Their necks moved easily in their low
cravats, their long whiskers fell over their turned-down collars, they
wiped their lips upon handkerchiefs with embroidered initials that gave
forth a subtle perfume. Those who were beginning to grow old had an air
of youth, while there was something mature in the faces of the young.
In their unconcerned looks was the calm of passions daily satiated, and
through all their gentleness of manner pierced that peculiar brutality,
the result of a command of half-easy things, in which force is exercised
and vanity amused--the management of thoroughbred horses and the society
of loose women.
A few steps from Emma a gentleman in a blue coat was talking of Italy
with a pale young woman wearing a parure of pearls.
They were praising the breadth of the columns of St. Peter's, Tivoly,
Vesuvius, Castellamare, and Cassines, the roses of Genoa, the Coliseum
by moonlight. With her other ear Emma was listening to a conversation
full of words she did not understand. A circle gathered round a very
young man who the week before had beaten "Miss Arabella" and "Romolus,"
and won two thousand louis jumping a ditch in England. One complained
that his racehorses were growing fat; another of the printers' errors
that had disfigured the name of his horse.
The atmosphere of the ball was heavy; the lamps were growing dim.
Guests were flocking to the billiard room. A servant got upon a chair
and broke the window-panes. At the crash of the glass Madame Bovary
turned her head and saw in the garden the faces of peasants pressed
against the window looking in at them. Then the memory of the Bertaux
came back to her. She saw the farm again, the muddy pond, her father in
a blouse under the apple trees, and she saw herself again as formerly,
skimming with her finger the cream off the milk-pans in the dairy. But
in the refulgence of the present hour her past life, so distinct until
then, faded away completely, and she almost doubted having lived it. She
was there; beyond the ball was only shadow overspreading all the rest.
She was just eating a maraschino ice that she held with her left hand
in a silver-gilt cup, her eyes half-closed, and the spoon between her
teeth.
A lady near her dropped her fan. A gentlemen was passing.
"Would you be so good," said the lady, "as to pick up my fan that has
fallen behind the sofa?"
The gentleman bowed, and as he moved to stretch out his arm, Emma saw
the hand of a young woman throw something white, folded in a triangle,
into his hat. The gentleman, picking up the fan, offered it to the lady
respectfully; she thanked him with an inclination of the head, and began
smelling her bouquet.
After supper, where were plenty of Spanish and Rhine wines, soups a la
bisque and au lait d'amandes*, puddings a la Trafalgar, and all sorts of
cold meats with jellies that trembled in the dishes, the carriages one
after the other began to drive off. Raising the corners of the muslin
curtain, one could see the light of their lanterns glimmering through
the darkness. The seats began to empty, some card-players were still
left; the musicians were cooling the tips of their fingers on their
tongues. Charles was half asleep, his back propped against a door.
*With almond milk
At three o'clock the cotillion began. Emma did not know how to waltz.
Everyone was waltzing, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers herself and the
Marquis; only the guests staying at the castle were still there, about a
dozen persons.
One of the waltzers, however, who was familiarly called Viscount, and
whose low cut waistcoat seemed moulded to his chest, came a second time
to ask Madame Bovary to dance, assuring her that he would guide her, and
that she would get through it very well.
They began slowly, then went more rapidly. They turned; all around them
was turning--the lamps, the furniture, the wainscoting, the floor, like
a disc on a pivot. On passing near the doors the bottom of Emma's dress
caught against his trousers.
Their legs commingled; he looked down at her; she raised her eyes to
his. A torpor seized her; she stopped. They started again, and with a
more rapid movement; the Viscount, dragging her along disappeared with
her to the end of the gallery, where panting, she almost fell, and for
a moment rested her head upon his breast. And then, still turning, but
more slowly, he guided her back to her seat. She leaned back against the
wall and covered her eyes with her hands.
When she opened them again, in the middle of the drawing room three
waltzers were kneeling before a lady sitting on a stool.
She chose the Viscount, and the violin struck up once more.
Everyone looked at them. They passed and re-passed, she with rigid body,
her chin bent down, and he always in the same pose, his figure curved,
his elbow rounded, his chin thrown forward. That woman knew how to
waltz! They kept up a long time, and tired out all the others.
Then they talked a few moments longer, and after the goodnights, or
rather good mornings, the guests of the chateau retired to bed.
Charles dragged himself up by the balusters. His "knees were going
up into his body." He had spent five consecutive hours standing
bolt upright at the card tables, watching them play whist, without
understanding anything about it, and it was with a deep sigh of relief
that he pulled off his boots.
Emma threw a shawl over her shoulders, opened the window, and leant out.
The night was dark; some drops of rain were falling. She breathed in the
damp wind that refreshed her eyelids. The music of the ball was still
murmuring in her ears. And she tried to keep herself awake in order to
prolong the illusion of this luxurious life that she would soon have to
give up.
Day began to break. She looked long at the windows of the chateau,
trying to guess which were the rooms of all those she had noticed the
evening before. She would fain have known their lives, have penetrated,
blended with them. But she was shivering with cold. She undressed, and
cowered down between the sheets against Charles, who was asleep.
There were a great many people to luncheon. The repast lasted ten
minutes; no liqueurs were served, which astonished the doctor.
Next, Mademoiselle d'Andervilliers collected some pieces of roll in a
small basket to take them to the swans on the ornamental waters, and
they went to walk in the hot-houses, where strange plants, bristling
with hairs, rose in pyramids under hanging vases, whence, as from
over-filled nests of serpents, fell long green cords interlacing.
The orangery, which was at the other end, led by a covered way to the
outhouses of the chateau. The Marquis, to amuse the young woman, took
her to see the stables.
Above the basket-shaped racks porcelain slabs bore the names of the
horses in black letters. Each animal in its stall whisked its tail when
anyone went near and said "Tchk! tchk!" The boards of the harness room
shone like the flooring of a drawing room. The carriage harness was
piled up in the middle against two twisted columns, and the bits, the
whips, the spurs, the curbs, were ranged in a line all along the wall.
Charles, meanwhile, went to ask a groom to put his horse to. The
dog-cart was brought to the foot of the steps, and, all the parcels
being crammed in, the Bovarys paid their respects to the Marquis and
Marchioness and set out again for Tostes.
Emma watched the turning wheels in silence. Charles, on the extreme edge
of the seat, held the reins with his two arms wide apart, and the little
horse ambled along in the shafts that were too big for him. The loose
reins hanging over his crupper were wet with foam, and the box fastened
on behind the chaise gave great regular bumps against it.
They were on the heights of Thibourville when suddenly some horsemen
with cigars between their lips passed laughing. Emma thought she
recognized the Viscount, turned back, and caught on the horizon only the
movement of the heads rising or falling with the unequal cadence of the
trot or gallop.
A mile farther on they had to stop to mend with some string the traces
that had broken.
But Charles, giving a last look to the harness, saw something on the
ground between his horse's legs, and he picked up a cigar-case with
a green silk border and beblazoned in the centre like the door of a
carriage.
"There are even two cigars in it," said he; "they'll do for this evening
after dinner."
"Why, do you smoke?" she asked.
"Sometimes, when I get a chance."
He put his find in his pocket and whipped up the nag.
When they reached home the dinner was not ready. Madame lost her temper.
Nastasie answered rudely.
"Leave the room!" said Emma. "You are forgetting yourself. I give you
warning."
For dinner there was onion soup and a piece of veal with sorrel.
Charles, seated opposite Emma, rubbed his hands gleefully.
"How good it is to be at home again!"
Nastasie could be heard crying. He was rather fond of the poor girl.
She had formerly, during the wearisome time of his widowhood, kept him
company many an evening. She had been his first patient, his oldest
acquaintance in the place.
"Have you given her warning for good?" he asked at last.
"Yes. Who is to prevent me?" she replied.
Then they warmed themselves in the kitchen while their room was being
made ready. Charles began to smoke. He smoked with lips protruding,
spitting every moment, recoiling at every puff.
"You'll make yourself ill," she said scornfully.
He put down his cigar and ran to swallow a glass of cold water at the
pump. Emma seizing hold of the cigar case threw it quickly to the back
of the cupboard.
The next day was a long one. She walked about her little garden, up
and down the same walks, stopping before the beds, before the espalier,
before the plaster curate, looking with amazement at all these things
of once-on-a-time that she knew so well. How far off the ball seemed
already! What was it that thus set so far asunder the morning of the day
before yesterday and the evening of to-day? Her journey to Vaubyessard
had made a hole in her life, like one of those great crevices that
a storm will sometimes make in one night in mountains. Still she was
resigned. She devoutly put away in her drawers her beautiful dress, down
to the satin shoes whose soles were yellowed with the slippery wax of
the dancing floor. Her heart was like these. In its friction against
wealth something had come over it that could not be effaced.
The memory of this ball, then, became an occupation for Emma.
Whenever the Wednesday came round she said to herself as she awoke, "Ah!
I was there a week--a fortnight--three weeks ago."
And little by little the faces grew confused in her remembrance.
She forgot the tune of the quadrilles; she no longer saw the liveries
and appointments so distinctly; some details escaped her, but the regret
remained with her. | At the marquis' new Italian-styled chateau the marquis leads Emma into the room where the marquise and some other ladies are sitting. The marquise talks to Emma easily and with kindness. The dinner is opulent and the service immaculate. The marquis' senile father-in-law sits at the head of the table. He is rumored to have been one of Marie-Antoinette's lovers. Despite the old man's grotesque appearance and poor manners Emma is thrilled to be in his presence. After dinner the ladies retire to prepare for the ball. Emma laughs at Charles when he informs her of his intention to dance and she dances several quadrilles with other partners. The men occupy themselves at the gaming tables but Charles is unable to make sense of the games. Scattered among them are the true blue-bloods who bear the marks of breeding - fine clothes, fine complexions and world weary countenances. Emma overhears a couple discussing the merits of travel in Italy. As the night progresses Emma is overcome by the glamour of the party but Charles is half asleep against a door. At 3am the band begins a waltz. Although she has never danced a waltz Emma accepts the invitation of a man whom everyone refers to as "vicomte". She is awkward on the floor and out of breath she leans her head against his chest. Later in their room Charles falls immediately asleep but Emma remains awake, leaning on the windowsill and pondering all she has experienced at the party. The next morning she and Charles dine with the remaining guests and then depart. On their way home they pass several groups of revelers and Charles finds a dropped cigar case bearing a crest still containing some cigars. At home Emma is enraged to discover that Nastasie does not have dinner ready and fires the old woman on the spot. After dinner Charles tries one of the cigars but the smoke makes him sick. Emma takes the cigar case and hides it in her closet. Though the specific details of the ball fade in Emma's memory the yearning for the glamour of that night does not abate |
On my return, I found the following letter from my father:--
"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.
"MY DEAR VICTOR,
"You have probably waited impatiently for a letter to fix the date of
your return to us; and I was at first tempted to write only a few lines,
merely mentioning the day on which I should expect you. But that would
be a cruel kindness, and I dare not do it. What would be your surprise,
my son, when you expected a happy and gay welcome, to behold, on the
contrary, tears and wretchedness? And how, Victor, can I relate our
misfortune? Absence cannot have rendered you callous to our joys and
griefs; and how shall I inflict pain on an absent child? I wish to
prepare you for the woeful news, but I know it is impossible; even now
your eye skims over the page, to seek the words which are to convey to
you the horrible tidings.
"William is dead!--that sweet child, whose smiles delighted and warmed
my heart, who was so gentle, yet so gay! Victor, he is murdered!
"I will not attempt to console you; but will simply relate the
circumstances of the transaction.
"Last Thursday (May 7th) I, my niece, and your two brothers, went to
walk in Plainpalais. The evening was warm and serene, and we prolonged
our walk farther than usual. It was already dusk before we thought of
returning; and then we discovered that William and Ernest, who had gone
on before, were not to be found. We accordingly rested on a seat until
they should return. Presently Ernest came, and inquired if we had seen
his brother: he said, that they had been playing together, that William
had run away to hide himself, and that he vainly sought for him, and
afterwards waited for him a long time, but that he did not return.
"This account rather alarmed us, and we continued to search for him
until night fell, when Elizabeth conjectured that he might have returned
to the house. He was not there. We returned again, with torches; for I
could not rest, when I thought that my sweet boy had lost himself, and
was exposed to all the damps and dews of night: Elizabeth also suffered
extreme anguish. About five in the morning I discovered my lovely boy,
whom the night before I had seen blooming and active in health,
stretched on the grass livid and motionless: the print of the murderer's
finger was on his neck.
"He was conveyed home, and the anguish that was visible in my
countenance betrayed the secret to Elizabeth. She was very earnest to
see the corpse. At first I attempted to prevent her; but she persisted,
and entering the room where it lay, hastily examined the neck of the
victim, and clasping her hands exclaimed, 'O God! I have murdered my
darling infant!'
"She fainted, and was restored with extreme difficulty. When she again
lived, it was only to weep and sigh. She told me, that that same evening
William had teazed her to let him wear a very valuable miniature that
she possessed of your mother. This picture is gone, and was doubtless
the temptation which urged the murderer to the deed. We have no trace of
him at present, although our exertions to discover him are unremitted;
but they will not restore my beloved William.
"Come, dearest Victor; you alone can console Elizabeth. She weeps
continually, and accuses herself unjustly as the cause of his death; her
words pierce my heart. We are all unhappy; but will not that be an
additional motive for you, my son, to return and be our comforter? Your
dear mother! Alas, Victor! I now say, Thank God she did not live to
witness the cruel, miserable death of her youngest darling!
"Come, Victor; not brooding thoughts of vengeance against the assassin,
but with feelings of peace and gentleness, that will heal, instead of
festering the wounds of our minds. Enter the house of mourning, my
friend, but with kindness and affection for those who love you, and not
with hatred for your enemies.
"Your affectionate and afflicted father,
"ALPHONSE FRANKENSTEIN.
"Geneva, May 12th, 17--."
* * * * *
Clerval, who had watched my countenance as I read this letter, was
surprised to observe the despair that succeeded to the joy I at first
expressed on receiving news from my friends. I threw the letter on the
table, and covered my face with my hands.
"My dear Frankenstein," exclaimed Henry, when he perceived me weep with
bitterness, "are you always to be unhappy? My dear friend, what has
happened?"
I motioned to him to take up the letter, while I walked up and down the
room in the extremest agitation. Tears also gushed from the eyes of
Clerval, as he read the account of my misfortune.
"I can offer you no consolation, my friend," said he; "your disaster is
irreparable. What do you intend to do?"
"To go instantly to Geneva: come with me, Henry, to order the horses."
During our walk, Clerval endeavoured to raise my spirits. He did not do
this by common topics of consolation, but by exhibiting the truest
sympathy. "Poor William!" said he, "that dear child; he now sleeps with
his angel mother. His friends mourn and weep, but he is at rest: he does
not now feel the murderer's grasp; a sod covers his gentle form, and he
knows no pain. He can no longer be a fit subject for pity; the survivors
are the greatest sufferers, and for them time is the only consolation.
Those maxims of the Stoics, that death was no evil, and that the mind of
man ought to be superior to despair on the eternal absence of a beloved
object, ought not to be urged. Even Cato wept over the dead body of his
brother."
Clerval spoke thus as we hurried through the streets; the words
impressed themselves on my mind, and I remembered them afterwards in
solitude. But now, as soon as the horses arrived, I hurried into a
cabriole, and bade farewell to my friend.
My journey was very melancholy. At first I wished to hurry on, for I
longed to console and sympathize with my loved and sorrowing friends;
but when I drew near my native town, I slackened my progress. I could
hardly sustain the multitude of feelings that crowded into my mind. I
passed through scenes familiar to my youth, but which I had not seen for
nearly six years. How altered every thing might be during that time? One
sudden and desolating change had taken place; but a thousand little
circumstances might have by degrees worked other alterations which,
although they were done more tranquilly, might not be the less decisive.
Fear overcame me; I dared not advance, dreading a thousand nameless
evils that made me tremble, although I was unable to define them.
I remained two days at Lausanne, in this painful state of mind. I
contemplated the lake: the waters were placid; all around was calm, and
the snowy mountains, "the palaces of nature," were not changed. By
degrees the calm and heavenly scene restored me, and I continued my
journey towards Geneva.
The road ran by the side of the lake, which became narrower as I
approached my native town. I discovered more distinctly the black sides
of Jura, and the bright summit of Mont Blanc; I wept like a child: "Dear
mountains! my own beautiful lake! how do you welcome your wanderer? Your
summits are clear; the sky and lake are blue and placid. Is this to
prognosticate peace, or to mock at my unhappiness?"
I fear, my friend, that I shall render myself tedious by dwelling on
these preliminary circumstances; but they were days of comparative
happiness, and I think of them with pleasure. My country, my beloved
country! who but a native can tell the delight I took in again beholding
thy streams, thy mountains, and, more than all, thy lovely lake.
Yet, as I drew nearer home, grief and fear again overcame me. Night also
closed around; and when I could hardly see the dark mountains, I felt
still more gloomily. The picture appeared a vast and dim scene of evil,
and I foresaw obscurely that I was destined to become the most wretched
of human beings. Alas! I prophesied truly, and failed only in one single
circumstance, that in all the misery I imagined and dreaded, I did not
conceive the hundredth part of the anguish I was destined to endure.
It was completely dark when I arrived in the environs of Geneva; the
gates of the town were already shut; and I was obliged to pass the night
at Secheron, a village half a league to the east of the city. The sky
was serene; and, as I was unable to rest, I resolved to visit the spot
where my poor William had been murdered. As I could not pass through the
town, I was obliged to cross the lake in a boat to arrive at
Plainpalais. During this short voyage I saw the lightnings playing on
the summit of Mont Blanc in the most beautiful figures. The storm
appeared to approach rapidly; and, on landing, I ascended a low hill,
that I might observe its progress. It advanced; the heavens were
clouded, and I soon felt the rain coming slowly in large drops, but its
violence quickly increased.
I quitted my seat, and walked on, although the darkness and storm
increased every minute, and the thunder burst with a terrific crash
over my head. It was echoed from Saleve, the Juras, and the Alps of
Savoy; vivid flashes of lightning dazzled my eyes, illuminating the
lake, making it appear like a vast sheet of fire; then for an instant
every thing seemed of a pitchy darkness, until the eye recovered itself
from the preceding flash. The storm, as is often the case in
Switzerland, appeared at once in various parts of the heavens. The most
violent storm hung exactly north of the town, over that part of the lake
which lies between the promontory of Belrive and the village of Copet.
Another storm enlightened Jura with faint flashes; and another darkened
and sometimes disclosed the Mole, a peaked mountain to the east of the
lake.
While I watched the storm, so beautiful yet terrific, I wandered on with
a hasty step. This noble war in the sky elevated my spirits; I clasped
my hands, and exclaimed aloud, "William, dear angel! this is thy
funeral, this thy dirge!" As I said these words, I perceived in the
gloom a figure which stole from behind a clump of trees near me; I stood
fixed, gazing intently: I could not be mistaken. A flash of lightning
illuminated the object, and discovered its shape plainly to me; its
gigantic stature, and the deformity of its aspect, more hideous than
belongs to humanity, instantly informed me that it was the wretch, the
filthy daemon to whom I had given life. What did he there? Could he be (I
shuddered at the conception) the murderer of my brother? No sooner did
that idea cross my imagination, than I became convinced of its truth; my
teeth chattered, and I was forced to lean against a tree for support.
The figure passed me quickly, and I lost it in the gloom. Nothing in
human shape could have destroyed that fair child. _He_ was the murderer!
I could not doubt it. The mere presence of the idea was an irresistible
proof of the fact. I thought of pursuing the devil; but it would have
been in vain, for another flash discovered him to me hanging among the
rocks of the nearly perpendicular ascent of Mont Saleve, a hill that
bounds Plainpalais on the south. He soon reached the summit, and
disappeared.
I remained motionless. The thunder ceased; but the rain still continued,
and the scene was enveloped in an impenetrable darkness. I revolved in
my mind the events which I had until now sought to forget: the whole
train of my progress towards the creation; the appearance of the work of
my own hands alive at my bed side; its departure. Two years had now
nearly elapsed since the night on which he first received life; and was
this his first crime? Alas! I had turned loose into the world a depraved
wretch, whose delight was in carnage and misery; had he not murdered my
brother?
No one can conceive the anguish I suffered during the remainder of the
night, which I spent, cold and wet, in the open air. But I did not feel
the inconvenience of the weather; my imagination was busy in scenes of
evil and despair. I considered the being whom I had cast among mankind,
and endowed with the will and power to effect purposes of horror, such
as the deed which he had now done, nearly in the light of my own
vampire, my own spirit let loose from the grave, and forced to destroy
all that was dear to me.
Day dawned; and I directed my steps towards the town. The gates were
open; and I hastened to my father's house. My first thought was to
discover what I knew of the murderer, and cause instant pursuit to be
made. But I paused when I reflected on the story that I had to tell. A
being whom I myself had formed, and endued with life, had met me at
midnight among the precipices of an inaccessible mountain. I remembered
also the nervous fever with which I had been seized just at the time
that I dated my creation, and which would give an air of delirium to a
tale otherwise so utterly improbable. I well knew that if any other had
communicated such a relation to me, I should have looked upon it as the
ravings of insanity. Besides, the strange nature of the animal would
elude all pursuit, even if I were so far credited as to persuade my
relatives to commence it. Besides, of what use would be pursuit? Who
could arrest a creature capable of scaling the overhanging sides of Mont
Saleve? These reflections determined me, and I resolved to remain
silent.
It was about five in the morning when I entered my father's house. I
told the servants not to disturb the family, and went into the library
to attend their usual hour of rising.
Six years had elapsed, passed as a dream but for one indelible trace,
and I stood in the same place where I had last embraced my father before
my departure for Ingolstadt. Beloved and respectable parent! He still
remained to me. I gazed on the picture of my mother, which stood over
the mantle-piece. It was an historical subject, painted at my father's
desire, and represented Caroline Beaufort in an agony of despair,
kneeling by the coffin of her dead father. Her garb was rustic, and her
cheek pale; but there was an air of dignity and beauty, that hardly
permitted the sentiment of pity. Below this picture was a miniature of
William; and my tears flowed when I looked upon it. While I was thus
engaged, Ernest entered: he had heard me arrive, and hastened to welcome
me. He expressed a sorrowful delight to see me: "Welcome, my dearest
Victor," said he. "Ah! I wish you had come three months ago, and then
you would have found us all joyous and delighted. But we are now
unhappy; and, I am afraid, tears instead of smiles will be your welcome.
Our father looks so sorrowful: this dreadful event seems to have revived
in his mind his grief on the death of Mamma. Poor Elizabeth also is
quite inconsolable." Ernest began to weep as he said these words.
"Do not," said I, "welcome me thus; try to be more calm, that I may not
be absolutely miserable the moment I enter my father's house after so
long an absence. But, tell me, how does my father support his
misfortunes? and how is my poor Elizabeth?"
"She indeed requires consolation; she accused herself of having caused
the death of my brother, and that made her very wretched. But since the
murderer has been discovered----"
"The murderer discovered! Good God! how can that be? who could attempt
to pursue him? It is impossible; one might as well try to overtake the
winds, or confine a mountain-stream with a straw."
"I do not know what you mean; but we were all very unhappy when she was
discovered. No one would believe it at first; and even now Elizabeth
will not be convinced, notwithstanding all the evidence. Indeed, who
would credit that Justine Moritz, who was so amiable, and fond of all
the family, could all at once become so extremely wicked?"
"Justine Moritz! Poor, poor girl, is she the accused? But it is
wrongfully; every one knows that; no one believes it, surely, Ernest?"
"No one did at first; but several circumstances came out, that have
almost forced conviction upon us: and her own behaviour has been so
confused, as to add to the evidence of facts a weight that, I fear,
leaves no hope for doubt. But she will be tried to-day, and you will
then hear all."
He related that, the morning on which the murder of poor William had
been discovered, Justine had been taken ill, and confined to her bed;
and, after several days, one of the servants, happening to examine the
apparel she had worn on the night of the murder, had discovered in her
pocket the picture of my mother, which had been judged to be the
temptation of the murderer. The servant instantly shewed it to one of
the others, who, without saying a word to any of the family, went to a
magistrate; and, upon their deposition, Justine was apprehended. On
being charged with the fact, the poor girl confirmed the suspicion in a
great measure by her extreme confusion of manner.
This was a strange tale, but it did not shake my faith; and I replied
earnestly, "You are all mistaken; I know the murderer. Justine, poor,
good Justine, is innocent."
At that instant my father entered. I saw unhappiness deeply impressed on
his countenance, but he endeavoured to welcome me cheerfully; and, after
we had exchanged our mournful greeting, would have introduced some other
topic than that of our disaster, had not Ernest exclaimed, "Good God,
Papa! Victor says that he knows who was the murderer of poor William."
"We do also, unfortunately," replied my father; "for indeed I had rather
have been for ever ignorant than have discovered so much depravity and
ingratitude in one I valued so highly."
"My dear father, you are mistaken; Justine is innocent."
"If she is, God forbid that she should suffer as guilty. She is to be
tried to-day, and I hope, I sincerely hope, that she will be acquitted."
This speech calmed me. I was firmly convinced in my own mind that
Justine, and indeed every human being, was guiltless of this murder. I
had no fear, therefore, that any circumstantial evidence could be
brought forward strong enough to convict her; and, in this assurance, I
calmed myself, expecting the trial with eagerness, but without
prognosticating an evil result.
We were soon joined by Elizabeth. Time had made great alterations in her
form since I had last beheld her. Six years before she had been a
pretty, good-humoured girl, whom every one loved and caressed. She was
now a woman in stature and expression of countenance, which was
uncommonly lovely. An open and capacious forehead gave indications of a
good understanding, joined to great frankness of disposition. Her eyes
were hazel, and expressive of mildness, now through recent affliction
allied to sadness. Her hair was of a rich, dark auburn, her complexion
fair, and her figure slight and graceful. She welcomed me with the
greatest affection. "Your arrival, my dear cousin," said she, "fills me
with hope. You perhaps will find some means to justify my poor guiltless
Justine. Alas! who is safe, if she be convicted of crime? I rely on her
innocence as certainly as I do upon my own. Our misfortune is doubly
hard to us; we have not only lost that lovely darling boy, but this poor
girl, whom I sincerely love, is to be torn away by even a worse fate. If
she is condemned, I never shall know joy more. But she will not, I am
sure she will not; and then I shall be happy again, even after the sad
death of my little William."
"She is innocent, my Elizabeth," said I, "and that shall be proved;
fear nothing, but let your spirits be cheered by the assurance of her
acquittal."
"How kind you are! every one else believes in her guilt, and that made
me wretched; for I knew that it was impossible: and to see every one
else prejudiced in so deadly a manner, rendered me hopeless and
despairing." She wept.
"Sweet niece," said my father, "dry your tears. If she is, as you
believe, innocent, rely on the justice of our judges, and the activity
with which I shall prevent the slightest shadow of partiality." | Back at school, Victor gets a letter from Dad. It's not good news: it seems that someone has murdered his little brother, William. He leaves for Geneva immediately, but he arrives too late, and the gates of the city have been closed for the night. Victor lurks around the woods near where his brother was killed. He sees the monster he created for a moment. Aha! It must be the monster's crime. Obviously. Because the monster is ugly. No one else has seen this monster or knows anything about it. At home the next day , Victor finds out that Justine has been accused of the murder because she has a picture of Caroline in her pocket --the same picture William had with him right before he died. Victor and Elizabeth are the only ones who think Justine is innocent. Well, Justine, too. But Victor won't tell anyone why, because he's afraid to be labeled a crazy person. |
His purpose had been to see Chad the next day, and he had prefigured
seeing him by an early call; having in general never stood on ceremony
in respect to visits at the Boulevard Malesherbes. It had been more
often natural for him to go there than for Chad to come to the small
hotel, the attractions of which were scant; yet it nevertheless, just
now, at the eleventh hour, did suggest itself to Strether to begin by
giving the young man a chance. It struck him that, in the inevitable
course, Chad would be "round," as Waymarsh used to say--Waymarsh who
already, somehow, seemed long ago. He hadn't come the day before,
because it had been arranged between them that Madame de Vionnet should
see their friend first; but now that this passage had taken place he
would present himself, and their friend wouldn't have long to wait.
Strether assumed, he became aware, on this reasoning, that the
interesting parties to the arrangement would have met betimes, and that
the more interesting of the two--as she was after all--would have
communicated to the other the issue of her appeal. Chad would know
without delay that his mother's messenger had been with her, and,
though it was perhaps not quite easy to see how she could qualify what
had occurred, he would at least have been sufficiently advised to feel
he could go on. The day, however, brought, early or late, no word from
him, and Strether felt, as a result of this, that a change had
practically come over their intercourse. It was perhaps a premature
judgement; or it only meant perhaps--how could he tell?--that the
wonderful pair he protected had taken up again together the excursion
he had accidentally checked. They might have gone back to the country,
and gone back but with a long breath drawn; that indeed would best mark
Chad's sense that reprobation hadn't rewarded Madame de Vionnet's
request for an interview. At the end of the twenty-four hours, at the
end of the forty-eight, there was still no overture; so that Strether
filled up the time, as he had so often filled it before, by going to
see Miss Gostrey.
He proposed amusements to her; he felt expert now in proposing
amusements; and he had thus, for several days, an odd sense of leading
her about Paris, of driving her in the Bois, of showing her the penny
steamboats--those from which the breeze of the Seine was to be best
enjoyed--that might have belonged to a kindly uncle doing the honours
of the capital to an Intelligent niece from the country. He found
means even to take her to shops she didn't know, or that she pretended
she didn't; while she, on her side, was, like the country maiden, all
passive modest and grateful--going in fact so far as to emulate
rusticity in occasional fatigues and bewilderments. Strether described
these vague proceedings to himself, described them even to her, as a
happy interlude; the sign of which was that the companions said for the
time no further word about the matter they had talked of to satiety. He
proclaimed satiety at the outset, and she quickly took the hint; as
docile both in this and in everything else as the intelligent obedient
niece. He told her as yet nothing of his late adventure--for as an
adventure it now ranked with him; he pushed the whole business
temporarily aside and found his interest in the fact of her beautiful
assent. She left questions unasked--she who for so long had been all
questions; she gave herself up to him with an understanding of which
mere mute gentleness might have seemed the sufficient expression. She
knew his sense of his situation had taken still another step--of that
he was quite aware; but she conveyed that, whatever had thus happened
for him, it was thrown into the shade by what was happening for
herself. This--though it mightn't to a detached spirit have seemed
much--was the major interest, and she met it with a new directness of
response, measuring it from hour to hour with her grave hush of
acceptance. Touched as he had so often been by her before, he was, for
his part too, touched afresh; all the more that though he could be duly
aware of the principle of his own mood he couldn't be equally so of the
principle of hers. He knew, that is, in a manner--knew roughly and
resignedly--what he himself was hatching; whereas he had to take the
chance of what he called to himself Maria's calculations. It was all
he needed that she liked him enough for what they were doing, and even
should they do a good deal more would still like him enough for that;
the essential freshness of a relation so simple was a cool bath to the
soreness produced by other relations. These others appeared to him now
horribly complex; they bristled with fine points, points all
unimaginable beforehand, points that pricked and drew blood; a fact
that gave to an hour with his present friend on a bateau-mouche, or in
the afternoon shade of the Champs Elysees, something of the innocent
pleasure of handling rounded ivory. His relation with Chad
personally--from the moment he had got his point of view--had been of
the simplest; yet this also struck him as bristling, after a third and
a fourth blank day had passed. It was as if at last however his care
for such indications had dropped; there came a fifth blank day and he
ceased to enquire or to heed.
They now took on to his fancy, Miss Gostrey and he, the image of the
Babes in the Wood; they could trust the merciful elements to let them
continue at peace. He had been great already, as he knew, at
postponements; but he had only to get afresh into the rhythm of one to
feel its fine attraction. It amused him to say to himself that he
might for all the world have been going to die--die resignedly; the
scene was filled for him with so deep a death-bed hush, so melancholy a
charm. That meant the postponement of everything else--which made so
for the quiet lapse of life; and the postponement in especial of the
reckoning to come--unless indeed the reckoning to come were to be one
and the same thing with extinction. It faced him, the reckoning, over
the shoulder of much interposing experience--which also faced him; and
one would float to it doubtless duly through these caverns of Kubla
Khan. It was really behind everything; it hadn't merged in what he had
done; his final appreciation of what he had done--his appreciation on
the spot--would provide it with its main sharpness. The spot so
focussed was of course Woollett, and he was to see, at the best, what
Woollett would be with everything there changed for him. Wouldn't THAT
revelation practically amount to the wind-up of his career? Well, the
summer's end would show; his suspense had meanwhile exactly the
sweetness of vain delay; and he had with it, we should mention, other
pastimes than Maria's company--plenty of separate musings in which his
luxury failed him but at one point. He was well in port, the outer sea
behind him, and it was only a matter of getting ashore. There was a
question that came and went for him, however, as he rested against the
side of his ship, and it was a little to get rid of the obsession that
he prolonged his hours with Miss Gostrey. It was a question about
himself, but it could only be settled by seeing Chad again; it was
indeed his principal reason for wanting to see Chad. After that it
wouldn't signify--it was a ghost that certain words would easily lay to
rest. Only the young man must be there to take the words. Once they
were taken he wouldn't have a question left; none, that is, in
connexion with this particular affair. It wouldn't then matter even to
himself that he might now have been guilty of speaking BECAUSE of what
he had forfeited. That was the refinement of his supreme scruple--he
wished so to leave what he had forfeited out of account. He wished not
to do anything because he had missed something else, because he was
sore or sorry or impoverished, because he was maltreated or desperate;
he wished to do everything because he was lucid and quiet, just the
same for himself on all essential points as he had ever been. Thus it
was that while he virtually hung about for Chad he kept mutely putting
it: "You've been chucked, old boy; but what has that to do with it?"
It would have sickened him to feel vindictive.
These tints of feeling indeed were doubtless but the iridescence of his
idleness, and they were presently lost in a new light from Maria. She
had a fresh fact for him before the week was out, and she practically
met him with it on his appearing one night. He hadn't on this day seen
her, but had planned presenting himself in due course to ask her to
dine with him somewhere out of doors, on one of the terraces, in one of
the gardens, of which the Paris of summer was profuse. It had then
come on to rain, so that, disconcerted, he changed his mind; dining
alone at home, a little stuffily and stupidly, and waiting on her
afterwards to make up his loss. He was sure within a minute that
something had happened; it was so in the air of the rich little room
that he had scarcely to name his thought. Softly lighted, the whole
colour of the place, with its vague values, was in cool fusion--an
effect that made the visitor stand for a little agaze. It was as if in
doing so now he had felt a recent presence--his recognition of the
passage of which his hostess in turn divined. She had scarcely to say
it--"Yes, she has been here, and this time I received her." It wasn't
till a minute later that she added: "There being, as I understand you,
no reason NOW--!"
"None for your refusing?"
"No--if you've done what you've had to do."
"I've certainly so far done it," Strether said, "as that you needn't
fear the effect, or the appearance of coming between us. There's
nothing between us now but what we ourselves have put there, and not an
inch of room for anything else whatever. Therefore you're only
beautifully WITH us as always--though doubtless now, if she has talked
to you, rather more with us than less. Of course if she came," he
added, "it was to talk to you."
"It was to talk to me," Maria returned; on which he was further sure
that she was practically in possession of what he himself hadn't yet
told her. He was even sure she was in possession of things he himself
couldn't have told; for the consciousness of them was now all in her
face and accompanied there with a shade of sadness that marked in her
the close of all uncertainties. It came out for him more than ever yet
that she had had from the first a knowledge she believed him not to
have had, a knowledge the sharp acquisition of which might be destined
to make a difference for him. The difference for him might not
inconceivably be an arrest of his independence and a change in his
attitude--in other words a revulsion in favour of the principles of
Woollett. She had really prefigured the possibility of a shock that
would send him swinging back to Mrs. Newsome. He hadn't, it was true,
week after week, shown signs of receiving it, but the possibility had
been none the less in the air. What Maria accordingly had had now to
take in was that the shock had descended and that he hadn't, all the
same, swung back. He had grown clear, in a flash, on a point long
since settled for herself; but no reapproximation to Mrs. Newsome had
occurred in consequence. Madame de Vionnet had by her visit held up
the torch to these truths, and what now lingered in poor Maria's face
was the somewhat smoky light of the scene between them. If the light
however wasn't, as we have hinted, the glow of joy, the reasons for
this also were perhaps discernible to Strether even through the blur
cast over them by his natural modesty. She had held herself for months
with a firm hand; she hadn't interfered on any chance--and chances were
specious enough--that she might interfere to her profit. She had
turned her back on the dream that Mrs. Newsome's rupture, their
friend's forfeiture--the engagement the relation itself, broken beyond
all mending--might furnish forth her advantage; and, to stay her hand
from promoting these things, she had on private, difficult, but rigid,
lines, played strictly fair. She couldn't therefore but feel that,
though, as the end of all, the facts in question had been stoutly
confirmed, her ground for personal, for what might have been called
interested, elation remained rather vague. Strether might easily have
made out that she had been asking herself, in the hours she had just
sat through, if there were still for her, or were only not, a fair
shade of uncertainty. Let us hasten to add, however, that what he at
first made out on this occasion he also at first kept to himself. He
only asked what in particular Madame de Vionnet had come for, and as to
this his companion was ready.
"She wants tidings of Mr. Newsome, whom she appears not to have seen
for some days."
"Then she hasn't been away with him again?"
"She seemed to think," Maria answered, "that he might have gone away
with YOU."
"And did you tell her I know nothing of him?"
She had her indulgent headshake. "I've known nothing of what you know.
I could only tell her I'd ask you."
"Then I've not seen him for a week--and of course I've wondered." His
wonderment showed at this moment as sharper, but he presently went on.
"Still, I dare say I can put my hand on him. Did she strike you," he
asked, "as anxious?"
"She's always anxious."
"After all I've done for her?" And he had one of the last flickers of
his occasional mild mirth. "To think that was just what I came out to
prevent!"
She took it up but to reply. "You don't regard him then as safe?"
"I was just going to ask you how in that respect you regard Madame de
Vionnet."
She looked at him a little. "What woman was EVER safe? She told me,"
she added--and it was as if at the touch of the connexion--"of your
extraordinary meeting in the country. After that a quoi se fier?"
"It was, as an accident, in all the possible or impossible chapter,"
Strether conceded, "amazing enough. But still, but still--!"
"But still she didn't mind?"
"She doesn't mind anything."
"Well, then, as you don't either, we may all sink to rest!"
He appeared to agree with her, but he had his reservation. "I do mind
Chad's disappearance."
"Oh you'll get him back. But now you know," she said, "why I went to
Mentone." He had sufficiently let her see that he had by this time
gathered things together, but there was nature in her wish to make them
clearer still. "I didn't want you to put it to me."
"To put it to you--?"
"The question of what you were at last--a week ago--to see for
yourself. I didn't want to have to lie for her. I felt that to be too
much for me. A man of course is always expected to do it--to do it, I
mean, for a woman; but not a woman for another woman; unless perhaps on
the tit-for-tat principle, as an indirect way of protecting herself. I
don't need protection, so that I was free to 'funk' you--simply to
dodge your test. The responsibility was too much for me. I gained
time, and when I came back the need of a test had blown over."
Strether thought of it serenely. "Yes; when you came back little
Bilham had shown me what's expected of a gentleman. Little Bilham had
lied like one."
"And like what you believed him?"
"Well," said Strether, "it was but a technical lie--he classed the
attachment as virtuous. That was a view for which there was much to be
said--and the virtue came out for me hugely There was of course a great
deal of it. I got it full in the face, and I haven't, you see, done
with it yet."
"What I see, what I saw," Maria returned, "is that you dressed up even
the virtue. You were wonderful--you were beautiful, as I've had the
honour of telling you before; but, if you wish really to know," she
sadly confessed, "I never quite knew WHERE you were. There were
moments," she explained, "when you struck me as grandly cynical; there
were others when you struck me as grandly vague."
Her friend considered. "I had phases. I had flights."
"Yes, but things must have a basis."
"A basis seemed to me just what her beauty supplied."
"Her beauty of person?"
"Well, her beauty of everything. The impression she makes. She has
such variety and yet such harmony."
She considered him with one of her deep returns of indulgence--returns
out of all proportion to the irritations they flooded over. "You're
complete."
"You're always too personal," he good-humouredly said; "but that's
precisely how I wondered and wandered."
"If you mean," she went on, "that she was from the first for you the
most charming woman in the world, nothing's more simple. Only that was
an odd foundation."
"For what I reared on it?"
"For what you didn't!"
"Well, it was all not a fixed quantity. And it had for me--it has
still--such elements of strangeness. Her greater age than his, her
different world, traditions, association; her other opportunities,
liabilities, standards."
His friend listened with respect to his enumeration of these
disparities; then she disposed of them at a stroke. "Those things are
nothing when a woman's hit. It's very awful. She was hit."
Strether, on his side, did justice to that plea. "Oh of course I saw
she was hit. That she was hit was what we were busy with; that she was
hit was our great affair. But somehow I couldn't think of her as down
in the dust. And as put there by OUR little Chad!"
"Yet wasn't 'your' little Chad just your miracle?"
Strether admitted it. "Of course I moved among miracles. It was all
phantasmagoric. But the great fact was that so much of it was none of
my business--as I saw my business. It isn't even now."
His companion turned away on this, and it might well have been yet
again with the sharpness of a fear of how little his philosophy could
bring her personally. "I wish SHE could hear you!"
"Mrs. Newsome?"
"No--not Mrs. Newsome; since I understand you that it doesn't matter
now what Mrs. Newsome hears. Hasn't she heard everything?"
"Practically--yes." He had thought a moment, but he went on. "You wish
Madame de Vionnet could hear me?"
"Madame de Vionnet." She had come back to him. "She thinks just the
contrary of what you say. That you distinctly judge her."
He turned over the scene as the two women thus placed together for him
seemed to give it. "She might have known--!"
"Might have known you don't?" Miss Gostrey asked as he let it drop.
"She was sure of it at first," she pursued as he said nothing; "she
took it for granted, at least, as any woman in her position would. But
after that she changed her mind; she believed you believed--"
"Well?"--he was curious.
"Why in her sublimity. And that belief had remained with her, I make
out, till the accident of the other day opened your eyes. For that it
did," said Maria, "open them--"
"She can't help"--he had taken it up--"being aware? No," he mused; "I
suppose she thinks of that even yet."
"Then they WERE closed? There you are! However, if you see her as the
most charming woman in the world it comes to the same thing. And if
you'd like me to tell her that you do still so see her--!" Miss
Gostrey, in short, offered herself for service to the end.
It was an offer he could temporarily entertain; but he decided. "She
knows perfectly how I see her."
"Not favourably enough, she mentioned to me, to wish ever to see her
again. She told me you had taken a final leave of her. She says
you've done with her."
"So I have."
Maria had a pause; then she spoke as if for conscience. "She wouldn't
have done with YOU. She feels she has lost you--yet that she might
have been better for you."
"Oh she has been quite good enough!" Strether laughed.
"She thinks you and she might at any rate have been friends."
"We might certainly. That's just"--he continued to laugh--"why I'm
going."
It was as if Maria could feel with this then at last that she had done
her best for each. But she had still an idea. "Shall I tell her that?"
"No. Tell her nothing."
"Very well then." To which in the next breath Miss Gostrey added: "Poor
dear thing!"
Her friend wondered; then with raised eyebrows: "Me?"
"Oh no. Marie de Vionnet."
He accepted the correction, but he wondered still. "Are you so sorry
for her as that?"
It made her think a moment--made her even speak with a smile. But she
didn't really retract. "I'm sorry for us all!" | Strether leaves his hotel with the aim of seeing Chad. Chad isn't back in Paris yet, so Strether decides to kill some time the same way he always does--by going to visit Maria Gostrey. For the next few days, Strether and Maria do everything together. They go to restaurants, see amusements, walk around, you name it. They don't do everything, but you get the picture. He knows that she has questions about the way he's acting, but she doesn't ask them. He realizes that as the days pass, he's getting stiffer around Maria and feeling more and more removed from her. She notices it, too, so one day she finally just asks him what's going on. He tells her that he knows about Chad and Madame de Vionnet, which, you guessed it, Maria has known all along. And that makes her just one more person who's been playing Strether like a fool. And this is it, she thinks. This is the big shock that will send Strether running back to Mrs. Newsome. It turns out that Madame has been in touch with Maria already and has been asking whether she's heard anything from Chad. The guy still isn't back in Paris and Madame is terrified that he has left her. Maria asks Strether if he's heard any word. But nope, he's none the wiser either. It also turns out that Madame has already told Maria about running into Strether out in the country. Gosh, these people are gossipy. Maria also admits that the true reason she left Paris when Strether first arrived was because she wanted to avoid his questions about Chad and Madame. She didn't want to have to lie to him, so she just avoided him. Some friend, right? At least that's what Strether thinks. Strether says that deep down, he still thinks the world of Madame de Vionnet. Maria wishes that Madame could hear Strether say that, but he probably wouldn't say it to Madame's face. Maria reports that Madame de Vionnet always felt like she was hiding from Strether because of her secret. But Strether says it takes two of tango, and that he is just as responsible for ignoring what was right in front of him. Finally, Strether tells Maria that he is leaving Paris. Maria feels bad for everyone in Paris, since they're losing such a wonderful man. Which is kind of cute, in a soppy make-ya-gag sort of way. |
When Miss Gostrey arrived, at the end of a week, she made him a sign;
he went immediately to see her, and it wasn't till then that he could
again close his grasp on the idea of a corrective. This idea however
was luckily all before him again from the moment he crossed the
threshold of the little entresol of the Quartier Marboeuf into which
she had gathered, as she said, picking them up in a thousand flights
and funny little passionate pounces, the makings of a final nest. He
recognised in an instant that there really, there only, he should find
the boon with the vision of which he had first mounted Chad's stairs.
He might have been a little scared at the picture of how much more, in
this place, he should know himself "in" hadn't his friend been on the
spot to measure the amount to his appetite. Her compact and crowded
little chambers, almost dusky, as they at first struck him, with
accumulations, represented a supreme general adjustment to
opportunities and conditions. Wherever he looked he saw an old ivory
or an old brocade, and he scarce knew where to sit for fear of a
misappliance. The life of the occupant struck him of a sudden as more
charged with possession even than Chad's or than Miss Barrace's; wide
as his glimpse had lately become of the empire of "things," what was
before him still enlarged it; the lust of the eyes and the pride of
life had indeed thus their temple. It was the innermost nook of the
shrine--as brown as a pirate's cave. In the brownness were glints of
gold; patches of purple were in the gloom; objects all that caught,
through the muslin, with their high rarity, the light of the low
windows. Nothing was clear about them but that they were precious, and
they brushed his ignorance with their contempt as a flower, in a
liberty taken with him, might have been whisked under his nose. But
after a full look at his hostess he knew none the less what most
concerned him. The circle in which they stood together was warm with
life, and every question between them would live there as nowhere else.
A question came up as soon as they had spoken, for his answer, with a
laugh, was quickly: "Well, they've got hold of me!" Much of their
talk on this first occasion was his development of that truth. He was
extraordinarily glad to see her, expressing to her frankly what she
most showed him, that one might live for years without a blessing
unsuspected, but that to know it at last for no more than three days
was to need it or miss it for ever. She was the blessing that had now
become his need, and what could prove it better than that without her
he had lost himself?
"What do you mean?" she asked with an absence of alarm that, correcting
him as if he had mistaken the "period" of one of her pieces, gave him
afresh a sense of her easy movement through the maze he had but begun
to tread. "What in the name of all the Pococks have you managed to do?"
"Why exactly the wrong thing. I've made a frantic friend of little
Bilham."
"Ah that sort of thing was of the essence of your case and to have been
allowed for from the first." And it was only after this that, quite as
a minor matter, she asked who in the world little Bilham might be. When
she learned that he was a friend of Chad's and living for the time in
Chad's rooms in Chad's absence, quite as if acting in Chad's spirit and
serving Chad's cause, she showed, however, more interest. "Should you
mind my seeing him? Only once, you know," she added.
"Oh the oftener the better: he's amusing--he's original."
"He doesn't shock you?" Miss Gostrey threw out.
"Never in the world! We escape that with a perfection--! I feel it to
be largely, no doubt, because I don't half-understand him; but our
modus vivendi isn't spoiled even by that. You must dine with me to
meet him," Strether went on. "Then you'll see.'
"Are you giving dinners?"
"Yes--there I am. That's what I mean."
All her kindness wondered. "That you're spending too much money?"
"Dear no--they seem to cost so little. But that I do it to THEM. I
ought to hold off."
She thought again--she laughed. "The money you must be spending to
think it cheap! But I must be out of it--to the naked eye."
He looked for a moment as if she were really failing him. "Then you
won't meet them?" It was almost as if she had developed an unexpected
personal prudence.
She hesitated. "Who are they--first?"
"Why little Bilham to begin with." He kept back for the moment Miss
Barrace. "And Chad--when he comes--you must absolutely see."
"When then does he come?"
"When Bilham has had time to write him, and hear from him about me.
Bilham, however," he pursued, "will report favourably--favourably for
Chad. That will make him not afraid to come. I want you the more
therefore, you see, for my bluff."
"Oh you'll do yourself for your bluff." She was perfectly easy. "At
the rate you've gone I'm quiet."
"Ah but I haven't," said Strether, "made one protest."
She turned it over. "Haven't you been seeing what there's to protest
about?"
He let her, with this, however ruefully, have the whole truth. "I
haven't yet found a single thing."
"Isn't there any one WITH him then?"
"Of the sort I came out about?" Strether took a moment. "How do I
know? And what do I care?"
"Oh oh!"--and her laughter spread. He was struck in fact by the effect
on her of his joke. He saw now how he meant it as a joke. SHE saw,
however, still other things, though in an instant she had hidden them.
"You've got at no facts at all?"
He tried to muster them. "Well, he has a lovely home."
"Ah that, in Paris," she quickly returned, "proves nothing. That is
rather it DISproves nothing. They may very well, you see, the people
your mission is concerned with, have done it FOR him."
"Exactly. And it was on the scene of their doings then that Waymarsh
and I sat guzzling."
"Oh if you forbore to guzzle here on scenes of doings," she replied,
"you might easily die of starvation." With which she smiled at him.
"You've worse before you."
"Ah I've EVERYTHING before me. But on our hypothesis, you know, they
must be wonderful."
"They ARE!" said Miss Gostrey. "You're not therefore, you see," she
added, "wholly without facts. They've BEEN, in effect, wonderful."
To have got at something comparatively definite appeared at last a
little to help--a wave by which moreover, the next moment, recollection
was washed. "My young man does admit furthermore that they're our
friend's great interest."
"Is that the expression he uses?"
Strether more exactly recalled. "No--not quite."
"Something more vivid? Less?"
He had bent, with neared glasses, over a group of articles on a small
stand; and at this he came up. "It was a mere allusion, but, on the
lookout as I was, it struck me. 'Awful, you know, as Chad is'--those
were Bilham's words."
"'Awful, you know'--? Oh!"--and Miss Gostrey turned them over. She
seemed, however, satisfied. "Well, what more do you want?"
He glanced once more at a bibelot or two, and everything sent him back.
"But it is all the same as if they wished to let me have it between the
eyes."
She wondered. "Quoi donc?"
"Why what I speak of. The amenity. They can stun you with that as
well as with anything else."
"Oh," she answered, "you'll come round! I must see them each," she went
on, "for myself. I mean Mr. Bilham and Mr. Newsome--Mr. Bilham
naturally first. Once only--once for each; that will do. But face to
face--for half an hour. What's Mr. Chad," she immediately pursued,
"doing at Cannes? Decent men don't go to Cannes with the--well, with
the kind of ladies you mean."
"Don't they?" Strether asked with an interest in decent men that
amused her.
"No, elsewhere, but not to Cannes. Cannes is different. Cannes is
better. Cannes is best. I mean it's all people you know--when you do
know them. And if HE does, why that's different too. He must have
gone alone. She can't be with him."
"I haven't," Strether confessed in his weakness, "the least idea."
There seemed much in what she said, but he was able after a little to
help her to a nearer impression. The meeting with little Bilham took
place, by easy arrangement, in the great gallery of the Louvre; and
when, standing with his fellow visitor before one of the splendid
Titians--the overwhelming portrait of the young man with the
strangely-shaped glove and the blue-grey eyes--he turned to see the
third member of their party advance from the end of the waxed and
gilded vista, he had a sense of having at last taken hold. He had
agreed with Miss Gostrey--it dated even from Chester--for a morning at
the Louvre, and he had embraced independently the same idea as thrown
out by little Bilham, whom he had already accompanied to the museum of
the Luxembourg. The fusion of these schemes presented no difficulty,
and it was to strike him again that in little Bilham's company
contrarieties in general dropped.
"Oh he's all right--he's one of US!" Miss Gostrey, after the first
exchange, soon found a chance to murmur to her companion; and Strether,
as they proceeded and paused and while a quick unanimity between the
two appeared to have phrased itself in half a dozen remarks--Strether
knew that he knew almost immediately what she meant, and took it as
still another sign that he had got his job in hand. This was the more
grateful to him that he could think of the intelligence now serving him
as an acquisition positively new. He wouldn't have known even the day
before what she meant--that is if she meant, what he assumed, that they
were intense Americans together. He had just worked round--and with a
sharper turn of the screw than any yet--to the conception of an
American intense as little Bilham was intense. The young man was his
first specimen; the specimen had profoundly perplexed him; at present
however there was light. It was by little Bilham's amazing serenity
that he had at first been affected, but he had inevitably, in his
circumspection, felt it as the trail of the serpent, the corruption, as
he might conveniently have said, of Europe; whereas the promptness with
which it came up for Miss Gostrey but as a special little form of the
oldest thing they knew justified it at once to his own vision as well.
He wanted to be able to like his specimen with a clear good conscience,
and this fully permitted it. What had muddled him was precisely the
small artist-man's way--it was so complete--of being more American than
anybody. But it now for the time put Strether vastly at his ease to
have this view of a new way.
The amiable youth then looked out, as it had first struck Strether, at
a world in respect to which he hadn't a prejudice. The one our friend
most instantly missed was the usual one in favour of an occupation
accepted. Little Bilham had an occupation, but it was only an
occupation declined; and it was by his general exemption from alarm,
anxiety or remorse on this score that the impression of his serenity
was made. He had come out to Paris to paint--to fathom, that is, at
large, that mystery; but study had been fatal to him so far as anything
COULD be fatal, and his productive power faltered in proportion as his
knowledge grew. Strether had gathered from him that at the moment of
his finding him in Chad's rooms he hadn't saved from his shipwreck a
scrap of anything but his beautiful intelligence and his confirmed
habit of Paris. He referred to these things with an equal fond
familiarity, and it was sufficiently clear that, as an outfit, they
still served him. They were charming to Strether through the hour
spent at the Louvre, where indeed they figured for him as an
unseparated part of the charged iridescent air, the glamour of the
name, the splendour of the space, the colour of the masters. Yet they
were present too wherever the young man led, and the day after the
visit to the Louvre they hung, in a different walk, about the steps of
our party. He had invited his companions to cross the river with him,
offering to show them his own poor place; and his own poor place, which
was very poor, gave to his idiosyncrasies, for Strether--the small
sublime indifference and independences that had struck the latter as
fresh--an odd and engaging dignity. He lived at the end of an alley
that went out of an old short cobbled street, a street that went in
turn out of a new long smooth avenue--street and avenue and alley
having, however, in common a sort of social shabbiness; and he
introduced them to the rather cold and blank little studio which he had
lent to a comrade for the term of his elegant absence. The comrade was
another ingenuous compatriot, to whom he had wired that tea was to
await them "regardless," and this reckless repast, and the second
ingenuous compatriot, and the faraway makeshift life, with its jokes
and its gaps, its delicate daubs and its three or four chairs, its
overflow of taste and conviction and its lack of nearly all else--these
things wove round the occasion a spell to which our hero unreservedly
surrendered.
He liked the ingenuous compatriots--for two or three others soon
gathered; he liked the delicate daubs and the free
discriminations--involving references indeed, involving enthusiasms and
execrations that made him, as they said, sit up; he liked above all the
legend of good-humoured poverty, of mutual accommodation fairly raised
to the romantic, that he soon read into the scene. The ingenuous
compatriots showed a candour, he thought, surpassing even the candour
of Woollett; they were red-haired and long-legged, they were quaint and
queer and dear and droll; they made the place resound with the
vernacular, which he had never known so marked as when figuring for the
chosen language, he must suppose, of contemporary art. They twanged
with a vengeance the aesthetic lyre--they drew from it wonderful airs.
This aspect of their life had an admirable innocence; and he looked on
occasion at Maria Gostrey to see to what extent that element reached
her. She gave him however for the hour, as she had given him the
previous day, no further sign than to show how she dealt with boys;
meeting them with the air of old Parisian practice that she had for
every one, for everything, in turn. Wonderful about the delicate daubs,
masterful about the way to make tea, trustful about the legs of chairs
and familiarly reminiscent of those, in the other time, the named, the
numbered or the caricatured, who had flourished or failed, disappeared
or arrived, she had accepted with the best grace her second course of
little Bilham, and had said to Strether, the previous afternoon on his
leaving them, that, since her impression was to be renewed, she would
reserve judgement till after the new evidence.
The new evidence was to come, as it proved, in a day or two. He soon
had from Maria a message to the effect that an excellent box at the
Francais had been lent her for the following night; it seeming on such
occasions not the least of her merits that she was subject to such
approaches. The sense of how she was always paying for something in
advance was equalled on Strether's part only by the sense of how she
was always being paid; all of which made for his consciousness, in the
larger air, of a lively bustling traffic, the exchange of such values
as were not for him to handle. She hated, he knew, at the French play,
anything but a box--just as she hated at the English anything but a
stall; and a box was what he was already in this phase girding himself
to press upon her. But she had for that matter her community with
little Bilham: she too always, on the great issues, showed as having
known in time. It made her constantly beforehand with him and gave him
mainly the chance to ask himself how on the day of their settlement
their account would stand. He endeavoured even now to keep it a little
straight by arranging that if he accepted her invitation she should
dine with him first; but the upshot of this scruple was that at eight
o'clock on the morrow he awaited her with Waymarsh under the pillared
portico. She hadn't dined with him, and it was characteristic of their
relation that she had made him embrace her refusal without in the least
understanding it. She ever caused her rearrangements to affect him as
her tenderest touches. It was on that principle for instance that,
giving him the opportunity to be amiable again to little Bilham, she
had suggested his offering the young man a seat in their box. Strether
had dispatched for this purpose a small blue missive to the Boulevard
Malesherbes, but up to the moment of their passing into the theatre he
had received no response to his message. He held, however, even after
they had been for some time conveniently seated, that their friend, who
knew his way about, would come in at his own right moment. His
temporary absence moreover seemed, as never yet, to make the right
moment for Miss Gostrey. Strether had been waiting till tonight to get
back from her in some mirrored form her impressions and conclusions.
She had elected, as they said, to see little Bilham once; but now she
had seen him twice and had nevertheless not said more than a word.
Waymarsh meanwhile sat opposite him with their hostess between; and
Miss Gostrey spoke of herself as an instructor of youth introducing her
little charges to a work that was one of the glories of literature. The
glory was happily unobjectionable, and the little charges were candid;
for herself she had travelled that road and she merely waited on their
innocence. But she referred in due time to their absent friend, whom
it was clear they should have to give up. "He either won't have got
your note," she said, "or you won't have got his: he has had some kind
of hindrance, and, of course, for that matter, you know, a man never
writes about coming to a box." She spoke as if, with her look, it
might have been Waymarsh who had written to the youth, and the latter's
face showed a mixture of austerity and anguish. She went on however as
if to meet this. "He's far and away, you know, the best of them."
"The best of whom, ma'am?"
"Why of all the long procession--the boys, the girls, or the old men
and old women as they sometimes really are; the hope, as one may say,
of our country. They've all passed, year after year; but there has
been no one in particular I've ever wanted to stop. I feel--don't
YOU?--that I want to stop little Bilham; he's so exactly right as he
is." She continued to talk to Waymarsh. "He's too delightful. If
he'll only not spoil it! But they always WILL; they always do; they
always have."
"I don't think Waymarsh knows," Strether said after a moment, "quite
what it's open to Bilham to spoil."
"It can't be a good American," Waymarsh lucidly enough replied; "for it
didn't strike me the young man had developed much in THAT shape."
"Ah," Miss Gostrey sighed, "the name of the good American is as easily
given as taken away! What IS it, to begin with, to BE one, and what's
the extraordinary hurry? Surely nothing that's so pressing was ever so
little defined. It's such an order, really, that before we cook you
the dish we must at least have your receipt. Besides the poor chicks
have time! What I've seen so often spoiled," she pursued, "is the happy
attitude itself, the state of faith and--what shall I call it?--the
sense of beauty. You're right about him"--she now took in Strether;
"little Bilham has them to a charm, we must keep little Bilham along."
Then she was all again for Waymarsh. "The others have all wanted so
dreadfully to do something, and they've gone and done it in too many
cases indeed. It leaves them never the same afterwards; the charm's
always somehow broken. Now HE, I think, you know, really won't. He
won't do the least dreadful little thing. We shall continue to enjoy
him just as he is. No--he's quite beautiful. He sees everything. He
isn't a bit ashamed. He has every scrap of the courage of it that one
could ask. Only think what he MIGHT do. One wants really--for fear of
some accident--to keep him in view. At this very moment perhaps what
mayn't he be up to? I've had my disappointments--the poor things are
never really safe; or only at least when you have them under your eye.
One can never completely trust them. One's uneasy, and I think that's
why I most miss him now."
She had wound up with a laugh of enjoyment over her embroidery of her
idea--an enjoyment that her face communicated to Strether, who almost
wished none the less at this moment that she would let poor Waymarsh
alone. HE knew more or less what she meant; but the fact wasn't a
reason for her not pretending to Waymarsh that he didn't. It was
craven of him perhaps, but he would, for the high amenity of the
occasion, have liked Waymarsh not to be so sure of his wit. Her
recognition of it gave him away and, before she had done with him or
with that article, would give him worse. What was he, all the same, to
do? He looked across the box at his friend; their eyes met; something
queer and stiff, something that bore on the situation but that it was
better not to touch, passed in silence between them. Well, the effect
of it for Strether was an abrupt reaction, a final impatience of his
own tendency to temporise. Where was that taking him anyway? It was
one of the quiet instants that sometimes settle more matters than the
outbreaks dear to the historic muse. The only qualification of the
quietness was the synthetic "Oh hang it!" into which Strether's share
of the silence soundlessly flowered. It represented, this mute
ejaculation, a final impulse to burn his ships. These ships, to the
historic muse, may seem of course mere cockles, but when he presently
spoke to Miss Gostrey it was with the sense at least of applying the
torch. "Is it then a conspiracy?"
"Between the two young men? Well, I don't pretend to be a seer or a
prophetess," she presently replied; "but if I'm simply a woman of sense
he's working for you to-night. I don't quite know how--but it's in my
bones." And she looked at him at last as if, little material as she
yet gave him, he'd really understand. "For an opinion THAT'S my
opinion. He makes you out too well not to."
"Not to work for me to-night?" Strether wondered. "Then I hope he
isn't doing anything very bad."
"They've got you," she portentously answered.
"Do you mean he IS--?"
"They've got you," she merely repeated. Though she disclaimed the
prophetic vision she was at this instant the nearest approach he had
ever met to the priestess of the oracle. The light was in her eyes.
"You must face it now."
He faced it on the spot. "They HAD arranged--?"
"Every move in the game. And they've been arranging ever since. He
has had every day his little telegram from Cannes."
It made Strether open his eyes. "Do you KNOW that?"
"I do better. I see it. This was, before I met him, what I wondered
whether I WAS to see. But as soon as I met him I ceased to wonder, and
our second meeting made me sure. I took him all in. He was acting--he
is still--on his daily instructions."
"So that Chad has done the whole thing?"
"Oh no--not the whole. WE'VE done some of it. You and I and 'Europe.'"
"Europe--yes," Strether mused.
"Dear old Paris," she seemed to explain. But there was more, and, with
one of her turns, she risked it. "And dear old Waymarsh. You," she
declared, "have been a good bit of it."
He sat massive. "A good bit of what, ma'am?"
"Why of the wonderful consciousness of our friend here. You've helped
too in your way to float him to where he is."
"And where the devil IS he?"
She passed it on with a laugh. "Where the devil, Strether, are you?"
He spoke as if he had just been thinking it out. "Well, quite already
in Chad's hands, it would seem." And he had had with this another
thought. "Will that be--just all through Bilham--the way he's going to
work it? It would be, for him, you know, an idea. And Chad with an
idea--!"
"Well?" she asked while the image held him.
"Well, is Chad--what shall I say?--monstrous?"
"Oh as much as you like! But the idea you speak of," she said, "won't
have been his best. He'll have a better. It won't be all through
little Bilham that he'll work it."
This already sounded almost like a hope destroyed. "Through whom else
then?"
"That's what we shall see!" But quite as she spoke she turned, and
Strether turned; for the door of the box had opened, with the click of
the ouvreuse, from the lobby, and a gentleman, a stranger to them, had
come in with a quick step. The door closed behind him, and, though
their faces showed him his mistake, his air, which was striking, was
all good confidence. The curtain had just again arisen, and, in the
hush of the general attention, Strether's challenge was tacit, as was
also the greeting, with a quickly deprecating hand and smile, of the
unannounced visitor. He discreetly signed that he would wait, would
stand, and these things and his face, one look from which she had
caught, had suddenly worked for Miss Gostrey. She fitted to them all
an answer for Strether's last question. The solid stranger was simply
the answer--as she now, turning to her friend, indicated. She brought
it straight out for him--it presented the intruder. "Why, through this
gentleman!" The gentleman indeed, at the same time, though sounding
for Strether a very short name, did practically as much to explain.
Strether gasped the name back--then only had he seen Miss Gostrey had
said more than she knew. They were in presence of Chad himself.
Our friend was to go over it afterwards again and again--he was going
over it much of the time that they were together, and they were
together constantly for three or four days: the note had been so
strongly struck during that first half-hour that everything happening
since was comparatively a minor development. The fact was that his
perception of the young man's identity--so absolutely checked for a
minute--had been quite one of the sensations that count in life; he
certainly had never known one that had acted, as he might have said,
with more of a crowded rush. And the rush though both vague and
multitudinous, had lasted a long time, protected, as it were, yet at
the same time aggravated, by the circumstance of its coinciding with a
stretch of decorous silence. They couldn't talk without disturbing the
spectators in the part of the balcony just below them; and it, for that
matter, came to Strether--being a thing of the sort that did come to
him--that these were the accidents of a high civilisation; the imposed
tribute to propriety, the frequent exposure to conditions, usually
brilliant, in which relief has to await its time. Relief was never
quite near at hand for kings, queens, comedians and other such people,
and though you might be yourself not exactly one of those, you could
yet, in leading the life of high pressure, guess a little how they
sometimes felt. It was truly the life of high pressure that Strether
had seemed to feel himself lead while he sat there, close to Chad,
during the long tension of the act. He was in presence of a fact that
occupied his whole mind, that occupied for the half-hour his senses
themselves all together; but he couldn't without inconvenience show
anything--which moreover might count really as luck. What he might
have shown, had he shown at all, was exactly the kind of emotion--the
emotion of bewilderment--that he had proposed to himself from the
first, whatever should occur, to show least. The phenomenon that had
suddenly sat down there with him was a phenomenon of change so complete
that his imagination, which had worked so beforehand, felt itself, in
the connexion, without margin or allowance. It had faced every
contingency but that Chad should not BE Chad, and this was what it now
had to face with a mere strained smile and an uncomfortable flush.
He asked himself if, by any chance, before he should have in some way
to commit himself, he might feel his mind settled to the new vision,
might habituate it, so to speak, to the remarkable truth. But oh it was
too remarkable, the truth; for what could be more remarkable than this
sharp rupture of an identity? You could deal with a man as
himself--you couldn't deal with him as somebody else. It was a small
source of peace moreover to be reduced to wondering how little he might
know in such an event what a sum he was setting you. He couldn't
absolutely not know, for you couldn't absolutely not let him. It was a
CASE then simply, a strong case, as people nowadays called such
things,' a case of transformation unsurpassed, and the hope was but in
the general law that strong cases were liable to control from without.
Perhaps he, Strether himself, was the only person after all aware of
it. Even Miss Gostrey, with all her science, wouldn't be, would
she?--and he had never seen any one less aware of anything than
Waymarsh as he glowered at Chad. The social sightlessness of his old
friend's survey marked for him afresh, and almost in an humiliating
way, the inevitable limits of direct aid from this source. He was not
certain, however, of not drawing a shade of compensation from the
privilege, as yet untasted, of knowing more about something in
particular than Miss Gostrey did. His situation too was a case, for
that matter, and he was now so interested, quite so privately agog,
about it, that he had already an eye to the fun it would be to open up
to her afterwards. He derived during his half-hour no assistance from
her, and just this fact of her not meeting his eyes played a little, it
must be confessed, into his predicament.
He had introduced Chad, in the first minutes, under his breath, and
there was never the primness in her of the person unacquainted; but she
had none the less betrayed at first no vision but of the stage, where
she occasionally found a pretext for an appreciative moment that she
invited Waymarsh to share. The latter's faculty of participation had
never had, all round, such an assault to meet; the pressure on him
being the sharper for this chosen attitude in her, as Strether judged
it, of isolating, for their natural intercourse, Chad and himself. This
intercourse was meanwhile restricted to a frank friendly look from the
young man, something markedly like a smile, but falling far short of a
grin, and to the vivacity of Strether's private speculation as to
whether HE carried himself like a fool. He didn't quite see how he
could so feel as one without somehow showing as one. The worst of that
question moreover was that he knew it as a symptom the sense of which
annoyed him. "If I'm going to be odiously conscious of how I may
strike the fellow," he reflected, "it was so little what I came out for
that I may as well stop before I begin." This sage consideration too,
distinctly, seemed to leave untouched the fact that he WAS going to be
conscious. He was conscious of everything but of what would have
served him.
He was to know afterwards, in the watches of the night, that nothing
would have been more open to him than after a minute or two to propose
to Chad to seek with him the refuge of the lobby. He hadn't only not
proposed it, but had lacked even the presence of mind to see it as
possible. He had stuck there like a schoolboy wishing not to miss a
minute of the show; though for that portion of the show then presented
he hadn't had an instant's real attention. He couldn't when the
curtain fell have given the slightest account of what had happened. He
had therefore, further, not at that moment acknowledged the amenity
added by this acceptance of his awkwardness to Chad's general patience.
Hadn't he none the less known at the very time--known it stupidly and
without reaction--that the boy was accepting something? He was
modestly benevolent, the boy--that was at least what he had been
capable of the superiority of making out his chance to be; and one had
one's self literally not had the gumption to get in ahead of him. If
we should go into all that occupied our friend in the watches of the
night we should have to mend our pen; but an instance or two may mark
for us the vividness with which he could remember. He remembered the
two absurdities that, if his presence of mind HAD failed, were the
things that had had most to do with it. He had never in his life seen
a young man come into a box at ten o'clock at night, and would, if
challenged on the question in advance, have scarce been ready to
pronounce as to different ways of doing so. But it was in spite of
this definite to him that Chad had had a way that was wonderful: a
fact carrying with it an implication that, as one might imagine it, he
knew, he had learned, how.
Here already then were abounding results; he had on the spot and
without the least trouble of intention taught Strether that even in so
small a thing as that there were different ways. He had done in the
same line still more than this; had by a mere shake or two of the head
made his old friend observe that the change in him was perhaps more
than anything else, for the eye, a matter of the marked streaks of
grey, extraordinary at his age, in his thick black hair; as well as
that this new feature was curiously becoming to him, did something for
him, as characterisation, also even--of all things in the world--as
refinement, that had been a good deal wanted. Strether felt, however,
he would have had to confess, that it wouldn't have been easy just now,
on this and other counts, in the presence of what had been supplied, to
be quite clear as to what had been missed. A reflexion a candid critic
might have made of old, for instance, was that it would have been
happier for the son to look more like the mother; but this was a
reflexion that at present would never occur. The ground had quite
fallen away from it, yet no resemblance whatever to the mother had
supervened. It would have been hard for a young man's face and air to
disconnect themselves more completely than Chad's at this juncture from
any discerned, from any imaginable aspect of a New England female
parent. That of course was no more than had been on the cards; but it
produced in Strether none the less one of those frequent phenomena of
mental reference with which all judgement in him was actually beset.
Again and again as the days passed he had had a sense of the pertinence
of communicating quickly with Woollett--communicating with a quickness
with which telegraphy alone would rhyme; the fruit really of a fine
fancy in him for keeping things straight, for the happy forestalment of
error. No one could explain better when needful, nor put more
conscience into an account or a report; which burden of conscience is
perhaps exactly the reason why his heart always sank when the clouds of
explanation gathered. His highest ingenuity was in keeping the sky of
life clear of them. Whether or no he had a grand idea of the lucid, he
held that nothing ever was in fact--for any one else--explained. One
went through the vain motions, but it was mostly a waste of life. A
personal relation was a relation only so long as people either
perfectly understood or, better still, didn't care if they didn't. From
the moment they cared if they didn't it was living by the sweat of
one's brow; and the sweat of one's brow was just what one might buy
one's self off from by keeping the ground free of the wild weed of
delusion. It easily grew too fast, and the Atlantic cable now alone
could race with it. That agency would each day have testified for him
to something that was not what Woollett had argued. He was not at this
moment absolutely sure that the effect of the morrow's--or rather of
the night's--appreciation of the crisis wouldn't be to determine some
brief missive. "Have at last seen him, but oh dear!"--some temporary
relief of that sort seemed to hover before him. It hovered somehow as
preparing them all--yet preparing them for what? If he might do so
more luminously and cheaply he would tick out in four words: "Awfully
old--grey hair." To this particular item in Chad's appearance he
constantly, during their mute half-hour, reverted; as if so very much
more than he could have said had been involved in it. The most he
could have said would have been: "If he's going to make me feel
young--!" which indeed, however, carried with it quite enough. If
Strether was to feel young, that is, it would be because Chad was to
feel old; and an aged and hoary sinner had been no part of the scheme.
The question of Chadwick's true time of life was, doubtless, what came
up quickest after the adjournment of the two, when the play was over,
to a cafe in the Avenue de l'Opera. Miss Gostrey had in due course
been perfect for such a step; she had known exactly what they
wanted--to go straight somewhere and talk; and Strether had even felt
she had known what he wished to say and that he was arranging
immediately to begin. She hadn't pretended this, as she HAD pretended
on the other hand, to have divined Waymarsh's wish to extend to her an
independent protection homeward; but Strether nevertheless found how,
after he had Chad opposite to him at a small table in the brilliant
halls that his companion straightway selected, sharply and easily
discriminated from others, it was quite, to his mind, as if she heard
him speak; as if, sitting up, a mile away, in the little apartment he
knew, she would listen hard enough to catch. He found too that he
liked that idea, and he wished that, by the same token, Mrs. Newsome
might have caught as well. For what had above all been determined in
him as a necessity of the first order was not to lose another hour, nor
a fraction of one; was to advance, to overwhelm, with a rush. This was
how he would anticipate--by a night-attack, as might be--any forced
maturity that a crammed consciousness of Paris was likely to take upon
itself to assert on behalf of the boy. He knew to the full, on what he
had just extracted from Miss Gostrey, Chad's marks of alertness; but
they were a reason the more for not dawdling. If he was himself
moreover to be treated as young he wouldn't at all events be so treated
before he should have struck out at least once. His arms might be
pinioned afterwards, but it would have been left on record that he was
fifty. The importance of this he had indeed begun to feel before they
left the theatre; it had become a wild unrest, urging him to seize his
chance. He could scarcely wait for it as they went; he was on the
verge of the indecency of bringing up the question in the street; he
fairly caught himself going on--so he afterwards invidiously named
it--as if there would be for him no second chance should the present be
lost. Not till, on the purple divan before the perfunctory bock, he
had brought out the words themselves, was he sure, for that matter,
that the present would be saved.
Book Fourth | Maria arrives in Paris, and Strether goes immediately to see her: "she was the blessing that had now become his need." He tells her that he has made friends with Little Bilham and invites her to meet him. "Haven't you been seeing what there's to protest about?" she asks, referring to Strether's mission. "I haven't yet found a single thing," Strether says. Maria meets Bilham at the Louvre and, after the first exchange, whispers to Strether that Bilham is "all right -- he's one of us!" The next day, Strether and Maria visit Bilham at his own apartment, where they meet several of Bilham's artist-friends -- "ingenuous compatriots," Strether thinks them. Maria tells Strether that she will reserve final judgment on Bilham until she has seen him again. She invites Strether and Waymarsh to accompany her to a performance at the theater and suggests that Strether invite Bilham to attend with them. At the theater, Strether, Waymarsh, and Maria discuss Bilham, who has unaccountably not come. Despite this fact, Maria says that Bilham is "far and away, you know, the best of them . . . of . . . the boys, the girls . . . ; the hope, as one may say, of our country." Maria tells Strether, however, that she believes Chad and Bilham have been working together to soften Strether and compromise his mission, suggesting even that Bilham has been acting on daily instructions by telegram from Chad. "Will that be -- just all through Bilham -- the way he's going to work it?" asks Strether, and when Maria says no, he inquires, "Through whom else then?" At this point, the door of the box opens and Chad Newsome walks in. Strether is so startled to see Chad under these circumstances that he sits "like a schoolboy" through the play instead of proposing to Chad that they speak in the lobby. He is bewildered by the complete change in Chad but finds "the marked streaks of grey, extraordinary at his age, in his thick black hair . . . curiously becoming" as a kind of "refinement." Maria, knowing that Strether and Chad want to go straight somewhere and talk, arranges for Waymarsh to escort her home after the play. Strether and Chad then go to a nearby cafe. |